Wideacre

by Philippa Gregory

  ‘Follow me,’ I said in a tone I reserve for impertinent servants, and swung out of the yard.

  I drove down the lane to Acre. This tale of silent cottages might do for John Brien but I knew that behind every cottage window there would be a pair of eyes watching me go past. I drove to the chestnut tree at the centre of the village green, as clear a signal for a parley as if I was carrying a stick with a handkerchief.

  I tied Sorrel to one of the low branches, I climbed back into the gig and waited. I waited. I waited. Slowly, one by one, the doors of the cottages opened and the men came sheepishly out, pulling on their caps and shrugging on their sheepskin waistcoats, their wives and children following at their heels. I waited until I had a goodly crowd around the gig, and then I spoke clearly and my voice was cold.

  ‘We had a few words yesterday and you all explained to me why you wanted things at Wideacre left as they are,’ I said. ‘I told you then that it cannot be so.’ I paused and waited for any comment. None came. ‘John Brien here tells me that none of you stayed to work yesterday,’ I said. I let my gaze wander around the circle of faces. Not one eye met mine. ‘Nor today,’ I said.

  I signalled to John Brien to untie Sorrel and pass me the reins. ‘The choice is yours,’ I said flatly. ‘If you refuse to work I shall send to Chichester for the labourers from the Chichester poorhouse and they can come and earn your wages and take home your pay while you sit in your houses and go hungry. Or, if there are problems with that, I can bring in Irish labourers and I can cancel your tenancies and give them your houses.’ There was a shudder of horror at that thought. I waited until the spontaneous moan had died, then gazed around the circle of faces again. They were all people I knew so well. I had worked side by side with all of them ever since I had been out on the land. Now I sat high above them and spoke to them as if they were dirt in my road.

  ‘The choice is yours,’ I said again. ‘You can either take the work that these changes provide. And take the wages that are fairly set by the parish. Or you can starve. But either way those fences are going up. The common will be enclosed.’

  I nodded to Brien to stand aside from Sorrel’s head and loosened the reins to move off. No one said a word this time, and I had the feeling that they were silent even when I was out of earshot. They were stunned by the ruthlessness of a woman they had loved since she was a tiny girl on a fat pony. They had thought I was their pretty Miss Beatrice who would never fail them. And now I looked at them with a cold set face and offered them the choice between independent starvation and starvation wages.

  They went back to work. Of course they did. They were not such fools as to try to stand against one who was landlord, employer and landowner all in one. Brien rode up to the Hall during their dinner break to tell me that the work had started and that the fences were going up quickly.

  ‘You did tell them!’ he said admiringly. ‘You should have seen their faces. That’s broken their spirits all right. I wish we had brought the Irish in. It would wake that village up for once! But they looked pretty sick when you trotted off, Mrs MacAndrew, I can tell you! You slapped them down pretty hard!’

  I looked at him coldly. His spite against my people reminded me again of the oddness of the role I had to play. And the disgusting nature of the tools I had to use to do the jobs I had to do. I nodded.

  ‘Well, get back to work,’ I said brusquely. ‘I want that common ready for spring sowing.’

  I did not spare myself the pain of seeing the common this time but drove down to it in the early spring dusk, which came at about four o’clock. In the gloaming I could see little of the common, but the smell of it, the frosty bracken and the hint of icy pine needles, pulled at my heart strings as I sat on the gig at the end of the lane and Sorrel chafed at the bit. Before us loomed the new fences that marked out the limits of this year’s wheat-fields. Next year we would enclose and drain more and more until the only fields left to grow hay and the sweet meadow flowers would be the ones that were too high or too steep for any plough. All of the common that rolled in such easy soft valleys would be gone in a few years’ time, and this fence, which was causing Acre village so much worry and grief, was only the first of many lessons that would teach them that the land belonged only to us, and that in years to come they would not be allowed so much as to set foot on it without permission. But behind the dark outline of the new fence I could see the soft rolling profiles of the little hills and valleys of the common where it drops down to our woods. And my heart ached for it.

  I drove home in a hurry for I wanted to be in time to bathe Richard and to put him into his fleecy little nightshirt. I wanted to tickle his bare sweet-smelling warm tummy, and to tease him by poking my chilled fingers in the soft little pits under his arms. I wanted to brush his hair into black little kiss-curls, and to bury my face in his warm neck and sniff at the sweet pure smell of baby. But most of all I wanted to see him to reassure myself that I did indeed have a son who would be Squire if I could only hold to this one true course, that I was not crazy to tear the heart out of the land I loved.

  Next morning John Brien was calling even before breakfast. He was waiting in the lobby before my office and my maid, Lucy, told me he was there as I was dressing. I raised an eyebrow at her as our eyes met in my mirror.

  ‘Don’t you like John Brien, Lucy?’ I asked quizzically.

  ‘Nothing to like or dislike,’ she said abruptly. ‘I hardly know him. I only know what his job is, and that he earns twice the wage of anyone in Acre and yet never has a penny to lend his wife’s own kin. I only know that he picks out the men who can work and left young Harry Jameson off the gang all through the winter when the lad was desperate for a wage. I don’t like him very much. But then, most of them hate him like poison.’

  I grinned at Lucy. She was no longer a village woman, for her life was bound up with my life at the Hall and her plate would be always full at the kitchen table. But she had kin in Acre and a good nose for what went on there.

  ‘I’ve no love for him either,’ I said, as she piled my hair on the top of my head, and let a few curls hang down around my face. ‘But he should be out working this morning. Have done, Lucy. There’s like to be some trouble.’

  Obediently, she made two deft touches and stood back.

  ‘Bound to be trouble if you fence off land that’s always belonged to the village,’ she said dourly.

  I gave her a long hard look in the mirror until her eyes dropped.

  ‘The land belongs to Wideacre,’ I said firmly.

  I gave her one more look, and thought that here was another person I had faced down in so few days. Wideacre might be wealthier at the end of this, and my son might be the Squire, but I would have lost a great deal of love.

  I shrugged off the thought and went down to John Brien.

  ‘Yes?’ I said coldly. He was twisting his cap in his hands and his eyes were wide with excitement at the bad news he was bringing to me.

  ‘Mrs MacAndrew, ‘tis your fences,’ he gasped, forgetting his town-bred accent in his haste. ‘They’ve pulled your fences down and hacked some of them. Nearly all the work we did yesterday has been undone. Your fences are down and the footpaths are open again.’

  My head jerked up to stare at him as if he was an angel of death.

  ‘Is this the Culler’s work?’ I said sharply. The fear in my voice made him hesitate and look strangely at me.

  ‘What’s the Culler?’ he asked.

  ‘An outlaw, a rogue,’ I said, stammering in haste. ‘He fired Mr Briggs’s plantation back in the autumn. Could this be his work? Or is it the village?’

  ‘It’s the village,’ said John Brien positively. ‘There’s been no time for anyone else to have heard of the trouble we are having here. Anyway I swear I know who has done it.’

  ‘Who?’ I said. My face, which had been white and wet with cold sweat, was regaining its colour and my breath was coming normally again. If it was not the Culler on my land then I could face any danger. For
one moment it was as if the ground had opened beneath my feet and the Culler sitting so oddly on his black horse with his two black dogs was coming for me out of the darkness of hell. But then I recognized the sense of what Brien said. It was too soon for anyone outside the village to have got wind of the troubles here. If the Culler was coming, if he was coming for me, and that was a fear I would have to face, then I prayed only to be spared that fear while my mind was so busy, so frantic with so much else.

  ‘Who from the village then?’ I said, my voice steady again.

  ‘Gaffer Tyacke’s youngest son John. Sam Frosterly, and Ned Hunter,’ said Brien certainly. ‘They worked slowly and were surly all day. They’re known troublemakers. They were last to leave last night and they were in a huddle together all the way home. And they were first there this morning to see my face when I saw the damage. I saw them smile at each other then. I’d lay a week’s wages it was them.’

  ‘That’s a serious charge, a hanging offence,’ I said. ‘Have you any evidence?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But you know they’re the wildest lads in the village, Mrs MacAndrew. Of course they had a hand in it.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said thoughtfully. I turned to the window and looked out over the garden and the paddock and the high, high hills of the downs. Brien cleared his throat and shuffled his feet impatiently. But I let him wait.

  ‘We do nothing,’ I said eventually, when I had taken my time and thought the thing through. ‘We do nothing, and you say nothing. I’ll not come driving down to Acre every time something happens. Set the fences back in their places and repair the broken ones as best you can. Say nothing to those three: young Tyacke, Sam Frosterly and Ned Hunter. Just leave it. It may be that it was high spirits and bad temper and they’ll forget all about it. I’m prepared to overlook it.’

  I knew also that if Brien had no evidence we could not move against the three. The village had closed its doors and its face to me. If I arrested three of the happiest, naughtiest, best-looking lads in the whole of Acre I would be more than disliked: I would be hated.

  The three had been an irrepressible gang ever since they had been expelled in a giggling heap from the village school. They had stolen apples from our orchards; they had poached game from our preserves. They had taken salmon from the Fenny. But one of them was always the first to claim my hand at a Wideacre dance and, while the other two would hoot and catcall, he would spin me around, his red face smiling. They were bad lads — in the village judgement. But there was not an ounce of vice or spite among the three of them. And any girl in the village would have given her bottom drawer to be courted by any one of them. But they were just twenty and in the uproarious stage of bachelordom when young men prefer each other’s company and a pint pot to the prettiest girls in the world. So although they would give and take a hearty kiss under the mistletoe in winter, or behind the hay ricks in summer — they were not the marrying kind.

  If I knew them — and I thought I did — then the breaking of our fences would have been done as a dare. If they had no response either from me or from John Brien, the joke would lose its savour. And it would not be repeated, for that would smack of spite. And I believed that they loved me, and would not break my fences, once the thing was beyond a joke.

  ‘Leave it,’ I said again. ‘And don’t let them know that you think it was them.’

  John Brien nodded, but the gleam in his eyes told me that he thought I was being weak. I did not care. His opinion mattered nothing to me. If I read this attack as a jest, then I was more likely to be right than he — with his prickly pride about property and his anxiety at being made mock by three wild lads.

  But he was right. And I was wrong.

  Somewhere I had lost my sense of what was happening in Acre village and on the land. I had been certain that the one attack was one jest, that it would stand alone as Acre’s reply to Miss Beatrice’s haughtiness. That if I said nothing and did nothing but merely continued to enclose the common, then honour would be satisfied on both sides and the work would go smoothly ahead.

  But the second night the fences were thrown down. And the third night they were thrown down and burned.

  It was a tidy fire, built with a countryman’s care in a clearing, away from the dry tinder in the wood and clear of any overhanging branches. They had piled up the fences, fired them, and got themselves home to Acre before anyone noticed the flames.

  ‘And then they all tell me that there was nothing they could do!’ said John Brien in irritation. ‘They say that by the time they got water from the Fenny to put out the flames the fences had been destroyed!’

  ‘They could have made a chain to the common stream,’ I objected. ‘It’s only a few yards away.’

  ‘It’s inside the area that’s to be enclosed,’ John Brien said. ‘They said you’d told them to keep off that land, so they did.’

  I gave a hard smile. ‘It makes sense,’ I said.

  But I turned to look out of the window and my smile died. ‘I won’t have this,’ I said coldly. ‘I gave them a chance, but they seem determined to defy me. If they want to threaten me, with a fire in my woods, then they will have to learn who is Master on this land.

  ‘I shall have to go to Chichester to get new fences. I shall call in at the barracks and get a couple of soldiers to guard the fences until they are up. And if those lads come near them they can have a beating to teach them better manners. I have allowed them their jest. But now there is work to do and the games are over.’

  Brien nodded. His eyes bright at the hardness in my voice. ‘You could arrest them if we caught them red-handed,’ he said. ‘They could hang for this.’

  ‘Not Wideacre lads,’ I said dismissively. ‘They deserve a fright, but nothing more. I’ll go to Chichester at once.’

  I paused only to find Harry, who was playing with Julia in the nursery, before I ordered the carriage.

  ‘This is very bad, y’know, Beatrice,’ said Harry, as he accompanied me to the stable yard.

  ‘I agree,’ I said briskly, pulling on my gloves.

  ‘Typical of the poor,’ said Harry. ‘They simply can’t see that this is the way things have to be.’

  ‘They seem to be doing rather well at ensuring that events do not follow this apparently inevitable course,’ I said ironically, and stepped into the carriage. ‘For a natural process your progress seems to be rather difficult to bring about.’

  ‘You are jesting, Beatrice,’ Harry said pedantically. ‘But everyone knows this is the way things have to be. A couple of crazy villagers cannot stop it.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I shall check the law with Lord de Courcey while I am in town. If it goes on we will have to catch them and turn them over to the courts.’

  ‘Absolute severity,’ said Harry, inspecting the shine on his top boots. ‘No leniency.’

  I nodded and waved him farewell from the window. Harry’s tone might strike me as pompous and silly but everyone I spoke to in Chichester seemed to share it. Lord de Courcey treated the fence breaking and the mischievous bonfire as if it were an armed insurrection and took me at once to the barracks. I resisted, without too much difficulty, the suggestion that I should have an entire troop of horse quartered on the Home Farm to protect Wideacre Hall from three young lads. But I was glad to accept the offer of half-a-dozen soldiers with a sergeant.

  I could have used the Wideacre footmen. But ours is a small community and I knew only too well that while the love and sympathy of the Hall servants might be wholly mine, they would not seize and hold their cousins or even their brothers in a free-for-all over my fences.

  I came home in triumph, followed at a lumberingly slow pace by a wagonful of new fences, and at a distance by the sergeant and the troopers. They were to put up at the Bush and it was given out that they were a recruiting party. But they were to be ready for my word to set the trap.

  I sent word the very next night. All day John Brien and the grinning villagers had set the new fences and dug them sec
urely into the ground. As darkness fell and the men went home, John Brien, Harry and I met the troopers on the far side of the river. Making no noise, we waded the horses through the water and the soldiers tied their mounts and surrounded the clearing, leaving only the lane to Acre empty. It was dark, the moon was not yet up, and the only light was starlight, and that often hidden with cloud.

  I had stayed on horseback and I could see Tobermory’s ears flickering nervously at this late vigil. It was cold, a damp bitter cold of a late winter evening. Harry beside me shifted in his saddle and blew into his gloves to warm his fingers.

  ‘How long do we wait?’ he asked. He was as excited as a boy and I remembered, with some anxiety, his enthusiastic accounts of the fights at his school led by his hero Staveley. It was all a game to Harry. To John Brien, whose horse was on my other side, it was more serious. Despite his Acre wife he hated the village and thought himself above it. Like any foolish town-bred man he prized his quick wits above the slow wisdom of the country. And like any man climbing up the small and difficult ladder of snobbery he hated the rank of people he was trying to leave.

  ‘We’ll give them an hour,’ I said softly. I was anxious and tense with the excitement of the ambush, but somewhere in the back of my mind there was a voice saying, ‘These are your people, these are your people, and yet you are in hiding with soldiers and with two men whose judgement you despise to ambush them and do them harm.’

  I could not believe that I had lost so much of my relationship with Wideacre, with the land, with the people, that I should be out in the dark like some spy to attack them. If it had not benefited Richard! But Richard’s rightful place at Wideacre had created a long chain of events that meant that even now my husband was eating his dinner behind bars, and that the face of Wideacre, that beloved smiling land, seemed to be changing as I looked at it. If it had not been for Richard! But…

  ‘There they are,’ said John Brien softly.