Each week Ryder went to Keswick, sometimes with Mr Frith and sometimes alone; but all the letters he had posted to Lady Woodville remained unanswered. This continued rejection increased his feeling of guilt about the harm he had done in taking a gently reared, innocent girl from her home. He had dishonoured her, made her pregnant, illegally wooed her and, now, cast her up on a lonely Lakeland fell far away from her loved ones.
It was not what he had intended, and his shame would have been greater were it not for the joy she gave him, the love they bore each other. Eliza refused to let Ryder take the blame, claiming that she had forced herself on him. He was all she ever wanted. Not for a moment did she regret what she had done and, although she missed the gentle landscape of Dorset, she soon fell in love with the steep slopes, the high lonely crags and the wide expanses of Lake Ennerdale, one of the remotest parts of Lakeland.
Every morning at six Ryder and Eliza rose from their bed, sluiced themselves in water – sometimes so cold that the ice had to be broken – had a hunk of bread and hot tea in the kitchen, the fire still unlit. They then hurried to the farm, still in darkness, to begin their duties. Ryder served as cowman, milkman, shepherd, carpenter, doing with cheerful efficiency and much skill every job that came to hand. Eliza began the morning by cleaning out the grates and lighting new fires downstairs; this had been done upstairs by a maid who rose earlier and was even more hard pressed than she was: a pathetic, underfed little mite called Beth. She then washed up the dinner dishes of the night before, the breakfast dishes and then, going along to the washhouse, sorted through the soiled linen not only of the family, but of the other farm workers who lived in outbuildings on the lonely isolated farm. Much of this was foul and exceedingly dirty, unpleasant to handle. Sometimes Beth assisted, and sometimes she didn’t. There were many equally unpleasant tasks for her to do.
Eliza’s day was full, and as her pregnancy advanced she grew very tired. Her back ached and her ankles swelled. Ryder worried about her, but she would take no rest. The day began at the farm at seven, and it ended at seven when she served the family their dinner.
Then she and Ryder would eat with Beth and the farm hands in the kitchen before creeping home, thankfully, to bed.
There was a false spring in Lakeland which brought out the daffodils; the lambs were born early and the air was balmy. But, as sometimes happens, it was followed by snows and harsh winds. At times the snow, which nearly always covered the distant peaks – some of the highest in Lakeland – fell on the slopes of Bowness or the lower ground.
One morning Eliza lay in bed while Ryder slept, breathing gently beside her. It was bitterly cold in their bedroom, and she clung to him for warmth, recalling the days when a housemaid would creep into her room around dawn and light the fire as carefully and quietly as she could so as not to disturb her young mistress.
Eliza could hear the new-born lambs bleating pitifully in the field. Even though they were the sturdy Herdwick sheep of Lakeland, on those bleak slopes they could have scant chance of survival. As if in response, her baby moved in her womb, and she put a hand on her belly, trying to imagine its tiny limbs, what sex it was. It didn’t matter: boy or girl, it would be wanted and loved.
Ryder stirred and groped for her, and she bent to kiss him.
‘Why are you awake?’ he murmured in the darkness.
‘It’s nearly time to get up. The cock at the farm has started to crow.’
It was their signal to rise, far more accurate than any clock. ‘I heard the lambs bleating and felt my baby move inside me. Oh, Ryder –’ she kissed him gently on the mouth again ‘– it will soon be here.’
The answer was a loud sigh, and, in the dim light of dawn, she tried to see the expression on his face.
‘What is it, Ryder?’
‘This is no place for you, Eliza, or our baby. I have a feeling we must soon be gone from here.’
‘But are we not happy here, Ryder? The Friths are not very pleasant, but at least we have a roof over our heads, work to do.’
‘Do you think that is the sort of work I want you to do?’ he asked roughly. ‘You were born a lady and, through me, you are reduced to this.’
‘But I chose it, don’t forget. I was not abducted. I chose to leave home in order to be with you, and therefore I accept this life with you.’
‘But it is not what I want. Eliza ...’ Ryder struggled up, his teeth chattering with cold, and lit the candle by the bed. Then he snuggled down under the bedclothes again and placed his own hand against her belly. ‘Eliza, I have a mind to go home.’
‘Home?’
‘Back to Wenham. I will throw myself on my father’s mercy and ask him for work. The way Farmer Frith treats his men and animals disgusts me. I can’t make a decent life for us, and our child, on these pitiful wages. We will never be able to save or have our own home.’
‘We cannot go back to Wenham,’ Eliza said slowly. ‘Wherever we go, it cannot be there.’
‘But why not? It is our home, the people and the land we love.’
‘Do you think the people will love us?’ she retorted. ‘My mother has not even replied to my letters. I shall not write to her ever again, or have anything to do with her.’
‘But if we go back we need not see her. We can live in a village on the far side of Wenham.’
‘What makes you think that your father will give you work?’ she asked after a pause.
‘Because he knows I’m good at what I do. I can but ask him, and if I don’t succeed, I can get work elsewhere; but at least it is a gentler land, a milder climate.’ He put his arm round her and hugged her fiercely. ‘Oh, my darling, beautiful as this landscape is, it is a harsh, cold place in which to live and work, and bring up a child.’
That morning after breakfast Mr Frith appeared at the door of the kitchen and asked Eliza if she would come into his office, where he kept his records, ledgers, and did his accounts.
His room was a comfortable one, and from his large desk at the window there was a magnificent view of Bowness, Herdus Scaw and Great Bourne. Not only the tops of the crags surrounding Lake Ennerdale but the slopes beneath had a thick covering of snow. Although it was bitterly cold elsewhere in the house, a big fire roared up his chimney. On either side of this were two large leather chairs. Farmer Frith pointed to one of them.
‘Sit down, Eliza, and warm yourself. Have you got enough logs in your cottage?’
‘Yes thank you, Mr Frith,’ Eliza replied, somewhat astonished at his concern for so lowly a creature as herself.
‘You must take care of yourself at a time like this.’ He looked at her almost anxiously. ‘If the roads are impassable the midwife will not be able to get to you.’
‘I have no fear, Mr Frith,’ Eliza said, throwing back her head. ‘If the midwife cannot get here Ryder will be able to do everything necessary.’
‘Has he been a midwife, then?’ Farmer Frith looked puzzled.
‘Oh no, sir.’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘But he has delivered many a calf. He will know what to do.’
‘You have great confidence in your husband, Eliza,’ the farmer said almost gently.
‘I have, sir.’
‘It does you credit.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Eliza was about to rise from her chair, still surprised by this apparent concern on the part of a man she considered harsh and unfeeling, when he indicated that she should remain seated. He began to light his pipe and, regardless of its effect on her delicate stomach, blew a thick stream of smoke into the air, sucking at the stem until he was satisfied.
‘Don’t go, Eliza,’ he said between puffs. ‘I want to ask you something.’
‘What is that, Mr Frith?’
‘You know I have never asked about your origins, nor do I wish to. Your past is your secret, and you may prefer to keep it that way. Doubtless you have good reasons which I do not enquire into. However, it is obvious to me that you were born into much better circumstances than the ones in whi
ch you find yourself here. Now that you are so near your time, I dare say that you could do with a little more money, something to put by, perhaps, for your child’s future?’
‘Why, we can always do with more money, Mr Frith,’ Eliza replied with a smile, wishing she could add, ‘On the wages you pay,’ but not daring to.
‘I want to make you an offer for Lady,’ the farmer said bluntly. ‘My daughter covets her and, as you know, I can deny her nothing.’
‘Oh no, sir, Lady is not for sale,’ Eliza said firmly, shaking her head. ‘She is the oldest friend I have; the best, apart from my husband. I could never part with her.’
‘But you cannot ride her, my dear, in your condition,’ the farmer protested, leaning forward. ‘What use is she to you?’
‘Ryder takes her to market. When I have rid myself of this burden’ pointing to her stomach, ‘I shall ride her again. No, Lady is not for sale. Never. She is part of my family.’
For a moment the farmer didn’t reply. Reflectively he began to press down the tobacco in his pipe, which had gone out; then he relit it, and Eliza felt sick and began to cough.
‘Jenny has her heart set on Lady, Eliza. I will give you a lot of money for her.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Frith.’ Eliza now struggled to her feet. ‘I will never sell her.’
‘Then I may have to give you notice, my dear, to repossess the cottage.’
His words gave her such a shock that the baby lurched in her womb.
‘You cannot be so unkind, Mr Frith. You couldn’t dispossess a woman with child and a man who have both served you well for pitiful wages, just for a horse.’
‘It is not for me, my dear,’ he replied unctuously. ‘It is for my daughter. She tells me that if she doesn’t have Lady she will want to go away to Windermere or Carlisle. She is bored here. She wants her own horse.’
‘Then buy her another.’
‘She has set her mind on Lady, Eliza. She is used to getting what she wants.’
‘But she may ride Lady any time.’ Eliza felt a mounting sense of panic. He seemed so determined to have his own way.
The farmer took another puff of his foul-smelling briar and emphatically shook his head.
‘Lady, or eviction. It is up to you.’
‘Then we go,’ Ryder said that night when Eliza, who could still hardly believe it, told him the story. ‘We pack up here and go. And Lady goes with us. It is a sign that we are meant to go. I have felt it in my bones for some time that it was not right for us to stay here. We will pack up and go as soon as we can.’
‘But we have no money.’
‘I have a little put by.’ He looked at her unhappily. ‘It is the journey for you on horseback in this weather that bothers me. If we get as far as Keswick I think we shall have to stay there until the baby is born.’
‘Maybe we can plead with Mr Frith. He cannot be such a bad man.’
‘What he has done is the act of a bad man,’ Ryder said savagely. ‘An evil man. It is in keeping with his character. As for that daughter, she gives herself so many airs she is detestable. I shall be glad to see the back of them all. Tomorrow we will pack up, and the next day we shall creep away before dawn, without saying goodbye.’
However, when they woke the next morning the snow was so deep that they could scarcely get out of their cottage door, and Ryder had to dig a path to the farm. Lady was warm and safe, stabled with the other horses belonging to Mr Frith. While Ryder went off to the fields to help try and rescue what new-born lambs he could, Eliza went about her work in silence; but she felt sick and unwell. Mrs Frith was curiously quiet. The farmer was in the fields with his men, and of Jenny there was no sign. If her father had told her the outcome of his offer she was probably sulking in her bedroom.
Mrs Frith noticed that Eliza seemed to be in distress, and as she helped her with the baking in the afternoon she looked at her speculatively.
‘When is your baby due, Eliza?’
‘Not for another two months, Mrs Frith.’
‘Yet you appear to be having pains.’
‘I have some pain, Mrs Frith, but I have had them before.’ Eliza paused and touched her side, and the sweat poured down her face.
‘Sit down, girl,’ Mrs Frith said. She was a practical countrywoman, used to dealing with servants and animals and treating both about the same. Kindness from Mrs Frith was most unusual. As Eliza sank thankfully into a chair, the farmer’s wife bade Beth make a pot of tea, and then she handed a cup to Eliza.
‘You’d better go home for the rest of the day and lie down, Eliza. Be sure, though, that you’re here sharp at seven tomorrow.’ And with that she left the kitchen to take her own tea in the parlour, probably with her daughter.
‘Cow,’ Beth said scornfully when the door was shut, wiping her nose on her sleeve. ‘You could die in your job for all she’d care.’
‘I think you could,’ Eliza said, looking at the door. ‘How long have you been here, Beth?’
‘Too long,’ Beth said, snivelling again. ‘I came here when I was eleven, and I’m now fifteen.’
‘Eleven!’ Eliza said, aghast. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘It’s quite common in these parts, Miss,’ Beth said. She never called Eliza by her Christian name, perhaps because, in her peasant bones, she knew instinctively that she was in the presence of someone very superior. ‘Some never go to school, and start work as soon as they can do useful tasks. I miss me mother and father, though,’ she said, as two large tears fell out of each eye.
‘Oh, Beth,’ Eliza said, struggling to her feet. ‘Where do your mother and father live?’
‘Dead, Miss,’ Beth said, by now openly sobbing. ‘They both died of fever a short time after each other, and me and my brothers and sisters were taken to the workhouse.’ She looked wanly at Eliza. ‘We were parted there. So, happen I shall be here the rest of my days, Miss.’
‘Oh ...’ There was a sharp spasm of pain on the left side of her abdomen, and Eliza felt her first real pang of fear that all was not well with her baby.
‘Help me back to my cottage, Beth,’ she said, ‘and then try and find my husband.’
‘But Miss, Mrs Frith ...’
‘I don’t care what Mrs Frith says,’ Eliza said, with a note of panic in her voice. ‘Do it, and do it now, or it may be too late.’
The poor dead little thing lay wrapped tenderly in a blanket as if it had been a living child. Though perfectly formed, its skin was like wax, and it was scarcely more than the size of a doll. It had never uttered a sigh. The baby came eight weeks early, and the midwife who arrived when Eliza’s ordeal was over looked at it without pity and said it would never have had a chance.
She was as kind to the bereaved mother as she – brought up in a harsh climate – knew how. Eliza lay inert in her bed, while Ryder wept quietly by her side.
The midwife washed Eliza and changed her, and then she stood back and looked critically at her.
‘This is no place for you, you know, my girl,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I can see that you’re used to a far, far better life. You shouldn’t have kept working so long, or so hard. You’re not made for it. Fine bones, you have, and a delicate constitution.
‘Now, you had better go back to where you came from and do the sort of work you were used to doing – a governess, was it? – before you lose another baby.’ She looked dispassionately at the small corpse. ‘Do you want me to take it with me, or will you dispose of it yourself?’
‘It’s a boy,’ Ryder said angrily. ‘My son. Please don’t refer to him as “it”’
‘“It’s” not a person at seven months, my love,’ the midwife said with grim practicality. ‘They don’t even register them.’
That night Ryder dug a hole in the snow, and tenderly he placed the small, perfectly formed infant, wrapped in the shawl they had bought for it, in a deep grave. In the fields the new-born lambs bleated as if fearing for their own fragile lives, and the wind howled. Ryder filled in the small grave with h
is shovel, and then he knelt and said a prayer, the tears which ran down his face enough to soak the ground beneath, were it not for the fact that it was so wet already.
From the window of the cottage Eliza, leaning against the sill for support, watched him working by the light of the storm lamp. She was so blind from weeping that she could hardly see him, but she felt that she had to be present at the pitiful obsequies. Without prayers or ceremony, it was like burying a dog; but it was their child. Together, though dead, they had baptised him and given him a name:
Thomas. Thomas Yetman.
Not yet a human being.
It took Eliza a week to recover from her miscarriage, and even then she was weak and bled heavily. Ryder had made up his mind that they would not linger in that inhospitable valley, but would make for the warmer, gentler climate of the south.
He sought out Frith to tell him that they were leaving and asked for the wages due, but Frith hummed and hawed and shook his head.
‘Well, you haven’t worked the full month,’ he objected.
‘What do you mean, I haven’t worked the full month?’ Ryder snarled. ‘I have given you far more than you paid me for, you unprincipled rogue.’
‘Unprincipled rogue! How dare you address me thus?’ Farmer Frith spluttered. ‘As for your wife, who has lain about all the time doing nothing ...’
Ryder just managed to control himself, to prevent his fist coming in contact with the farmer’s great overhanging chin.
‘My wife even had to give her tea,’ Frith went on truculently. ‘She, the mistress, making tea for a mere servant.’
‘My wife is no servant and you know it,’ Ryder said menacingly.
‘Then what is she?’
‘I can’t say, but she’s no servant.’
‘I knew you two were up to no good,’ Frith said contemptuously. ‘Skulking up here, away from civilisation; to avoid authority, I’ll be bound.’
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 18