‘What do you mean by that?’
Frith, feeling bolder now that the threat of violence seemed to have receded, put his hands on his hips and stared at Ryder, a mean look in his eyes.
‘If you ask me what I mean, I’d say you’re a pair of thieves; maybe escaping from gaol or on the run from the authorities. It would, for instance, interest me to know how you came by a horse of such breeding, if you did not steal it ...’
Ryder’s fist was just about to connect with the farmer’s chin as Frith stepped back and extended a placatory hand.
‘Now look, Yetman ... don’t get angry. Maybe you came by the horse by fair means, I’m not asking. That your wife is a lady I have no doubt, and I have never asked questions about your past, have I now? I gave you work and a roof over your heads ... so I will strike a bargain with you.’ Frith pulled himself to his full height, which was still a good few inches shorter than Ryder. ‘I have offered to buy the horse from your wife, but she will have none of it. I make the offer again.’
‘She will still refuse,’ Ryder said between clenched teeth. ‘All we want is our wages and we’ll be off.’
‘Ah, but I am not going to give you any wages.’ A look of cunning returned to the farmer’s eyes. ‘You have not stayed the full month, you have not earned them ...’
‘Of course we’ve stayed the full month, you blockhead.’ Ryder reached out and, clutching him by his coat collar, shook him. ‘We’ve stayed many months.’
‘Yes, but this full month. You have not worked a full month.’ The farmer began to claw at Ryder’s hand. ‘I can see that, whatever your wife is, you’re no gentleman. Now let go of me, there’s a good fellow, and I’ll bargain with you.’
Reluctantly Ryder dropped his hand in case he throttled the man, who anxiously, ran his finger round his collar and retreated a few steps further back.
‘I’ll buy the horse. I’ll give you a good price, enough to get you where you’re going in comfort, in view of your wife’s condition. I know she’s very weak. She’s no good to us any longer, and you’re too violent. You can both take yourselves off, but I want that horse. My daughter has set her heart on it. I’ll give you good money. I can’t say fairer than that. Take it or leave it, but you’ll never get that horse over these hills in this weather. I know this country and the treacherous snows that can come down on the hills, blocking the paths. Both the horse and your wife will die ... you too, perhaps, though maybe that’s too much to hope for.’
Lady seemed to be expecting Eliza, who crept round to the stable after the rest of the household had gone to bed. She whinnied gently and put her nose between Eliza’s extended hands as if she wanted to be kissed. In the pale light of the lamp her beautiful eyes looked sad, almost as though she knew.
‘Oh, Lady!’ Eliza’s voice was thick with tears. ‘Oh, my darling; my dear, dear horse ...’ She struggled, but no more words came. Lady gently nuzzled, almost as though she could speak. Eliza ran her hands along her sleek, dark back.
‘I know you will be looked after,’ she said. ‘But I’ll come back for you, Lady. As sure as God is here to judge me, I will come back for you, and take you home where you belong.’
She then leaned her face against the horse’s head and gave full vent to the tears that had never been very far from the surface ever since she had lost her baby.
First the baby, then Lady. There was now only one priceless, precious possession left, and she must never lose him. Only Ryder gave her the strength, the will to go on.
Suddenly she felt a hand on her back, and she jumped away from the horse so suddenly that she nearly upset the oil lamp on the straw-covered stable floor.
‘Oh, goodness, Beth, you frightened me,’ she cried.
‘Can’t you take me with you, Miss?’ the serving-maid said, clearly struggling herself against tears. ‘You’ve been so good to me, the only one who ever spoke nice or treated me right. I’ll do anything for you, Miss, not ask for wages. Please ...’
‘Oh, Beth ...’ Eliza bent down to the poor stunted creature and clasped her hand. ‘I hate to leave you behind, but it is impossible for you to come with us. We have no money, no place to go ...’
‘I don’t care, Miss.’ Between pitiful sobs, Beth squeezed her hand. ‘I can’t stand it here ...’
‘I know,’ Eliza said in an urgent whisper. ‘They are forcing me to leave Lady behind, but I am determined to get her back. If you look after Lady for me I promise you that, one day, the three of us will be reunited.’
‘Oh, Miss ...’ Beth knelt on the floor and clasped Eliza’s knees. ‘I don’t know who you are, but you’re much better than me. Braver too. I’d give my life for you ...’
‘That won’t be necessary, Beth.’ Eliza gave a shaky laugh. ‘Just you look after Lady, and one day we’ll be together. As soon as we have an address I’ll write to you, and you can write to me.’
‘I can’t write, Miss.’
‘Well, maybe someone in the village will help you. My poor girl.’ She stooped to kiss her and realised that, once again, the tears were flowing. Flinging her arm round Lady, she briefly leaned her head against her velvety flank. Then abruptly she turned her back and, her lamp swinging in the darkness, casting grotesque shadows before her, she fled.
As the train pulled out of Carlisle station Ryder put his arm round Eliza, who leaned her head against his shoulder. Soon the town was behind them, and to their right they could see the high crags of Lakeland like an impenetrable barrier against the skyline. From where they sat looking, silently, it seemed like a passing dream; or was it a nightmare? They had gone by cart to Cockermouth and then by carriage to Carlisle. By the time they had purchased their tickets to London they had scarcely any of the money left that Farmer Frith had paid for Lady, a fraction of what she was worth.
‘We could never have ridden her back to Dorset,’ Ryder murmured, aware of her thoughts; her eyes mesmerised, like his, by the sight of the distant mountains, which gradually vanished from sight as though they had been nebulous clouds in the sunlight. ‘Frith was right. The journey would have killed her. I’m glad to get away,’ he continued in a harsh voice, as Eliza made no reply. ‘I felt those mountains were closing in on me.’
‘But our baby lies there.’ There was a catch in Eliza’s voice. ‘Poor little thing, he is all alone.’
‘He is with God.’ Ryder’s lips brushed her cheek. ‘He is not there at all. We must believe that. We must believe, and we must believe, above all, that we will have others; that all will be well once we are among our own kith and kin.’
Eliza, whose heart felt almost bereft of emotion, could only hope he was right.
It was a long journey. They had an overnight stop in London, and then they went by coach to Dorset, arriving at Blandford six days after they had left Ennerdale. They put up at a small hotel in Blandford, where Ryder sent immediately for a doctor, because his wife was weak and bleeding heavily.
The doctor also was a stranger, although he seemed to look at Eliza with curiosity. He said that she must rest and not leave her room and, as well as prescribing a restorative, he recommended a diet of red meat and nourishing food. Ryder could barely scrape together enough money to pay his bill.
The following day, which was a Sunday, while Eliza was still asleep, he set out to see his father.
It was seven miles from Blandford to Wenham, and he walked all the way, arriving just after lunch at his father’s house. He knew there was a chance that he would not be at home, and he dreaded the questions that his mother would ask, the reproach he would see in her eyes because, since his elopement, he had not written to his family at all.
However, as he opened the heavy gates of his old home he saw his father alone in the garden, the paper on his lap, having a snooze after what had probably been a good lunch. Unlike the weather they had left behind, the sun shone on this land of plenty, the trees were in leaf and the birds sang. It was like leaving one world for another.
Ryder thought the unexpect
ed beauty of the day was a good augury as he walked slowly up the path and then on to the lawn where his father sat, mouth open, emitting gentle snores.
Ryder crouched at his father’s feet not wishing to disturb him. Hunger nudged at his vitals, but he had made arrangements at the hotel for Eliza to be well looked after. He had said that the probability was that he would not be back until the following day.
He looked up at the large house made of Marnhull stone in which he and his brother and sister were born. Below them ran the River Wen, and on the far side of the bank was Wenham Wood, where he had played as a boy with his brothers.
Those seemed like nostalgic, happy days: the days of his youth.
With an inward shudder Ryder recalled the past months of his life: the hard work and unremitting toil of the farm; the dark mornings, short days and even darker, longer nights in the Ennerdale valley. He recalled burying his stillborn son and the painful leave-taking between Eliza and her beloved horse.
Yes, the nostalgia of childhood was one thing, but it was a better, happier man who had money to feed and clothe his wife and children, and provide them with a warm house and a secure future. If his father gave him a chance his wandering days were done.
As if able to divine his thoughts, his father suddenly stirred and, opening wide his blue eyes, stared blankly at Ryder as though in a dream.
Ryder didn’t rise but stared back at him, an unfathomable expression on his face.
‘Ryder?’ John Yetman said, blinking his eyes rapidly three or four times. ‘Is it really you, Ryder?’
‘It is I, Father.’ Ryder got slowly, wearily to his feet.
‘Oh, Ryder.’ John Yetman held out his arms, and his eldest son embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks, his arm round his father’s shoulders.
‘Oh, Ryder,’ John said again, now with tears in his eyes. ‘Your mother is dead. There was no way we could let you know it. Why did you not keep in touch, son, let us know where you were?’
‘Oh, Father,’ Ryder cried, his heart almost too full to speak. If he had been close to anyone in his family it was to his mother: a gentle, unassuming, docile woman, totally lacking in the aspirations or ambitions of her husband. He knelt on the ground beside his father and, covering his face with his hands, wept as though his heart would break.
‘Was it my fault, Father? Was she grieving over what I’d done?’
‘No, no, lad,’ John Yetman replied. ‘She had a lump in her breast as big as a ball. It had nothing to do with you, though of course she was unhappy. However, the good God spared her the agony of lingering. She asked for you, Ryder, though. She missed you.’
Ryder continued to kneel where he was, shaking his head from side to side, tears pouring down his cheeks. He was weeping now not only for his mother but for his baby, for the suffering of his wife, for the misery of the last six months, for his wrongdoing.
‘Father, Mother, forgive me,’ Ryder murmured, removing his hands from his face. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gave his nose a hearty blow. His father, leaning forward, gazed anxiously at him.
‘Have you been ill, Ryder? You’re very thin, and your suit is threadbare... And where is the lass, the young woman you took with you? ‘Twas a big scandal in this neighbourhood, Ryder.’ For the first time his expression was reproachful. ‘I didn’t know where to hide my face.’
‘I know, Father.’ Ryder hung his head. ‘I made a terrible mistake. I committed a great wrong.’ He raised his face, so stricken with sorrow that his father provided his own handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. ‘But I love Eliza, and she loves me. We are wed, man and wife ... and we have suffered. We lost a child, we experienced great hardship, bitter cold and poverty. We were mistreated. She is not well, even now...
‘Then where is she, son?’ John Yetman demanded agitatedly, getting to his feet. ‘You must fetch her here, bring her home. Your wife? Wed to a Woodville? Oh, Ryder, my son, my son,’ he cried, throwing his arms around him and weeping, as David wept for Absalom, only with gratitude that his son was alive, and restored at last to him.
9
Christopher Yetman was a man who came and went; a trial to his family, a puzzle to the woman he wooed. Or was he wooing? Miss Fairchild was never quite sure. He blew hot and cold. She knew one didn’t hurry these things, especially with people of a certain age. It would never have done to rush into things as Ryder Yetman had with Eliza, or Herbert Lock with Agnes. It hadn’t taken long for that piece of gossip to get round the town, because Agnes thought it was terribly amusing and told all and sundry.
Poor Herbert, bowled over by the humiliation of unrequited love, eventually sold his house in Blandford and moved out of the district.
When Christopher Yetman’s nephew returned home with his common-law wife, Christopher quickly put space between himself and the family. He disappeared for weeks while Ryder and John tried to sort things out. As far as John was concerned, he was eager to forgive his son because he needed him. Herbert had left a very big gap. He had not been able to replace him and desperately wanted help. More than that, he loved him and in his overpowering love for him he forgave him for all the heartache he had caused.
As for Miss Fairchild, she didn’t quite know what to do: sell the shop or hang on to it. Was Christopher serious or was he not? It was so hard to tell.
Ryder’s return home, though it was a relief, was an upheaval. No one except Victoria Fairchild really missed Christopher when he went away; he would be sure to turn up again, in a week, a month, a year. Despairing of him ever putting any of his many promises into practice, Miss Fairchild decided eventually to put the shop on the market. Or would she? Well, not just yet.
Miss Bishop counselled her as best she could; but it was difficult, even for a woman as tactful as she was, as skilled in preparing people for bad news, to say precisely what she thought about Christopher Yetman. He was a good-looking man, he came from a well-known local family, he said he had means ... but one never knew. Personally she neither liked nor trusted him, but she felt that if she said so outright Victoria might think her jealous.
Miss Fairchild lived beyond the church and the Rectory in the last big house in the village. Lower down was the home of Miss Monk, and Miss Fairchild considered herself fortunate that Christopher Yetman had not cast his cap at her, for she was younger, prettier, she had no facial blemish, and she had as much money as Miss Fairchild, if not more.
Miss Fairchild stood at her garden gate waving to Miss Bishop, who had been in for one of her motherly chats. No use waiting, no purpose in hoping. Put the shop on the market, maybe take a few trips around England and abroad. No use pining.
With a shrug of resignation – after all, Miss Bishop was almost always right –Victoria closed the gate, giving a farewell wave as Miss Bishop vanished down the hill on her way to see another of her great friends, Mrs Lamb. Miss Fairchild had never been much of a gardener, so much of her time had been given to the shop. A man came in to look after the garden, as he had in her parents’ time. It was put mostly to lawn, with a few rose bushes, and a small orchard at the rear.
The Fairchilds had never kept pets and, especially since the death of her mother, there were many occasions when Victoria felt lonely. It would be nice to have a cat to stroke, a dog to pat ... or a husband with whom to share one’s bed.
A little frisson went down her spine at the audacity of such a notion. But Christopher had given her hope. In time, he had seemed to say, just a little more time.
She knew that Christopher was fearful of anything unpleasant.
He found it difficult to face hard facts, bad news of any kind. He took off like a rabbit from a gun when Ryder arrived home, and then she had a letter from him from Brighton to say he missed her and would be back soon.
That had been three weeks ago. Meanwhile one lived on hope. Victoria knew that one problem was money. She had tried to convince Christopher how unimportant that was, but without success. He had his pride, and she admired him for it. He insiste
d on investing in the shop, so that they were equal partners.
Miss Fairchild sat on the bench in the garden and wished she had something she could take in her arms, like a cuddly cat, or a baby ... But it would be too late for babies anyway. If only Christopher hadn’t given her hope.
A little breeze sprang up, and she was about to go into the house when a voice hailed her. It seemed to come from very far away and, for a moment, she thought it was her imagination playing tricks with her.
She turned round and saw it was no trick. There he was, large as life, striding up the hill from the church, his arm raised in a cheery wave.
‘Oh, Christopher,’ she cried and, running along the garden path, rushed headlong into his arms. He reached out for her and then tossed her high in the air, as if she were a small child, before planting a kiss on each of her cheeks.
Victoria didn’t care if anyone saw them.
Miss Fairchild had never had Christopher round to the house before. She always saw him in the shop because, ostensibly, they had met about business. She got into the habit of entertaining him to a cup of tea or coffee in the back room. She knew it was pretence, but it was decorous too. Several times he had walked her to the gate of her cottage, and, once, he had got as far as the porch.
Now here he was. She had thrown discretion to the winds and invited him in, given him tea and suggested he might stay for supper.
Christopher seemed very happy in her house, very much at home. He sat in her best chair in the front parlour, his legs crossed, smoking a cigarette, at ease with her and the world.
‘I missed you you know, Victoria,’ he said with a chuckle as she poured him more tea.
‘And I missed you.’ She stood very straight, the pot in her hand, and gazed at him. ‘Where do you go when you go, Christopher? Why are you so mysterious about it all?’
‘I’m not mysterious at all, my dear,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I am a man of business, you know, a man of affairs.’ He put down his cup and leaned forward. ‘As a matter of fact I went to London, and then to Eastbourne and Brighton on matters of business to see if I could raise the capital to purchase the shop. You know that my brother has never been accommodating about this. Anyway, his mind is now full of Ryder.’ Christopher made a clicking noise of disapproval. ‘There is no room for me any longer in that household, I fear. Ryder is jealous of me.’
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 19