The Branded Man

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  As he entered the drawing room, James saw that his wife and son were both sitting on the couch and had definitely been in close conversation.

  He moved slowly up the room, and when he was within a couple of yards of them he stopped and, looking at his son, he spoke in a tone that neither Vincent nor his mother had ever before heard him use, ‘Get to your feet!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard what I said, and I don’t intend to repeat it.’

  Vincent cast a sidelong glance at his mother; but she was staring in astonishment at her husband.

  Slowly, Vincent pulled himself to the front of the couch, then as if it were an effort, he stood up, and with almost a leer on his face, he said, ‘What now, Father?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough.’

  His wife, too, now rose from the couch, saying, ‘Oh, if it’s about this afternoon, I’m aware of it. Evelyn should not have been walking with her and then it wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Well, it’s a damn good job Evelyn was walking with her, because if my brave son here had brought his whip down on her, I can tell you for nothing he wouldn’t be standing there with his pampered face as it is now. Even in the state she’s in she—’

  The opening of the door and Evelyn entering the room stopped his tirade, but Veronica’s voice was loud as she immediately addressed her daughter, crying, ‘If you had shunned her as you should have done, as I told you before, this incident wouldn’t have taken place.’

  ‘And as I’ve told you, Mother, if I had not been there to stop him striking her with his whip and calling her all the vicious and horrible names he could think of, he would have struck her. It was only because I struck him that he stayed his hand. From what I know now she hasn’t mentioned it to Grandfather, or Vincent wouldn’t be standing in this house at this moment, I can tell you that. He’d have been out on his neck.’

  Evelyn turned now to her father, saying, ‘She hasn’t told Grandfather, has she?’

  ‘No, Evelyn; she hasn’t told your grandfather because had she done so this noble individual here, whom I hate to call son, would definitely, as you put it, be out on his neck. And I am going to say this to you, Vincent. I am still master of this house; depleted as it is of unnecessary staff, I remain its master, and I’m warning you, if you go near my daughter again—and no matter what she has done, she is still my daughter—if you go near her or molest her in any way, then I shall take it into my own hands to see that you leave this house, and for good. I shall also go further and cut you out of the business, even if I have to go to court to do so. And it isn’t just today or yesterday I’ve harboured such thoughts.’ He now turned quickly towards his wife and, his finger stabbing at her, he cried, ‘And don’t you butt in with your opinion because to me it doesn’t matter any more. But you’re going to hear mine, and it’s just this: I intend to visit my father and my daughter whenever I feel so inclined, and if you don’t like it, madam, then I can arrange for a separation, when you can leave with the only one of your brood who has taken after you; and you are well matched, for there’s a cruel streak runs through you both. You’ll be surprised that I know you have been invited over to see the boys, and if I were you I would avail myself of the opportunity. It would ease the tension all round.’ He turned now to Evelyn, who was staring wide-eyed at him, and his voice didn’t change as he said, ‘I understand that your sister apologised for her past manner towards you. Whether or not you accepted the apology, I don’t know, but that you continued to walk with her, I think augured that you had. You also struck out in her defence, and for this I thank you.’ Then turning to his wife again, he said, ‘Well, I’ve had my say. It’s been over-long in coming, but I advise you, and you too’—he cast his gaze towards Vincent—‘to consider my words very carefully.’ Then he turned and walked smartly from the room.

  The door had hardly closed on him when Vincent almost jumped towards Evelyn as she too was about to leave and, gripping her arm, he pulled her round to him, and his words came grinding through his teeth: ‘Whose side d’you think you’re on? You who hated her guts sucking up—’

  ‘Leave go of me!’

  ‘When I’m ready. And now listen to me. You go down there just once …’

  When she brought her hand hard across the side of his face, it was his mother’s cry, ‘Girl! What’s come over you?’ that drowned his surprised exclamation, and she went on, ‘Oh this house, this house. I think I’ll go mad. And it’s all through her; again and again she’s brought disaster upon us.’

  ‘By God! I’ll get even with you.’ Vincent growled at his sister, the while holding his cheek. ‘You of all people to side with them.’

  ‘I wasn’t siding with them. I was walking my horse because it had injured a foot, and a farmer friend of the Hardings extracted a nail from it. She was there talking to the Hardings, and when she went to walk along the road, what was I to do? Pull my horse and walk behind her? Or tell her to get out of the way? Of course, Vincent, if you had been in my place, you would’ve run her down, wouldn’t you? Well, strangely, and this is for you, too, Mother, I don’t feel like that towards her any longer. When she went for me that time she had a reason of which you know nothing. Now you can chew on that. And as for you, dear brother, think twice before you try to handle me again because I am not the young Marie Anne,’ and on this she marched from the room, banging the door behind her.

  Slowly, Veronica Lawson let herself down onto the couch, and there, holding her head between her hands, she rocked herself from side to side as she said, ‘That girl will not rest, that strumpet of a girl will not rest until…until she has finished us and this house. You’ll see, she’ll be the death of us both.’

  At this Vincent went swiftly towards her and, sitting down beside her, he put his arms around her and drew her close, saying, ‘By God! She’ll not, not as long as I’m alive. You leave her to me, Mother; I’ll see to her. One way or another I’ll see to her.’

  Four

  Between the time of the attack and the never-to-be-forgotten day the child was born there were to occur a number of incidents which would have a further bearing on the future of those in The Manor.

  It was towards the end of March. Marie Anne was sitting at her drawing-board in the small room at the end of the house that she had turned into a studio. Sarah too was there, sitting by the fire and knitting laboriously because, as she said, she was no hand with needles of any kind.

  Sarah glanced towards the window. The sun was shining brightly, and there was little wind today, and she sighed as she bemoaned, ‘This is another nice day gone. We’ll be in April next and it’ll be raining cats and dogs and you won’t be able to get out before you’re ready for bed. Look, dear, why don’t we just dander down as far as the gates?’

  Marie Anne put down her pencil and sat back in her chair, and wriggling from one side to the other for a moment as if to find a comfortable position. She was carrying the child high and her whole body seemed weighed down with it. She too sighed before she said, ‘Oh Sarah, I’m tired of telling you, I…I don’t want to go out. I’m quite happy where I am.’

  ‘You’re as pale as lint, girl.’

  ‘Yes, I may be, but I do wish you would realise that I am quite all right; I mean, without taking walks.’

  ‘As I understand it, you were the one who at one time didn’t only walk but you galloped. And don’t forget what you said before that last business happened: you said, Sarah let me walk and on my own. That upset me, you know: I felt unwanted; but then I understood, for we all want to be alone with ourselves at some time or other. And don’t forget, going by your dates, you have nearly another month to go. That’s if the witch-doctor in the kitchen isn’t right, when you could have it either two weeks before or two weeks after. Huh! And of course if it’s twins, you’ll have to go eighteen months!’

  At this Marie Anne put her hands on her stomach as she said, ‘Oh Sarah, please don’t make me laugh, it’s pai
nful.’

  ‘Well, it’s something if I can make you laugh again, because you haven’t done much of that lately, have you?’

  Marie Anne made no reply, but she slowly rose from the chair and made her way to the small settee opposite the fire and within an arm’s length of Sarah, who put her knitting aside, then took Marie Anne’s hand softly, saying, ‘What is it, love? Is there something on your mind? Is it…is it still him?’

  ‘I…I don’t know, Sarah’—Marie Anne’s voice was breaking—‘I only know I feel a great dread on me.’ She now looked into Sarah’s eyes. ‘I feel as if I’m going to die, as if I’m being willed to die. I don’t think I’ll ever see the child.’

  ‘Oh my dear! My dear!’ Sarah was sitting beside her now, holding her. ‘You’ll see your child and you’ll live to enjoy it, whatever it be. All this feeling is because of that rotten swine. But I can tell you he wouldn’t dare come near you now, because I wouldn’t put it past your grandpa to go and shoot him if you had any more trouble with him. You know what happened when it leaked out why you were in that state; he went over there and raised hell. Come on now, love, and cheer up, cheer up and believe what the oracle tells you.’ She pointed to herself, ‘Don’t take any notice of the witch-doctor or anybody else, only me.’ She thrust her face towards Marie Anne, then smiling, she said, ‘Oh I must tell you this bit of news. Things that I hear when I’m not supposed to! Miss Brooks, our Katie, you know, in the kitchen, is supposedly being courted by one Bobby Talbot, the river man. Well, this Bobby notices things and he relates them to Katie; and Katie, who loves delivering news of all kinds, good, bad and indifferent, tells Fanny and Carrie the latest, and it concerns your sister Evelyn.’

  ‘Evelyn?’

  ‘That’s who I said, your sister Evelyn, who has taken to riding that way at least twice a week. She might have passed more often, he said, but at least twice a week he saw her, and because that was unusual Mr Bobby was interested, and apparently he had only to walk to a certain rise to see which road the rider took, and he found, what d’you think?’

  ‘I don’t know and I can’t think, but go on, Sarah.’

  ‘Well, it was towards that new farmer’s place. It turns out that Miss Evelyn Lawson visits Mr Nathaniel Napier, and that is the sole object of her riding that way. And it would appear that her visits have grown longer with time. So what d’you think of that?’

  Marie Anne did not answer for some moments for she was recalling to mind Mr Nathaniel Napier. He was well spoken, quite gentlemanly, a nice man, she would consider him, and it would be wonderful, she thought, if Evelyn’s apparent attraction to him were reciprocated; oh yes, because the guilt she still felt with regard to her sister would then be lifted. But dear! Dear! If he were just a poor farmer, her mother would go mad, for she’d had great expectations of at least one daughter making a fine match. Oh, indeed, when their mother got wind of this, as Sarah would put it, there would be hell to pay.

  Those were the very words that Vincent was addressing to his sister at that moment: ‘Do you realise that when Mother gets wind of this there’ll be hell to pay? And talk about letting yourself down! My God! A farmhand. I can’t believe it.’

  They were astride their horses, the animals practically flank to flank, with Vincent’s mount within an arm’s length of a stone wall, on the other side of which was high shrubbery.

  Pointing to a five-bar gate further along the road, Vincent said, ‘Well, I can put a stop to this, and by God I will! You go in there and you’ll see what’ll happen.’

  For answer Evelyn swung round in her saddle until she was square with him and in a low tone she said, ‘You do! You go inside that gate and say one word and I can tell you this much: I’ll be at the registry office as soon as ever it’s possible to sign my name to a marriage certificate, and then I’ll marry a farm labourer, as you call him. D’you hear? And another thing I’ll tell you, brother: you’re on very delicate ground here. You’ve been trailing me, I know you have, but what will happen when I decide to trail you; or at least, to pay someone to trail you? Oh, Grandpa would supply the money just to know what you do with your weekly visits to Newcastle. Overnight visits at times, weekend visits at others, you’ve never said, not to the women of the family, no. And I think the men imagine you are disporting yourself in some brothel, being a man, but remembering your hatred of females—I remember it from when I was small, but you didn’t get your own way with me as you did with Marie Anne—if you had the power, you would torture women, wouldn’t you? Well now, brother, you be careful. You enter that gate down there and before God I swear to you that I’ll go into your past or your present or whatever it is you are enjoying in Newcastle. It couldn’t be a mistress, oh no; I couldn’t imagine any woman ever taking to you. So, what other entertainment could a man of your physique and temperament be enjoying, eh?’

  She paused and then said, ‘Oh, brother, you are losing your colour. One minute it was scarlet, now you look like a field lily. Have I made myself plain?’

  She watched him grinding his teeth; then she added, ‘You would like to do for Marie Anne, wouldn’t you? Because you won’t recognise that she’s not the real cause of the break-up, it is Mother. Well, let me warn you: if you were to do anything to her you wouldn’t live for very long either for, as I understand it, she’s got a champion who would see to you.’

  She now settled back into the saddle, pulled the horse to the side and saying, ‘Get up there!’ she walked it slowly towards the five-bar gate, bent over sidewards and lifted the latch, then passed through, turning her horse so as to close the gate. And Vincent remained where he was, his jaw working and his face still pale. Then, with an almost vicious kick at his mount, he turned it about and went back the way he had come.

  In the small farmyard Evelyn dismounted, tied her horse to a post, then glanced into the barn, only to find it empty. She looked towards the house. The kitchen door was open.

  He usually came out as soon as he heard her enter the yard. She now turned and looked about her, and when her eyes were drawn to the hedge that bordered the stone wall she saw him. He was standing looking towards her, a bucket in his hand, and to his side a partly built wall. She knew what he was doing; he was building a set of piggeries, and he must have been there for some time and within earshot of all that had been said. She bowed her head as she thought, Oh my God, another mistake. Another mistake.

  She now turned her back on him, so that she did not see his approach; although she heard him washing his hands at the pump. Then she knew he was just behind her when she heard his voice. ‘Come indoors, my dear.’

  Like a biddable child she walked towards the farmhouse and into a very pleasant, low-timbered room. It was a typical farmhouse kitchen but with the added comfort of a deep easy chair and a long padded settle. In the middle of the room was the customary large working table, with a chair at each side of it. Pulling one from under the table, Nathaniel Napier pointed to it, saying quietly, ‘Sit down.’

  She sat down, her head still bowed, until a finger lifted her chin and he looked down into her face, and said, ‘Would you go to a registry office with me tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, but I…I was so angry.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand that, my dear, but I ask you again. Although we have only known each other a matter of three to four weeks, I’m putting the same question to you: would you go to a registry office with me tomorrow?’

  Now she looked up into his face and she said, ‘Yes; yes, I would.’

  ‘That’s all I want to know.’ And with that, he pulled the other chair from under the table and brought it towards her; and when he sat down they were knee to knee and he asked the question, ‘Have you given this any thought before?’

  She considered for a moment before answering, ‘Yes; yes, I have, but I couldn’t see any way out.’

  ‘But what I mean, Evelyn, is, have you thought what marriage to me would mean?’ He now stretched out his arm and flapped his hand backwards and fo
rwards as he said, ‘This kitchen-cum-dining room, a parlour, three decent bedrooms and a box room and the open attic running the length of the house, and we mustn’t forget the wash-house. It’s a very good wash-house, with its own boiler. There would be no servants, no being waited on, except what we did for each other. I have just enough money left to buy a small amount of stock. Since he’s been allowed to lease more land from your grandfather, Mr Harding has let me have a couple of fields to run a horse. Without Mr Harding’s help I wouldn’t have been just a failed horse doctor, but I’d have been a failed farmer too. You might ask why I bought this place; why, if I was a veterinary surgeon, which I was at one time, I didn’t keep it up, and so I will explain. But first, I must tell you what I know of you. I seem to know all about you, but it has been through second and third opinions, none of which seem to tally with the person I have found you to be. Well, having said that, you know nothing about me, so here goes. I had just gone into business. I was twenty-four. I had bought this old veterinary establishment after the owner’s retirement. It was situated in a small town and there were just enough people and animals there to give me a living, and it was just a living. However, I was extremely happy, because I had married the owner’s granddaughter, a beautiful girl of twenty. We had been married three years when she and the baby died in childbirth.’ He was still looking at her and she at him, but she saw no quiver on his face at the recollection of such a tragedy; and then he went on, ‘I did my best to carry on, but it was no good, I went to pieces. Apparently, I am not a very strong character; another man might have ridden that period, but I couldn’t. There was this healthy, lovely young woman and a beautiful baby both dead through the negligence of a midwife, with either dirty hands or dirty instruments. Of course, no blame was directed towards the doctor who didn’t come when he should, because he was suffering from a late-night drinking bout. I sold the business and lost on it. I left my friends. My parents were dead, but I had a very kind sister and her husband. However, they were no solace to me, and so I started to wander from one job to another just to eat. I went to sea for two years. That taught me a lesson as to what extent a human being can suffer physical pain, especially when one’s hands become glued to the ship’s railings with ice. Back on shore, my wanderings started again. Then my sister, dear soul that she was, died. She left me enough money to set up another business, hoping, I think, I would likely go back into veterinary work. However, I knew I couldn’t tackle that again, yet I still wanted to deal with animals. To cut the rest of the story short, I went on a walking tour, and I heard this little farm was available. The owner had apparently died and his widow wanted to leave and go and live with her daughter. She was very generous in the deal, leaving me all the furniture, some of it very old but all good solid stuff. Apparently this is the remnants of a much larger farm that the old lady’s grandparents had. Anyway, I think I was very fortunate to get it, and also that it should be situated next to people like Farmer Harding and his wife, because they’re so kind and helpful.