by Anne Brear
‘A farm.’ Isabelle mulled the words around in her mind. Gradually her imagination came alive and sparked her interest. A farm with fields of baby animals, wild flowers… Living in the country away from the fumes of the city, away from the traffic and noise.
‘He is a moorland farmer.’
Her mind whirled. To move away or to stay in town? To marry a farmer or a man with a business? She had seen wife advertisements in the paper, especially if the man was venturing to a new country. Maybe she could take an enormous gamble and marry someone emigrating to Canada, America or Australia? But would they take the expense of Hughie? She put her hand to her head, her thoughts whirling around. Here she was contemplating the other side of the world when she couldn’t even comprehend living just miles away further up the valley!
Matron tapped her foot. ‘Well?’
Isabelle bit her bottom lip. ‘Is there any other person you know who might want a wife? Maybe I should place an advertisement in the newspaper?’
Matron held up her hand. ‘Let us speak with Mr Beale’s cousin and see what we make of that first, yes? A farmer’s wife is a desirable position.’
Isabelle remembered Sally’s words. Take little steps, Belle, little steps. Suddenly, she nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Peacock and you, Mr Beale.’
She left them and walked back along the corridor deep in thought. A farm. The air would be fresh and clean not full of smoke like Halifax. It might be just what they needed. Hughie was good with plants; he often worked in the workhouse gardens. He would grow into a fine man living in the clean air and eating fresh food.
Reaching the hallway leading to the kitchens, Isabelle paused and nibbled her fingertips. Her thoughts ran wild, warming to the idea. She could be a farmer’s wife, she was certain of that. She could keep chickens and bake bread like her grandfather’s old cook taught her. She straightened her shoulders at the thought. Yes, that would do nicely.
Abruptly, a hand clamped over her mouth. Isabelle jerked in terror. Grabbed around the waist, she was wrenched off her feet and carried into the nearest room – the linen room. She fought against the restraint, kicking widely, but her skirts muted any impact she made.
In a swift movement, her attacker banged up against the wall of shelves holding sheets, towels and pillowcases. Faded light filtered in through a high dirty window and it was enough for her to see the excited eyes of Neville Peacock. She thrashed her head but his grip over her mouth pushed her head back hard against the wooden shelf.
‘Keep still, my lass.’
His hold made it impossible to talk and she dragged in shallow quick breaths through her nose.
‘You’ll like it, I promise.’ His knee edged her legs apart, but he soon realised that to lift her skirts he would have to free one hand. He took his hand away from her mouth and next his tongue bombarded her lips, edging its way past her teeth.
Bile rose in her throat. She wrenched her face away, but his lips followed, leaving wet kisses across her cheek. She gagged. Cold air touched her thighs as he raised her skirts high over her stockings. Furious at the invasion, she growled and bit his tongue so hard blood spurted into her mouth.
He howled in pain and backhanded her in the face. ‘You bitch!’
Stars burst before her eyes like fireworks on Guy Fawke’s night. The confined room spun around her. Dazed, she gripped a shelf to steady herself. Tears blurred her vision as she spat and coughed.
Neville leant against the opposite wall, one hand over his mouth, his eyes closed. Blood trickled between his fingers and ran down his chin to drip on his white shirt.
Isabelle heaved and dashed for the door. Whipping it open, she glanced back at him before hurrying out.
Matron stopped mid-stride, startled by her flight. Her gaze narrowed as she swept it from Isabelle to the linen room door.
Wordlessly, Isabelle shook her head and darted away. Her heart pounded, threatening to explode in her chest. The echoes of her running footsteps bouncing off the walls sounded loud in her ears. She had to leave this place!
Chapter Two
The cold wind outside tried to wheedle its way into the corridors of the workhouse as Isabelle rushed to the matron’s office to meet with her intended husband. For a split second she baulked at the prospect, but knowing her desire to leave here rested on this meeting, she quelled her nerves and hurried on.
The draughts whistled around her ankles and a quick glance out the small windows she passed showed another grey gloomy day heralding winter. Summer had only just finished yet she missed it all ready. The thought of spending another winter inside these frigid walls spiralled her into a mood of gloom.
She should be thankful she lived in a private workhouse and not a parish one, but still the conditions were primitive, the future bleak unless she took some chances. Living this way had taken her mother and sister. Their gentleness left them unable to cope once outside the safety of the vicarage. Still, her mother always said she, Isabelle, was the strongest in the family. The idealist. The one to weather the harsh demands of a world devoid of compassion. She would show them all that her mother was right. Her family might have fallen lower than the low but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t do all in her power to claw them back to their rightful place.
Within a week of speaking of her desire to be married, to have a home of her own, Mr Beale had arranged it for his cousin to visit. It had been a week of hiding from Neville.
After the incident in the linen room, he had given her a few days reprieve before hounding her unmercifully. He hid in corners and loomed out of shadows. He watched from windows and sent her peculiar notes. She became distressed when he struck up an interest in Hughie, which included giving him little presents.
Two nights ago, she had gone to bed and found a dead kitten under the blankets. Frightened and not sure what to do, she had stayed up all night with only her umbrella as protection. From then on, Isabelle lived in fear of Neville. She caught scraps of sleep during the day when she could, knowing that each night would see her maintain her vigil watching her bedroom door and window.
And this morning, a note was pushed under the door. Neville had written exactly what he was going to do with her when he caught her and that she would never marry anyone but him.
Thankfully, after breakfast, Matron had sent him off to visit family in Leeds and for this Isabelle had sent a prayer of thanks heavenward.
The office door opened before she could lift her hand to knock and Mr Beale ushered her in. ‘You’re late.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She puffed. ‘I was helping in the kitchens.’
Matron, all congeniality, beckoned with a tight smile. ‘Come in girl and present yourself to Mr Farrell.’
Isabelle stepped further into the room and looked at the man who might be her husband shortly.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she took in his ruddy complexion, sharp blue eyes and black hair. She knew him to be thirty-eight, but he looked ten years older. Once, he would have been a good-looking man, powerfully built. Only now, his muscle had run to heaviness. She felt he would still be strong as the width of his arms strained his coat sleeves and she knew her hands couldn’t span his thick bull neck.
‘Miss Gibson.’ He held out his wide hand, looking uncomfortable in his suit too small for him, but his shy smile calmed her a little.
‘Good day, Mr Farrell.’ She barely touched his fingers before she withdrew her hand to hide it behind her back. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’
‘I heard yer were in the need for a husband.’ His unblinking stare wasn’t unsympathetic.
‘Yes. I am. I need a home for my brother and me.’ She smiled, trying desperately to still her anxiety. ‘You…you require a wife to help you run your farm?’
‘Aye.’ He glanced at Mr Beale and then at Matron.
As if taking her cue, Matron bustled forward. ‘Miss Gibson is a hard worker indeed, Mr Farrell. You’ll not go wrong in having her for a wife.’
Isabelle frowned in
surprise at Matron’s sunny nature. She’d never had a good word to say about her before. Turning her attention back to Mr Farrell she focused on his answer.
‘Being a farmer’s wife is no easy life.’ He peered at her as though sizing up her worth. ‘Yer sure yer up to it?’
‘Of course!’ She straightened; alarmed that he’d think her weak. She’d have no one say she couldn’t pull her weight. She wasn’t frightened of hard work. ‘I’m healthy and strong.’
He nodded. ‘Yer’ll need to be.’
She raised her chin. ‘Hard work doesn’t deter me, Mr Farrell.’
‘You’d be no use to me if it did.’ He snorted. ‘They’ll be many chores that are yours alone. The farm’s been without a woman since me mam died some years back. I haven’t time to do everything now.’
‘Of course. You can depend on me. I promise you.’
‘Right. Good.’
‘Mr Beale tells me your farm is on the moors beyond Heptonstall.’
‘Aye.’
‘When I was small I remember my father taking me onto the moors near Sowerby. We walked forever that day. It was like being on top of the world and-’ Isabelle stopped, embarrassed at the other’s silence.
Farrell shifted uneasily, a flush staining his cheeks. ‘Well, I don’t know about that, but it’s not bad in’t summer. Winter can be a bloody nuisance.’
‘Indeed, Mr Farrell!’ Matron eyed him severely for his language. ‘I’m certain Isabelle will enjoy all the delights a moorland farm can offer.’
‘Right, yes.’ Farrell fiddled with the hat in his hands.
‘Well, what do you think, Isabelle?’ Matron beamed. ‘Doesn’t it all sound romantic?’
Romantic? Isabelle stared at her. Who was the new woman? She much preferred the old matron, at least then she knew what to expect. Matron’s extraordinary behaviour confused her already jumbled thoughts, but before she could speak, Farrell strode to the chair near the door and picked up a small posy of wildflowers.
He thrust them at her without meeting her eyes. ‘There aren’t many flowers left now. These were all I could find about the place.’
She took the squashed bunch of flowers. The unexpected gesture astonished her. If he could bring her flowers then he couldn’t be that bad, surely? ‘Thank you. Do they grow near your home?’
‘Aye. Near the stream.’ His tone became distant and, scowling, he looked away as if disappointed by something.
Isabelle sniffed their faded fragrance and was filled with sense of outdoors. She longed to be up on the moors, to experience the vastness of them where there were no walls to keep her in or that hid the world from her view. She felt she couldn’t breathe here anymore.
***
Later that afternoon, Isabelle and Hughie, huddling in their thin coats, sat in a secluded corner of the yard playing cards. They put up with the cold because it was better than the other option – staying inside and being at Matron’s beck and call.
‘So, this Mr Farrell seems nice?’ Hughie asked, shuffling the cards.
‘Yes, he seemed to be.’ Isabelle shrugged, not really knowing one way or the other. ‘He didn’t stay long otherwise I would have sent for you to meet him, too.’
‘Will he like me, do you think?’
‘Of course he will.’ She winked. ‘Why would he not?’
‘It might be good to live on a farm and care for animals.’
She snorted. ‘Anywhere is better than here.’
‘I know. Matron slapped me around the ear this morning for eating too fast, but I’m always hungry.’
‘Just think of what they must eat at the farm. Fresh eggs, milk, hams and cheese.’
Hughie groaned and rubbed his stomach. ‘Remember how grandfather used to have two eggs every morning after prayers? We’re lucky to get one egg a week!’
Warm memories flowed as she remembered the pleasant times of living with their grandfather; his gentle voice reading to them at night in front of the fire, the long walks on Saturday afternoons, and the Christmas festivities he enjoyed so much.
He took them in when Aaron Gibson, her father, abandoned them. Life had been good at the vicarage until a sudden seizure took their darling grandfather from them. With no home or income of their own they had no option but to take the charity of Peacock’s Private Workhouse.
In good faith, her mother gave Matron all her jewellery to help towards their keep. But once their mother died, the Matron’s true nature emerged and her false benevolence turned to coldness. Since then, only Sally’s sweet nature kept up the pretence of civility.
‘Does Mr Farrell have family?’
Isabelle frowned. ‘Not sure. He mentioned his mother died a few years ago. That’s all I know. I imagine he has workers. A farm needs men to run it.’
She paused and gazed at the elderly men toiling in the vegetable gardens. By the far wall two women, old before their time, sat on stools knitting or sewing surrounded by numerous children. Everything and everyone was colourless, dreary, desperate and sad. This wasn’t her fate, to be left existing behind a high, stone wall, shut away from the world, of that she was certain. She hated each moment she spent here.
‘Will you marry him then?’
She looked at Hughie and reached for his hand. ‘I think I might. I haven’t decided. I wanted to speak to you about it first.’
‘Have there been any other men you’d might want to marry instead?’
‘No. None. I guess I could ask Mr Thwaite, the grocer in Nelson Street. He always smiled at me whenever Sally and I used to pass by. He’s widowed.’
‘And old, too.’ Hughie laughed. ‘His daughter was as old as Mother.’
Isabelle sighed, too anxious to share in the jest. Something had to be done. A chance must be taken. She wouldn’t be trapped here with the years stretching out before her in a never-ending drudge of work and evading Neville. Her youth would be gone, stolen by Matron’s harsh demands and Neville’s malicious attacks.
Hughie peeked up from under his lashes. ‘Matron said I’m to go down the pit.’
‘You aren’t! I promised mother.’ Isabelle pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. The pressure built within and she couldn’t control it, couldn’t escape it. Too many decisions. Too many uncertainties. But what choices did she have? What should she do?
‘Can’t we just run away? Now Sally has gone, we can do it. Just you and me. I’m old enough, nearly thirteen!’
She shook her head slowly, sadly. ‘I can’t risk it. If something was to happen to you, I’d never forgive myself. And if something happened to me, you’d be alone.’
‘Anything is better than rotting in here.’
‘Dying by the side of the road isn’t.’
He nodded but Mildred, another workhouse inmate, took their attention as she ran towards them. ‘Isabelle! This just arrived for you.’ She held out a brown box.
‘For me?’ Surprised, Isabelle stood and took the box from her.
‘Let me know what’s in it later. I must get back. Matron is doing her inspections.’ Mildred ran off towards the kitchens before Isabelle could thank her.
Intrigued, Hughie jumped up to stand beside her. ‘What is it, Belle?’
‘It must be from Mr Farrell. How lovely.’ Opening the box, Isabelle pulled back the brown paper inside and gasped. Several withered pink roses dipped in black ink lay at the bottom of the box.
Hughie stepped back in disgust. ‘Eww, that’s awful! If that Farrell sent you this as a gift I’d not marry him, Belle.’
Isabelle swallowed and found it difficult to speak. How could anyone send such a thing to her? A card lay underneath one rose but she didn’t pick it up. Forcing a smile, she turned to Hughie. ‘It must be someone’s joke. They aren’t from Mr Farrell. It’s nothing to worry about. Why don’t you go in and see if you can charm of cup of tea from Cook, while I throw this away.’
Once Hughie had left, she carefully tugged the card from beneath the disfigured flowers and read it.
You will never marry anyone but me…N
She dropped the box in horror. Spilt like a bottle of ink, the flowers tumbled out at her feet.
Chapter Three
Isabelle’s stomach lurched as wildly as the cart did every time its wheels rolled into a rut. She hid her shaking hands by folding them tightly in her lap. Her new husband, Len Farrell, slapped the reins hard on the poor, skinny beast between the shafts.
Isabelle took a trembling breath. Spirit fumes emanated from Len as though he had bathed in gin. His coat, although not new, looked decent that morning when she first saw him in church, but now dark tell tale signs of spilt food and drink mottled it. She had vague memories of the ceremony and the small tea party afterwards. Their conversation, albeit somewhat stilted and under the watchful gaze of Matron and Mr Beale, remained on safe ground with him telling her about the moors and wildlife near his farm.
She allowed her gaze to shift up to his face and she bit her lip in alarm. This man was her husband. How had it happened so quickly? Four weeks after burying Sally she had married a stranger.
Despite her apprehension and, if she was honest, fear, of what she had just committed to, she couldn’t but help to feel relieved at escaping the Peacock’s Workhouse. The last four weeks had been nothing but torture. Neville managed to torment and harass her at every opportunity until she felt too ill to care anymore. All that kept her going was the thought that soon she would be married and away from him. Neville hated the thought of her marrying anyone but him. However, it was his violence that drove her into the hasty marriage with Farrell. If he’d left her alone, she could’ve taken her time, been more selective.
She sighed. Oh well, what’s done is done.
The cartwheel fell into a hole, jerking her back to the present. She forced herself to relax. Yes, she had married a stranger, but what had been the alternative? Living on the streets would have been much worse and she had to think of Hughie’s future too.
Isabelle raised her chin and concentrated on her surroundings. They’d left Halifax immediately after the wedding tea and driven straight to Hebden Bridge, where Len stopped to purchase goods, which for some reason, he grumbled about. Now, they drove up the steep, winding Heptonstall Road and her new husband had barely spoken to them. She couldn’t blame him really. Obviously, the situation wasn’t easy for him either. She expected that men become equally nervous as women when they married.