by Jean Stubbs
‘Have you heard about Ned Howarth, up at Kit’s Hill? Dead!’
‘Nay, never!’
And a humble procession wound its way slowly down from Scarth Nick: two men carrying a third upon a home-made stretcher, and a little lad leading a pair of shire-horses. From time to time he thrust the knuckles of one hand into his eyes, but the great beasts moved ponderously forward, unknowing. On the dark field behind them all lay an iron plough, and the long leather strap which had been used as a harness.
The oak coffin stood on trestles in the front parlour at Kit’s Hill. They had laid a dish of salt upon the farmer’s still chest, and pennies on the blinds of his eyes. They left the bolts unbarred, the doors ajar, the window of that cold room a little open, so that the soul could stream freely out into the fog. The mirrors were shrouded. The clocks were stopped. At nightfall they lit candles and watched by him.
His widow sat at the head of the coffin because it was all she could now do for him. Her children repeated that she must rest, must eat, must drink. She was content to let them rule her, but obedience was not at the moment within her province. So finally they let her be, and she spoke to him when they were alone together, in a confused medley of old memories, present perplexities, and future speculation.
In the kitchen the ovens had been stoked all day, baking currant bread and buns. Nellie brought out last summer’s stock of elderberry wine and spiced it. The new maids hurried round the village, offering sprigs of rosemary and biddings to the funeral. Then the women servants put on their black Sunday gowns and starched white aprons, and prepared to receive the mourners.
It seemed they would never get everybody in. But they all collected together at last. The men removed their hats, the women bent their heads, the children were silent. There was a smell of camphor among the yeomen farmers’ families, who wore best clothes for the occasion; a creaking of freshly blacked boots, subdued conversation, pale faces. The many poor, who had eaten hungrily of the bread and made their heads spin with unaccustomed wine, stood in their sombre daily dress.
Dorcas held herself very upright. Her small gloved hand put a glass of wine to her lips now and then, for form’s sake. Someone dosed the kitchen door so that she should not hear them nailing the coffin down in the front of the house.
‘I think they are ready now, Mamma,’ said Charlotte in her ear, and took the glass from her.
Grey, white and black. No colour anywhere, except perhaps in the coffin which gleamed tenderly. His two sons, mouths set, eyes bleak, took the lead. His old servants, Tom Cartwright and Billy Sidebottom, followed. Between them they raised the box shoulder-high. It was heavy, broad, sturdily-built. They had some difficulty easing it through the front doorway. Outside stood Gowd and Siller, Pearl and Di’mond, Ned’s team of oxen: harnessed to the wagon, ready to draw him down to the churchyard, according to the custom of his forefathers.
The way seemed long and hard, even with a son on either side of her. Dorcas was glad of the privacy afforded by her veil. The loss was a continual quiet grief within her which would make her weep dumbly, unexpectedly, without immediate cause. She could not comprehend why, after so many years together, he should die alone. She had never parted from him for so much as half a day without asking his leave, nor he hers. It seemed monstrous that he should set out on this last of all journeys, and she not there to comfort him. She had not known God could be so unkind.
*
May 1800
By unanimous consent, William and Charlotte and Dick held their council at Thornton House one Saturday afternoon in the spring, while Dorcas visited Zelah and the little girls at Quincey Place.
As head of the family William took Grandfather Wilde’s armchair. Charlotte presided over the teapot, and Dick supplied material for the meeting. He had just come from the market, and looked the picture of a prosperous yeoman farmer. Into Charlotte’s bees-waxed and flower-scented room he brought the homely odours of saddle-soap, new milk and hay. His gentlemanly brother, his educated sister, were fond of him, benevolently disposed towards him, but the bond was one of a family kind. Less and less did they have in common. So, though he needed their advice, he had excused himself from Charlotte’s invitation to dinner, and consumed mutton pies and strong beer at The Red Lion, in company with his fellows. Now, though he still worried about the dried mud on his gaiters, and wished his teacup was larger and thicker, he placed his trust in their superior judgement.
‘It’s about our mother,’ he began, for he loved Dorcas deeply but could not deal with her. ‘And it’s about me, too,’ he added honestly. There was a long pause while the red reached his neck. ‘And — and Alice Wharmby.’
William and Charlotte exchanged smiles over his bent head.
‘Which of the Wharmby girls is Alice, Dick?’ William asked kindly.
For the Wharmbys were rich in daughters.
‘Ah, she will be the nut-brown maiden who steps out like a queen,’ cried Charlotte, remembering the girl at the funeral looking at Dick.
‘Aye, that’s right. That’s Alice!’ Dick said, pleased and relieved.
How could he have described her, driven to doing so? He wished he could say what he felt as well as Lottie did. The nutbrown maiden who steps out like a queen. He must memorise that. Say it to Alice.
‘Well, Dickie dear,’ Charlotte coaxed, as he remained rapt and silent in contemplation of his love, ‘could you explain a little more to us? Does Mamma not approve of Alice?’
Which would not be surprising, her eyebrows signalled to William. Knowing Mamma!
‘Eh, I don’t know. I haven’t said owt to her!’ he cried, alarmed.
‘How long have you been courting Alice?’ William asked, tackling the situation from another direction.
‘Nigh on twelvemonth. But quiet-like. I mentioned it to Father, and he promised as he’d tell Mother — at the right time, he said. But it didn’t come about. Father were talking about doing up old Luke’s cottage for us. He said that when I were five-and-twenty I should have the running of the farm, and he’d stand behind me. Then, when t’family started coming, he and Mother would go to Luke’s, and Alice and me could have Kit’s Hill.’
Once he started to speak he seemed unable to stop, and they listened to the pent-up chronicle which must have run unheeded in his mind as he strove to assuage his mother’s grief, and to hold Alice without holding her off. The last six months had been hard on him, as well as on the two women he loved.
‘But he died, you see, afore we could set the notion in her head or speak wi’ the Wharmbys. And though I’m five-and-twenty in another week or two I canna see Mother making way for Alice. And I canna see Alice sitting round doing nowt. And whereas my father might’ve got Mother to live in old Luke’s cottage, I dursen’t ask her to go there by herself. It’s too near and too far, if you get my meaning. Besides, I canna stand up agin Mother, never mind Alice trying! She’s got a hundred ways of getting her own road, afore you know what’s going on in her head. I allus knew that Father could handle her, but I never give him credit enough. Nay, I never did!’
And here he rid himself of the troublesome teacup, and wiped his forehead with a large yellow handkerchief.
They could not help themselves, but burst out laughing. After a moment or two of bewilderment he joined in, sheepishly at first and then with relief.
‘It is unfair to laugh,’ said Charlotte penitently, ‘and of course you and Alice must have Kit’s Hill to yourselves. Dear Dick, you have had the burden of Mamma’s grief, and said nothing until now!’
For he was still her baby brother, and she soothing and protecting him, though he could have picked her up with one hand and sat her on top of her own pianoforte.
‘But it is only right,’ said William, ‘that Mrs Dorcas should have more in life than a shepherd’s cottage on the fells. She farmed Kit’s Hill, side by side with my father, for nearly forty years.’
‘Well, we Longes are living in the house that is hers,’ said Charlotte. ‘But
what should we do if she took us all over?’
‘Caleb will rattle round Quincey Place like a solitary pea in a pod when we are gone to Kingswood Hall,’ said William, looking at his sister, half-teasing and half-serious. ‘I suppose you would not simplify matters by marrying him, would you, Lottie? You always cared for Quincey Place!’
Dick took upon himself the embarrassment Charlotte might have felt. He blushed, but she laughed.
‘My dear Willie, I shall need a better reason to take another husband than the house he lives in!’
‘Then that is that!’ Philosophically. ‘Zelah is devoted to my mother, but the devotion could be strained at close quarters. They are both matriarchs!’
‘Sweet Zelah a matriarch?’ cried Charlotte. ‘Why, she is the most tractable of us all!’
‘A matriarch, my dear Lottie, in fact, in spirit, and even by sheer inheritance. You articulate Wilde ladies are milk-cheese compared to the steel of which the Scholes women are fashioned!’
We shall surprise you yet!’ Charlotte retorted. ‘When do you move to Kingswood Hall?’
‘As soon as Zelah has recovered from the birth of our latest infant. Summer, I suppose.’
‘She would need to be made of steel,’ said Charlotte drily. ‘And when you speak of close quarters, have you no lodges, stables, pavilions or orangeries at Kingwood Hall? Is there no corner for Mamma in all that vast mansion, where she could put her parlourful of Grandmother Wilde’s furniture?’
‘Mrs Dorcas’s considerable talents must be housed separately,’ said William, quite firm on this point.
Dick looked trustfully from one to the other as they talked. He was his father’s son. He knew what was right for him. They were his mother’s children. They knew what must be done.
‘We are perhaps forgetting,’ said Charlotte thoughtfully, ‘that though Mamma is withdrawn and unlike herself, she must be well aware of this problem. She would not intrude upon any of us. Perhaps she would be glad to leave, but cannot think where to go, and has not the will nor the energy at present to apply herself to the problem.’
William’s zest for fresh challenges was as sharp as ever.
‘I have the answer!’ he cried. ‘Mrs Dorcas needs not only a new home but a new interest in life. Caleb and I have purchased a large area of land at Upperton, between Belbrook and Snape, in which we plan to build a model village. On this site is a farm I was going to pull down. Old, small, and lacking any convenience. Instead, I shall persuade her to re-make it to suit herself. She shall mark out her ground, borrow my work-men, use my materials. I place it at her disposal, in fact. She can have everything she likes from me — except ready money. That is a commodity I notoriously lack!’
‘Nay, I’ll see her right for money,’ said Dick at once, though his entire property was not worth one corner of Snape Foundry.
‘She has money of her own, from Aunt Wilde,’ Charlotte pointed out. ‘Unless, of course, it is all invested in iron!’
‘No, she was remarkably strong-minded on that score,’ said William ruefully. ‘Our friend Mr Hurst advised her against putting all her eggs in my basket. He regards me as a risky if highly profitable enterprise. So most of her small fortune is invested safely — which means that it brings in less than half the dividends she has been drawing from Belbrook and Snape!’
‘Is that why you left Nicodemus’s firm?’ Charlotte asked curiously.
‘Oh, not at all,’ said William, imperturbably good-humoured. ‘He has every right to advise his clients as he thinks fit. But Hurst and Hurst is only a small family firm, suitable for a market town. Potter and Shawcross of Preston suit me better, and work upon broader lines.’
‘Well, I’d sooner be sure than sorry, speaking for myself,’ said Dick frankly, ‘and she’s got nowt but her bit of brass, now Father’s gone.’
‘Anyway, let us return to the matter in hand,’ Charlotte said wisely. ‘I think Willie’s solution is best. Are you to approach her, Willie?’
‘Are you saying that I should, Dick?’
‘Aye, you’re the talker, Will. I’m no hand at saying owt.’
‘Then shall we consult her now, at Quincey Place?’ William asked. ‘And tomorrow afternoon I can take her over to Upperton, and Ellis Field will come with us. Then we’ll sup at Kit’s Hill in the evening, Dick, and work out the plans.’
‘Aye, right you are!’ said Dick, astonished at the rapidity with which his problems were being solved. ‘But suppose as she don’t like the idea? I shouldn’t want her to think as I were pushing her out. Father wouldn’t have wanted that, neither.’
‘Yes, do take care not to hurt her, Willie!’ Charlotte cautioned.
‘Oh, hurt her, fiddlesticks! The notion will fetch her alive again. And we have the summer before us. Let Mrs Dorcas but think that she will be in her own home by Christmas, and we shall see a new woman. Besides, I shall offer the welfare of the future villagers to her, as another bait!’
‘But will Zelah not wish to take care of your people?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Why, Zelah will have her nursery to rule for the next ten years, by which time Mrs Dorcas should have had enough of Upperton’s problem! Well, if you think not, then she shall discuss the village plans with Ellis Field.’
‘But will Mr Field want that, Willie?’
‘They will all work very well together,’ he said cheerfully, but there was an obstinacy in his countenance which forbade further objections on her part. ‘Come, Dick, unless you want to ride home in the dark!’
‘Nay,’ said Dick, leaving his sister’s parlour with relief, ‘you’ll run ten mile afore I’ve set out, our Will! I’ve never knowed anybody like you, except our mother!’
He shook his head from side to side, and chuckled, looking so like Ned for a moment that the other two were silenced, remembering.
‘I thank you both heartily,’ said Dick, shaking their hands. ‘I can’t frame what I feel, but I’m beholden to you. If ever I can do owt you’ve only to let me know. Me and Alice!’ He was free. He said quietly, ‘We could get wed come Christmas.’
William clapped him on the shoulder. Charlotte kissed his cheek and hugged him.
‘I never asked how Zelah was, neither,’ Dick reproached himself. ‘Coming in full of trouble, and thinking nowt of other folks. How’s the lass keeping?’
‘Oh, she is great with child, and very well. Come and see her for yourself. We think it will be a son this time.’
‘So long as she’s safe,’ said Dick, and silenced them again.
He turned his unfashionable hat round and round in his big hands.
‘We planted ‘taters in Sluther, and turnips in Breakneck!’ he said, and paused again.
‘Wilts do summat else for us?’ he asked, shame-faced, shifting from foot to foot. ‘Wilta tell Mother about Alice and me, our William?’
*
‘I found, upon consulting the title-deeds, that your particular piece of land at Upperton was called Bracelet, Mrs Dorcas,’ said Ellis Field.
He was in full flight, taking this small project in his course, as it were, after an excellent supper.
‘And Bracelet means “a broad meadow”. Of course, we think of the word as an item of jewellery. What harm in that, we might well say? Shall the house not be a jewel when we have done with her? We shall knock down the out-buildings, of course. Build on a kitchen, to take away the four-square appearance, and give more space. Put a small conservatory at the side which faces south. Knock down the wall between the present parlour and kitchen and make one long living-room, and enlarge the windows at either end. Then you have a house large enough to accommodate a guest or two, as well as yourself and a small staff, Mrs Dorcas.
‘With regard to the land around it, there is no need to call in our excellent Mr Stirling — our sterling Mr Stirling! Ha, ha! — no, no. Any labourer could dig and lay out a garden for you in a week or two. A handkerchief of lawn with a border of rose-trees at the front; a little kitchen garden sufficient for your wan
ts at the back. You yourself have an artistic, an unerring eye for what is needed, ma’am. Shall we keep the trees on the far side? I think we shall! Noble plants, and such useful windbreaks in this wild country. Later, if you wish, we could lay a flagged path, make a pretty arched bower, put a small statue on a pedestal — something of that sort.
‘And now we come to the name of the house. Upperton Lodge? Too heavy. Honeysuckle Cottage? Too sugary. Arbour Farm End? Nonsense! This is a new beginning, ma’am. Simply, we would suggest — Bracelet! … ’
And he bowed very low, as to a very great lady.
*
‘I’ve fetched your chocolate myself, Mrs Howarth, begging your pardon, because I wondered if I might have a word with you,’ said Nellie, and closed the parlour door behind her.
‘Sit down, my dear,’ said Dorcas.
Her hair was whiter, her back thinner and more rigidly straight, but the quick keen way in which she looked over her spectacles indicated some degree of recovery.
‘It’s about you leaving, ma’am, and Mr Dick getting wed,’ Nellie began.
Dorcas folded her hands and inclined her head.
‘And it’s about me and — Tom Cartwright!’
Dorcas’s smile was delightfully questioning. Nellie’s glance confirmed her hopes.
‘Aye, well, I shall feel proper daft telling folks, after all this long while,’ said Nellie, smiling, busy smoothing her immaculate apron, ‘but Tom and me wanted you to be the first to know we’re getting wed, Mrs Howarth. We’re neither of us spring chickens. I’m nodding at fifty, and he’s seen the last of sixty, but we suit each other, and if anybody wants to laugh they’re welcome! We’st slip off, quiet-like, one morning, and parson’ll do the rest.’
They were both so pleased with the news that they half laughed at one another.
‘Oh, but we must think of your wedding, too, Nellie,’ said Dorcas.
Half a dozen kindly little plans came to mind. Particularly as Dick’s wedding-breakfast had nothing to do with her, but was being triumphantly hatched by Mary Braithwaite-Wharmby, up at Windygate.