A Crimson Dawn

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘And eat as much as you like in the refectory,’ Mabel added eagerly. ‘Mrs Mousy is an excellent cook.’

  Emmie beamed. ‘That’s grand. I’ll start right away.’

  It was dark by the time Emmie wheeled the bike back into the village. Helen was watching out anxiously, convinced she had had an accident. Flopping in exhaustion into a chair by the fire, Emmie gabbled about her first day at work.

  Helen looked at her wistfully. ‘You’re not ganin’ to live down there, are you? You’re not unhappy here?’

  ‘Course not!’ Emmie exclaimed. ‘This is me home. But there aren’t the jobs here for lasses. And I want to work at the Settlement. It’s grand what they’re doing - helpin’ the working class. We’re ganin’ to make a difference.’

  Jonas and Helen exchanged glances. Jonas laid a hand on Emmie’s head and nodded.

  ‘Oh, lassie, I’m proud of you.’

  Chapter 7

  Flora made umpteen excuses not to go to Blackton Heights with Charles. She could not leave her practice. She could not leave Nell for two days after the last time, when she had drunk a bottle of sherry and been sick and ruined her only valuable Persian carpet.

  ‘You don’t need me there,’ Flora said in panic.

  ‘I want you there,’ Charles laughed. ‘Sophie wants you.’

  ‘Your father detests me,’ Flora retorted. ‘He blames me for Sophie’s pleurisy yet won’t let me near her, as if I’m not a proper doctor. And I had no idea she was going campaigning round the mining villages.’

  ‘He doesn’t blame you,’ Charles insisted. ‘Anyway, he’ll be in a good mood because Hauxley got in.’

  Flora looked at him and sighed. When he smiled at her like that it felt churlish to refuse. He worked so hard for others, day and night, that she did not want to spoil his brief respite in the country. She knew that, despite his complaints about his father and his obscene wealth, Charles loved him and his old home. He always looked younger and more relaxed as soon as he was back on the fell, walking the grounds with the major’s dogs.

  And he liked to sit in his mother’s sunny bedroom, chatting quietly about life and work with his reclusive mother in a way he never could with his father.

  Flora also knew that the only reason Charles asked her was to have someone else there to deflect his father’s criticisms at his lack of ambition. It would be two days of relentless pressure from Major James on Charles to give up his mission work and be groomed as heir to Blackton Heights and its business interests.

  ‘If you won’t end up a canon at Durham Cathedral,’ Major James had said on one occasion, ‘then the Church be damned! You’ll come home and learn to be a country gentleman.’

  Flora groaned at the thought of two days in the company of the blustering, bullying, hard-drinking major. Over all of them would hang the ghost of Charles’s older brother, Liddon, the dashing officer killed in Africa, to whom Charles could never compare in his father’s eyes. Yet she would do it for Charles. They might never be more than colleagues and confidants, but he was her closest friend and she would do anything for him.

  They were met at the station by a noisy hooting. Major James was behind the wheel of his brand-new blue and green Rolls-Royce. Flora steeled herself to be civil.

  ‘Charles, my boy!’ He greeted his son with a clap on the back. He nodded at Flora but no hand was extended. She forced a smile, ignoring his rudeness.

  ‘Jump in, jump in,’ he ordered. ‘Charles, you must sit in the front so I can show you the controls.’

  They bumped over the rough road up to Blackton village and on towards the Heights. Flora was feeling queasy and cold by the time they reached the mansion. She was happy to be shown to her room and lie down. Sophie sought her out before tea.

  ‘I thought you were ill in bed?’ Flora said in surprise. ‘I was going to come and see you.’

  Sophie rolled her eyes. ‘A little cold, that’s all it was. Papa made such a fuss. Wanted to know everything about the escapade - even demanded the name of the kind family who took me in.’

  ‘The MacRaes?’ Flora asked in concern.

  ‘Yes. He ranted on about them as if it had been their fault. Said they’re a bunch of revolutionaries and if he could rid the village of them he would. When he starts on one of his rants, there’s no reasoning with him. Mama is the only one who can soothe him. I just seem to make him crosser.’

  ‘Have you any idea why your father has summoned Charles?’ Flora asked anxiously.

  Sophie shook her head. ‘But he’s up to something. The Hauxleys are being invited over for dinner and he knows Charles can’t stand them.’

  Flora groaned.

  ‘It’s all right for you!’ Sophie exclaimed. ‘Papa’s been trying to marry me off to Captain Arthur since I was in the nursery. He and Liddon served in Africa together, so he can do no wrong.’

  ‘Is Arthur as pompous as his father?’ Flora grimaced.

  ‘No, he’s too dull to be pompous.’

  Flora laughed. ‘Oh, poor Charles. At least we women can escape to the drawing room when they bring out the port.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t leave me alone with the captain?’ Sophie ordered.

  ‘Promise,’ Flora agreed. ‘We suffragists will stick together.’

  Sophie laughed and hugged her in affection.

  ***

  The dining room was thick with cigar smoke. Charles felt sleepy after the gargantuan meal and wished he could join the women in the airy drawing room. His father was patting his large belly in contentment, laughing over some story of Reginald Hauxley’s from the magistrates’ court where he was a JP. Charles was not fooled by the man’s casual air. He was a shrewd businessman who had made a fortune in shipping, bought a large estate adjoining Blackton Heights and embarked, single-mindedly, on a career in politics.

  Earlier, Sophie had taken their neighbour to task about his opposition to women’s emancipation, despite thunderous looks from their father. Surprisingly, Arthur had supported her and averted a full-scale row at table. Whether the quiet captain had done so out of conviction or admiration for Sophie, Charles was not sure. Still, he envied Sophie her courage in speaking her mind and not caring for the consequences. He was always one to avoid confrontations and let differing opinions go unchallenged.

  Which was why he was stifling a yawn, rather than joining in the older men’s banter about the feckless poor and how they should all be conscripted into the army or navy.

  ‘Well, tell him, Reginald,’ Major James ordered, refilling his port glass.

  Charles was suddenly aware they were all looking at him. He roused himself. Reginald fixed him with a look.

  ‘The parish of Blackton and Ongarfield is soon to become vacant. The vicar is retiring. As you know, the parish straddles your father’s estates and mine. We are looking to call a young, enthusiastic man to fill the vacancy. Someone who knows the area and its needs.’ Reginald smiled knowingly.

  ‘It would provide a very good living,’ his father enthused. ‘Three pits in the parish, and a levy on every tub of coal goes to the vicar. It would tide you over well until you inherit the estate.’

  Charles stared at them, his instinct telling him to say no at once.

  Reginald continued persuasively, ‘In such a large rural parish there would be much to do - caring for the needs of farm labourers and miners.’

  ‘Setting them a good example,’ Major James added, ‘keeping them on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘Social concerns,’ Reginald murmured.

  ‘Time you stopped this mission business. You’re thirty-three,’ his father said bluntly. ‘It’s time you were looking to your responsibilities.’

  ‘Responsibilities?’ Charles bristled.

  ‘Yes, to your family - your position. You should be settling down and marrying. Blackton Heights needs an heir.’

  Charles reddened. ‘I feel called to work at the mission.’

  Major James thumped the table with impatience, but Regina
ld cut in quickly.

  ‘Charles, what you do is admirable. But I can see how it is taking its toll on your health. Isn’t it time to leave the mission to someone else? And there is so much you could do to better the lives of the common people around Blackton.’

  Arthur piped up unexpectedly, ‘It would be good to have you back, Charles. You’re like me - this place is in your blood.’

  Charles glanced at him in surprise. Perhaps there was more to Arthur than he had thought. What he said hit a nerve. He was never more at home than striding out across the moors under a vast open sky, free as the skylarks that sang above.

  ‘All we are asking is that you consider the vacancy,’ Reginald said reasonably. ‘You will need time to think it over.’

  Charles nodded. He would discuss it with Flora. He trusted her judgement above all.

  The following morning, Charles declined his father’s invitation to go out with the guns and dogs. Major James grumbled in annoyance.

  ‘I’m taking Flora for a walk around Ongarfield,’ Charles quickly explained, ‘to have a look at the parish.’ That silenced his father’s protests, as he knew it would.

  They climbed to the top of the fell, beyond the estate boundary, above the disused lead-mine workings and gazed about. Below, smoke wafted from isolated pit villages and the vast woods of Blackton Heights sighed in the blustery April breeze. On the lip of the horizon was the village of Ongarfield, solid stone houses gathered around a picturesque Norman church and a strip of green sward. Charles explained about Hauxley’s proposal.

  ‘The vicarage is in Ongarfield - a pretty little village.’ Charles pointed it out. ‘And far enough away from Blackton Heights not to be bumping into my father daily,’ he smiled.

  ‘You’re tempted?’ Flora asked, trying to hide her dismay.

  ‘It’s a large parish - there would be much to do.’ His expression was eager. Flora said nothing. ‘What do you think?’

  Flora faced him. ‘Wouldn’t you run the risk of your father - or Hauxley - interfering in anything you did? You would be Hauxley’s appointee - he’d expect something in return - toeing the party line in the pulpit, perhaps.’

  Charles looked hurt. ‘You think I’d compromise my principles for Hauxley?’

  ‘That’s not what I said,’ Flora answered. ‘I’m merely pointing out that there will be great pressure on you to agree with their beliefs - their way of running things.’

  ‘Such as?’ Charles asked in irritation.

  ‘Such as not siding with their employees - the pitmen, the field hands - in any dispute. In not championing women’s right to vote,’ Flora said pointedly.

  Charles flushed. ‘You think I’m that weak?’

  Flora was frank. ‘No, I think you’re too nice not to be browbeaten by their bullying.’

  Charles stared off into the distance, his lips pressed tight in annoyance. Flora felt a pang of sympathy.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charles, I didn’t mean to offend. But you did ask my opinion.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘I know you love it up here, but that’s not enough. You have to decide why you really want to come back. Is it because you feel called to do this job? Or are you, deep down, just trying to please your parents - make up for not being Liddon?’

  He gave her a sharp, pained look.

  ‘Dear Charles,’ she urged, ‘think about the Settlement. What you do there is worth the work of ten parishes. But if you feel you have done all you can there, and that you can do as much or more for the people of Blackton and Ongarfield, then do it. For you have many great gifts and you would be generous with them, I know. But put the people first, not any desire to please your father - because sooner or later you will clash with him. And when that time comes, you’ll have to be strong enough to stand your ground.’

  Charles regarded her from under a mop of tousled blond hair, his look bashful and unsure.

  ‘Flora …’

  She waited, convinced he was going to choose the parish over the Settlement. She could not imagine life in Gateshead without him, but if that was his choice she would do nothing more to dissuade him.

  ‘If I took the parish… would you… could you see yourself. . . would you like …?’

  ‘What, Charles? Would I what?’

  ‘Marry me?’ he blurted out, blushing furiously.

  She stared at him, in open-mouthed amazement. This was the last thing she expected to be asked. Often she had daydreamt of him proposing, but had thought it would never happen. For a moment she allowed herself to revel in the idea. Mrs Charles Oliphant; living in the large Georgian vicarage at Ongarfield, receiving the gentry of the county in her drawing room with a view over the fells. There would be visits to the sick and needy too, but it would be a life cosseted by her husband’s comfortable stipend, and in time she would become lady of Blackton Heights. Endless days with Charles, with maybe a child before it was too late…

  ‘Oh, dear, sweet Charles,’ she smiled at him regretfully, ‘you are the only man I have ever held in such affection. But I couldn’t be part of all this.’ She swept her hands at the surrounding fells. ‘I would soon tire of presiding over the teapot - would miss my practice and my work in Gateshead. I’d become intolerable to live with and you’d very soon rue ever asking me. And I could not live in your father’s shadow. He would never accept me. Look for someone younger, Charles, more acceptable as a vicar’s wife.’

  Charles looked away, trying to hide the hurt of her rejection. He forced a laugh.

  ‘Well, I’m not having much luck in persuading you to my way of thinking, am I? No to the parish, no to marriage. The old Oliphant charm not working any more?’

  Flora smiled, relieved he was taking it light-heartedly. Perhaps he had never really meant it seriously.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the Oliphant charm,’ she answered, squeezing his arm. ‘But the decision to come here must be yours, Charles, and yours only.’

  They returned to the mansion, saying little. Charles cursed himself for having spoiled their walk with his impulsive marriage proposal. Why had he said it? He had hardly thought of marriage up till now. Perhaps he had asked her so that she would share the burden of his decision-making? If so, she had seen right through it.

  Flora gazed about her as they descended down the steep moorside and into the newly budding trees. This would probably be the last time she came here, or enjoyed this quiet countryside with Charles. They had passed from the stage of being companions to that of rejected suitors. However brave a face he put on things, she had hurt his pride. She longed to tell him how much she wanted to be his wife, yet would do nothing to sway his future. No matter how deeply she cared for him, she knew she could not give up who she was, or change to please his ghastly father.

  When they returned, Charles disappeared to his mother’s quarters and did not appear at afternoon tea.

  ‘He’ll be discussing the details of Hauxley’s offer,’ the major said in satisfaction. ‘Charles will want to please his mother.’ He gave Flora a hard look. ‘I hope you’re in favour of my son taking such a worthwhile position, Miss Jameson?’

  Flora swallowed her irritation at his deliberate refusal to call her ‘Doctor’.

  ‘That is entirely up to Charles, Mr Oliphant,’ she replied, noticing with satisfaction how he scowled at not being called ‘Major’ and turned his back to speak to Sophie.

  She sat tensely, under the scrutinising gaze of Liddon’s portrait that hung in pride of place over the large marble fireplace. A handsome, solemn young man in uniform. If only he had lived, Flora thought sadly, then Charles would have been free of his father’s frantic ambitions. But perhaps not. Charles would never be free of such a controlling man, she realised.

  All at once, Flora had had enough. The major would continue to ignore her, or make petty jibes at her expense. Charles no longer needed her. She stood up.

  ‘I wonder if I could trouble you to give me a lift to the station?’

  The major and Sophie stared in surprise. />
  ‘You can’t go home yet,’ Sophie protested.

  ‘I want to be back for my surgery in the morning,’ Flora said quickly.

  ‘As you wish,’ the major said, waving her away. ‘Thompson can take you down in the trap.’

  ‘But, Papa—’ Sophie began to protest.

  ‘If Miss Jameson wants to go, we’ll not stop her,’ he said, not bothering to hide his contempt.

  Flora hurried off to pack her bags, scrawling a note of apology to Charles. In twenty minutes she was jostling in the open carriage on her way to the station to catch the six o’clock train back to Gateshead.

  Charles came downstairs to find Sophie sulking in the library, a rug wrapped around her knees.

  ‘Where’s Flora?’

  ‘Gone. Have you two had a row or something?’ Sophie demanded.

  Charles flushed. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

  ‘Caught-the-train-home kind of gone,’ Sophie said sharply. ‘Pleased Papa, of course. But how dull for me with no one to talk to at dinner about anything interesting.’

  ‘Did she say why?’ Charles demanded.

  ‘Left you this,’ Sophie said, waving Flora’s note. Charles took it quickly and read.

  Dear Charles,

  Forgive me for rushing away - I know it’s cowardly. But you need time to consider things alone, or with your family. I can’t be part of your decision. I have much with which to be getting on and am not good at sitting around pretending to be leisured! Whatever you decide, be assured you have my full support and good wishes.

  Flora

  Charles crumpled the note and threw it on the fire. He ran his hands through his wiry hair.

  ‘Good wishes! The infuriating woman,’ he cried.

  His father walked in at that moment. ‘Talking about Miss Jameson?’ he grunted. ‘My sentiments indeed. Don’t worry, she’s gone.’

  ‘Papa!’ Sophie remonstrated. ‘She’s our friend.’

  ‘She’s a bad influence,’ he scoffed. ‘Your mother and I worry about the ideas she puts in your head. Look where it gets you - chased by pitmen into the lions’ den of troublemakers, the MacRaes.’