It Happened At Christmas (Anthology)

by Penny Jordan

  Luke stared at her. She was wearing a blue linen dress that she had made with some material his mother had put by before she had become sick. His mother liked giving Connie and her family things, and she treated them differently from anyone else on the farm. It had been she who had suggested Flora and the lads join Connie in the farmhouse kitchen for their dinner each night, rather than Connie having to nip backwards and forwards to the cottage preparing and cooking the meal. She wouldn’t have dreamt of allowing such familiarity with any other of their workers, though some of them had been with them from birth, and their parents before them. Part of him was glad his mother saw Connie as being different and got on so well with her. The other part of him was terrified by it. The larger part.

  He blinked, aware she was waiting for a reply, and said quickly, ‘I’ll have a cup with my mother, thank you, Connie. I wanted to ask you how you think she’s coped with coming downstairs from when you sat with her.’ It was a lie. What he’d done was to give in to the overwhelming impulse that came on him at times just to look at her and have her look at him with her full attention. The knowledge of his weakness and the power, albeit unknown to her, that it gave her over him made his voice curter when he added, ‘Did she appear breathless, for instance? Or in any way distressed?’

  ‘No, she didn’t appear breathless. Just very happy to be in her garden. I think she is becoming resigned to the fact that she won’t be able to do what she once did, even when she’s fully better.’ Connie’s voice became more animated as she went on, ‘I think it would lift her spirits if she could be out in the garden more when the weather’s fine enough. Perhaps Jacob could make a table and another bench to go with the first? That way she could entertain visitors out there, and even perhaps have her meals in the sunshine if she so wishes.’

  Her concern for his mother’s well-being probed a fresh depth of pain in him. She wasn’t like Christabel, he knew that, so why the hell did he become more panicky the more she became entwined in their lives? He knew his treatment of her wasn’t right, but he didn’t seem able to help himself pushing her away. The tension in his body held him stiff as he said, ‘I’ll have a word with Jacob this morning.’

  Connie nodded. He looked big and dark and broodingly handsome as he stood watching her. She wondered what was going on in his mind. He was a deeply unhappy man, that was obvious, but then who wouldn’t be if they lost the woman they loved and adored and their baby son in one fell swoop? Her thoughts softened her voice and—unbeknown to her—brought a tender light to her eyes as she said, ‘I think your mother is going to be fine, sir, and I’ll make sure she doesn’t do too much when she’s up and about properly again.’

  Sir. Mr Hudson or sir had become increasingly irritating and painful of late. He wanted to hear her say his name. He didn’t want a reminder of the chasm that was between them when she spoke. And yet, no, he had to be honest with himself here. It was a chasm of his own making. Oh, there might be a few eyebrows raised if he defied convention and introduced her into so-called polite society. Whispers, gossip, tittering behind closed doors. The world in general would think he was a fool, most likely, in associating with a woman they considered to be below their class, but he had never worried about what people thought. It would only touch him if it touched and hurt her. He knew this. But here on the farm she would be protected from the worst of it. The farm was a world in itself, after all.

  ‘Connie—’ He stopped abruptly. He couldn’t take that one step which would bring this thing that was between them into the light. And she felt something for him beyond gratitude. He felt it in his very bones, his whole being. But once he began down that path the inevitable conclusion would be making her his own—and not in a hole-and-corner affair either. It would be marriage or nothing for her. Her parents had brought her up well. And so it was impossible. He could not—he would not—lay himself open to being manipulated and used again. The first time he had been swept away in the throes of boyish adulation and infatuation. That was his only excuse for the disaster which had been his marriage, a disaster which ultimately had taken the life of the one innocent being in all of it.

  As the silence stretched and lengthened between them, Connie said tentatively, ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll go and have a word with Jacob now while you cook the scones.’ She wasn’t like Christabel—but then Christabel had been sweet-tempered and amiable before they had become man and wife. Women could do that—become whatever a man desired them to be until they had got what they wanted. If he had been taken in so completely once there was no reason it couldn’t happen again, and he would rather slit his own throat than risk that hell on earth again.

  He turned away, his mental anguish concealed behind an expressionless mask, and walked out of the kitchen.

  When he joined his mother in the garden she smiled at him, patting the space beside her on the bench as she said, ‘Come and sit in the sunshine awhile. This bench is so comfortable I could stay here all day. And I feel so well, Luke. Really.’

  ‘You’re certainly looking much better.’ Luke sat down, stretching out his long legs. ‘And the fresh air will do you good.”

  ‘I feel much better, but then with Connie caring for me so well how could it be otherwise? It was a good day’s work when you brought her here, Luke. But then you know that. And those brothers and sister of hers are good little folk too. Hard workers, the lot of them. They’re a nice family altogether, don’t you think?’

  He nodded, but said nothing. His mother often came out with things like this. He knew she didn’t understand his attitude to Connie. More than once she had complained she thought he was a trifle chilly with her. He never defended himself at these times. How could he? His mother was justified in her gentle accusations.

  He allowed a few moments to go by, and then began to talk of farm matters, knowing it pleased her when he involved her. They were still chatting quietly when Connie arrived with the tea and scones, which she served quickly before going indoors again.

  The scones were delicious. Everything Connie cooked was delicious. He couldn’t fault her. And therein lay the problem. No one was that perfect. He just didn’t believe it.

  He glanced at his mother, and as she caught the look she said, ‘What? What is it? What’s the matter, Luke?’

  He didn’t say what was in his heart because he knew that if he did she’d defend Connie to the hilt. His mother was like that—where she loved, she loved, and where she hated, she hated. She had hated Christabel after Jack had been born and his wife had rejected their son so completely, and she’d made no secret of the fact. It hadn’t made life any easier, but he’d understood it.

  He shrugged, his voice slightly teasing as he said lazily, ‘Can’t I look at my own mother? Even a cat can look at a Queen, you know. And you’re a bonny sight, when all’s said and done.’

  ‘Oh, you.’ His mother nudged him with her elbow before reaching for another scone, smiling at him as she did so.

  Luke returned the smile, but he felt no amusement inside. Not that that was unusual. Laughter, gladness, joy had all been wiped out two years ago, and the intervening months had not changed this. He could now take some form of pleasure in ordinary mundane things—a tasty well-cooked meal, a fine wine, the feel of a nicely cut coat—but these were things that touched his body and senses, not his emotions. And he wanted it to remain that way. It would remain that way.

  He wiped his fingers on the napkin Connie had provided and stood up, looking over his fields where the blackbirds and thrushes and meadowlarks sang their refrains.

  No good would come out of letting himself feel again. The paroxysm of grief that had taken him after Jack’s death had both shocked and horrified him with its intensity. He had lost control, he’d been powerless against the feelings that had reduced him to crying like a child. He had felt so ashamed in the following weeks and months, humiliated and mortified. Grown men did not cry, whatever the reason, and yet for some ti
me in the quiet of the night he had not been able to stop. And he’d despised himself.

  ‘I’m going into town later.’ He glanced down at his mother and she nodded. ‘Is there anything you particularly want me to buy after I’ve finished at the bank? A magazine? Some chocolate?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Her gaze had drifted to the flowers and her voice was uninterested, almost vacant, when she added, ‘But check with Connie. She’ll know.’

  Luke’s mouth thinned. He wanted to say, I don’t want to ask Connie. I’m asking you. And don’t forget that Connie is our housekeeper, nothing more. If she wanted to up and leave tomorrow she would be at liberty to do so. There is nothing tying her to us. But then he glanced down at his mother’s feet. Her ankles overflowed her soft slippers. The swelling which had come with the first attack seemed to get worse month by month. In spite of the fact her appetite had picked up and her breathing was easier, she was far from well.

  Impulsively he bent and kissed the top of her head before walking away—not to the house but to the stables. There he saddled Ebony himself, reflecting that had it been in his power he would have galloped over the sun-drenched fields spreading away from the farm for ever. But he had responsibilities, obligations—not merely to his mother but to the families who worked for him, who had been part of the farm for generations. They all looked to him for their livelihood and he could not do as he pleased.

  He directed Ebony to a corner of the farm where he knew Jacob was working, giving him the order regarding the table and bench before making for the fields, where he let the horse have its head and gallop in the sunshine. It felt good to have the wind rushing through his hair and to feel part of all he surveyed, but of late it had not provided the satisfaction it once had. He was becoming more at odds with himself all the time, and he didn’t like that. He didn’t like it at all. It had to stop.

  He inclined his head to the thought before smiling sourly. How the hell that was going to be accomplished was quite another thing.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CONNIE walked out of the farmhouse with Flora at her side, straw bonnets on their heads and their arms weighed down with the food and drink in the huge baskets they were carrying. It was haymaking time, and everyone on the farm from the youngest to the oldest was lending a hand with the harvest. She had been baking all morning to provide the workers with their lunch of slabs of fruit loaves and wedges of cheese, all washed down with beer or cold tea, and milk for the children.

  The fields were lit with a golden haze as they approached, and everyone was hard at work, the warm air carrying an intoxicating fragrance as the men’s scythes and the women’s sickles did their job. Little hedgerow birds flitted hither and thither over the workers’ heads, anxious to whittle out their tiny share of whatever was going, and the harvest mice scurried away to hide till night-time.

  The summer had been a hot one, and the harvest was good, but the old timers had sensed a storm brewing in the last twenty-four hours or so, and Connie knew Luke was anxious to get the harvest safely gathered in. Her eyes had searched for him as she and Flora had neared the others, and she saw him at the far end of one of the fields almost immediately, his tall frame and jet-black hair standing out against the other men. As she neared him she felt her heart miss a beat or two. He was dressed more casually than usual, even when working out in the fields, his corduroy trousers tucked in calf-length leather boots and his white shirt open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up. At some point he must have discarded his waistcoat and hat.

  Her mouth had gone dry by the time she reached Luke and Jacob, who were using a horse-drawn machine to gather together the crop in readiness for stacking it in sheaves. His open-necked shirt showed the springy black hair of his chest, which was just as soft and luxuriant on his forearms, powerful muscles rippling under the thin cotton as he controlled the massive shire horses.

  He looked hard and tough and uncompromisingly virile—utterly at ease with his own body, Connie thought shakily. She, on the other hand, hardly knew where to look—which was stupid, so stupid. He was fully clothed and quite decent. It wasn’t as though she had walked in on him in a state of undress or something. Just the thought brought a rush of burning colour into her cheeks which she hoped everyone would put down to the heatwave they were enjoying. She pulled her bonnet more firmly on her head.

  Flora having taken her basket to the workers in the neighbouring field, Connie proceeded to unpack her own supply of food and drink, which brought everyone to her—Alice Todd included.

  She might have known the buxom blonde would have engineered things so she was working close to Luke, and she didn’t feel it was an accident that Alice’s blouse had a couple of buttons missing at the neck, so the soft swell of her breasts was visible. Connie masked her thoughts with a smile as she handed everyone their lunch, glancing at Luke and Jacob, who had just finished walking the horses. Jacob joined Rose, who was sitting some distance away, and Connie walked over to Luke, who had flung himself down on the ground near the horses, her heart racing.

  ‘This is welcome.’ He smiled up at her, the grey eyes glittering in the bright sunlight. ‘My tongue has been sticking to the roof of my mouth the last hour.’ He took the food and flagon of beer she proffered, but when she would have turned away said, ‘Sit a while and wait for everyone to finish. It will save you making another journey shortly.’

  Connie stared at him, taken aback. Since the beginning of the harvest two days before she had returned for the empty tin jugs and flagons after an hour or so, when work had resumed in the fields. Feeling a mite self-conscious, she did as he bid, folding her dress round her knees so only the tips of her boots were visible. He drank with gusto, and had eaten half of the fruit loaf she’d give him before he settled back on his elbow, his gaze holding hers, as he said, ‘This is one of those rare blue and golden days which sometimes come at this time of the year. Do you know what I mean?’

  She nodded, blushing slightly as she said, ‘My da used to call a day like this an Eden day.’ He raised his dark eyebrows enquiringly and she went on. ‘Working under the ground as he did, Sundays were the only days he really saw the sun for any length of time, but he loved the outdoors. He always imagined the Garden of Eden must have been like a summer’s day when the trees are greenest, the sky bluest and the clouds most snowy white.’

  ‘I know exactly what he meant.’ Luke paused. ‘He must have found it hard to be shut away from the light all day, feeling like he did. Did he ever talk about doing something else?’

  Connie shook her head. ‘My grandfather and great-grandfather were miners; it was expected he would go down the pit. I’m just glad Tommy, David and Ronnie don’t have to follow him down now, because they would have. There were two other lads born after me and before Flora, but they died in infancy, otherwise they’d have been down the mine too. But my da never let it get him down. He used to say—’ She stopped, embarrassed, suddenly aware the two of them were sitting talking quietly away from the others as though they had conversations like this all the time. Which they didn’t.

  ‘What did your father say?’ He had sat up, his knees bent as he leant forward, his rugged, handsome face curious.

  ‘Just that he felt he saw more on the one day God allowed him above ground than others saw who were above ground every day of the week. Just as there’s no rest without toil, no peace without war, no day without night, no true joy in life without grief, so there can be no real appreciation without need and desire. That’s…that’s what he used to say,’ she finished awkwardly, becoming aware he was looking at her in an odd fashion.

  He sat quite still, staring at her for a full ten seconds. Something—she wasn’t sure what—had thickened his voice when he said, ‘And what if the toil or the darkness of the night or…the grief blinds you to what follows it? What then?’

  She looked back at him, and her eyes were very blue and steady beneath her straw bonnet. ‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘Except everyone has an
element of choice, don’t they?’

  ‘You think so?’ His voice was harsher. ‘You really believe it?’

  Sensing his displeasure, she put her chin up a notch. ‘Aye, I do. The way I see it, life is a constant stream of choices till we die.’

  ‘Like you had a choice when you had to work in that factory?’

  He was deliberately misunderstanding her. Taking her courage in both hands, Connie said, even more quietly, ‘It wasn’t the workhouse, though, was it? And I thank God for it.’

  ‘Coming from the situation you found yourself in, I find it difficult to fathom how you can believe every cloud has a silver lining.’ His tone was contemptuous, even mocking.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ As once before she forgot he was her employer, and master of the farm, her voice low but angry when she said, ‘And having seen inside the workhouse I never would—because if ever there is a place without hope or joy, it’s there. But I tell you one thing.’ She fixed her eyes on him and they were dark with the force of her feelings. ‘If you never have to fear that place then there is something to be thankful for every day, and I don’t care who you are.’

  For a long moment their eyes held, and Connie felt the temperature drop by ten degrees. Unable to stand it a second longer, she rose hastily to her feet and without a word left him, her hands trembling as she carried the empty basket home. Fancy her daring to say all that to him. She must have been mad. What if he took umbrage and threw her and the others out of the cottage? But, no—no, he wouldn’t do that. But the way she had spoken to him…She groaned inwardly. How was she going to face him again? He’d be furious with her. She should have apologised before she left. She doubted even his mother would have spoken to him in the tone of voice she had used. In fact she was sure she wouldn’t.

  Once in the farmhouse, she leant against the scullery sink, her mind going over their conversation again and again until, after some minutes, she straightened. He had obviously taken what she’d said personally, which was why he had got so mad, but she hadn’t actually been preaching at him, if that was what he thought. And—her mouth firmed—she had only said the truth after all. It must have been terrible, awful, for him to lose his wife and baby like he had, and she wasn’t belittling his loss, but if he couldn’t see he was better off than those poor souls in the workhouse…And then she groaned again, holding herself round the middle as she swayed back and forth. How could you measure the sort of grief he must have felt—what he was still feeling—against anything else? You couldn’t. That was the thing.