Tangled Threads

by Margaret Dickinson

  Her spirits lifted at the mere thought of seeing him again. It seemed an age since he had held her and kissed her and now she needed the comfort of his arms as never before. Her steps quickened and her heart felt lighter than it had done since that dreadful moment when she had found her father face down in the beck.

  Stephen, Stephen, her heart sang. He would help her. She must find him.

  ‘I’m afraid master Stephen is not available,’ the manservant answering the front door at Fairfield House informed her in pompous tones. Then he leant forward and hissed at her. ‘And you should have gone round to the back door.’

  Eveleen stood her ground. ‘Where is he?’

  The man, whose name Eveleen knew to be Tomkins, straightened up and adopted his formal manner again. ‘I am afraid I am not aware of Master Stephen’s whereabouts.’ Once more, he dropped the pose. ‘And I wouldn’t tell the likes of you, if I was.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Eveleen said tartly and turned away. She skirted the big house and crossed the yard at the back. Passing through the kitchen gardens she entered the field at the back of the house. Shading her eyes, she scanned the scene before her. Below her to the left, was the beck and beyond it the field leading to Pear Tree Farm. To the right the land rose to Bernby Covert.

  Maybe he was there, waiting for her.

  Eveleen picked up her skirts and began to run.

  She had waited over an hour. The sun had gone and a chill wind rustled through the trees. Eveleen rubbed her arms and emerged from the wood. She would have to go home. She had stayed here too long already.

  I should have tried the barn, she thought. Maybe he’s there.

  She turned and went back through the trees to the road, crossed it into Long Meadow and began to run, stumbling on the uneven ground.

  Panting, she arrived at the door, but the only sound that greeted her was the loose board rattling in the breeze. She waited a few minutes and then went back to the road. She crossed the tiny bridge over the beck and turned towards her own home.

  ‘I’ll go there this afternoon. Maybe he’ll be waiting for me then,’ she promised herself.

  But Stephen was not at the barn that afternoon either.

  After evening milking, Eveleen put on her Sunday best dress and bonnet. She stood in front of her mother, expecting a tirade. Mary, staring into the fire, did not seem to notice and when Eveleen said, ‘I won’t be long, Mam,’ her mother did not even raise her head or speak.

  Eveleen sighed inwardly and closed the door quietly. It was starting to rain and by the time she reached Fairfield House, her shawl was soaking and her bonnet ruined. Standing in the warm kitchen, she felt the eyes of the servants on her.

  Proudly, she raised her head. ‘I wish to speak to Master Stephen, if you please.’

  ‘Not looking like that, you won’t.’ The manservant she had seen earlier was carrying huge silver salvers into the kitchen, presumably, Eveleen thought, from the dining room after the family’s evening meal.

  Two maids, scurrying about at the man’s bidding, giggled, hiding their smirks behind their hands.

  Eveleen shot them a withering glance and said stiffly, ‘I can hardly help the weather. My boots, though wet, are clean.’ She took a bold step further into the kitchen. ‘If you do not show me up, I will ring the bell at the front door again.’

  Her glare caught and held the man’s eyes.

  ‘Oh very well then. But stay here until I see if he’ll see you. Who shall I say it is?’

  ‘You know very well who it is, Mr Tomkins,’ Eveleen snapped. ‘You’ve lived here long enough to know everyone on the estate.’

  ‘I,’ Tomkins lifted his nose in the air deliberately, ‘do not mix with the outdoor servants.’

  Adopting a lofty tone herself, Eveleen said, ‘Please inform your young master that Miss Eveleen Hardcastle wishes to speak to him.’

  As the man gave a sniff of disapproval and left the room, the cook said, ‘Sit by the fire, love, and get warm.’

  Eveleen smiled at her gratefully.

  ‘I think there’s a cuppa left in the pot.’ The woman poured out a cup of tea and handed it to Eveleen. ‘There, you drink that while you’re waiting, ’cos if I know Mr High and Mighty Tomkins, he’ll be a while coming back.’

  There was a pause before she added. ‘I was that sorry to hear about your dad, love. Nice man, he was.’

  Eveleen nodded and whispered her thanks. She drank the tea and sat by the crackling fire. By the time Tomkins returned, Eveleen had been waiting so long that her clothes had nearly dried out and she was almost asleep, made drowsy by the heat of the fire on her face.

  ‘Master Stephen has gone out,’ he told her shortly.

  Slowly, Eveleen rose to her feet. The man was either lying or he had deliberately waited until his young master had left the house.

  Eveleen said, ‘Thank you,’ and then before she could hold her wayward tongue in check, added ‘for nothing.’

  The man looked her up and down with a sneer on his face, but said no more. As he turned and left the room, Eveleen thanked the cook for the tea and left the house by the back door.

  Pausing in the yard she pondered whether to go back to the barn, but she doubted whether he would be there at this time in the evening. They had hardly ever met after what he called dinner.

  I’ll see him tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, he’ll come to meet me as usual.

  But then she remembered. Tomorrow they would be laying her poor father to rest in Bernby churchyard.

  Twelve

  Before anyone else was up the following morning, Eveleen left the house, paddled through the beck and ran up the field to the back of Fairfield House.

  Already there was movement near the stables and peering round the corner of one of the buildings she saw Ted Morton saddling up the horse that Stephen always rode.

  ‘Ted,’ she called softly. ‘Ted.’

  She saw him look round, puzzled, not knowing where the sound was coming from.

  ‘Ted. Here,’ she called a little louder now. ‘Over here.’

  Now he saw her and, smiling, came towards her. ‘Evie. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m looking for Stephen. Is he coming out soon? That’s his horse you’re saddling up, isn’t it?’

  The look of pleasure that had been on Ted’s face when he had first seen her, died. ‘I should have guessed it wouldn’t be me you were looking for.’

  Impulsively, she put out her hand and touched his. ‘Oh please don’t be like that, Ted. I’ve enough on my plate without you going mardy on me.’

  The young man had the grace to look ashamed. ‘Sorry, Evie. Yes, he should be out in a minute.’

  ‘I’ll wait here. I won’t get in your way.’

  ‘You could never get in my way, Evie,’ Ted said softly, but as the back door of the house banged, he moved away and Eveleen saw Stephen, dressed in his riding habit, striding across the yard.

  She ran towards him. Startled, he stopped and his tone, as he asked the very same question as Ted had a few moments ago, was harsh. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Stephen, I have to talk to you. I tried to see you yesterday, but—’

  ‘I know,’ he said, and Eveleen realized that the manservant had not been to blame. Stephen himself had refused to see her. ‘I had to go out.’

  No apology. No real explanation. Just the bald truth. If, indeed, it was the truth.

  He was speaking again. ‘And I can’t stop now.’

  She caught hold of his arm. ‘I must talk to you. My mother’s worrying herself silly, saying that we’re going to be thrown out of the house now my father – since my father . . .’

  She stopped and stared at him, her hand falling away from his arm. Where was the young man who had held her and kissed her and said all those wonderful things to her?

  ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ Stephen said stiffly, his handsome face a mask of indifference. He was standing only a few inches away from her but the chasm t
hat had now opened up between them felt thousands of feet deep and a world apart.

  This was the first time she had seen him since her father’s death. Whilst she did not expect him to take her into his arms here in the open yard, with a shock that was like a knife in her heart she realized that he had not even said how sorry he was.

  ‘Wh— what do you mean? Can’t you speak to your father? Ask him to let us stay?’

  ‘I told you, my father has handed over the running of the estate to me.’

  ‘Then you tell Mr Jackson.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you will have to move. The farmhouse you live in . . .’ – she could sense that he was choosing his words carefully, minding not to say, ‘your home’ – ‘goes with the position of gathman.’

  ‘But it’s our home. And we work for you too. My brother and me. Even my mother helps out with the dairy work.’

  ‘You and your brother are single people. You could lodge with other estate workers.’

  ‘We’re a family. We’re still a family.’

  He was shaking his head. ‘The positions you and your brother hold don’t warrant a house. Your father’s did.’

  ‘You mean – you mean you’re really going to turn us out when you know we have nowhere to go?’

  Not an eyelid flickered. He didn’t even flinch at her bald statement but merely said coldly, ‘Naturally we shall try to assist you in finding alternative accommodation. But . . .’

  ‘So that’s how it is.’ She was too angry to weep. The tears would come later, in the privacy of her bedroom.

  Her mother had been right. The Dunsmores wouldn’t give a second thought before casting them out of their home. And though it broke Eveleen’s heart to admit it, Mary had been right too about the young man standing before her. Stephen Dunsmore didn’t love her. Not as she had loved him. Eveleen doubted he even knew the meaning of the word.

  Thank God, she thought with fervent reverence, thank the good Lord that I didn’t give way to this man’s protestations of love. For all her weathervane moods, her mother had been right about that too.

  Eveleen turned to leave, feeling physically sick. She glanced back at him, just once, still hoping for a sign that he had some concern, some feeling for her.

  A few feet away Ted stood holding Stephen’s mount. He could do nothing to help her, Eveleen knew, but the look on the young man’s face told her that at this moment Ted would like to throttle the young master.

  As for Stephen, he stood in the middle of the yard, idly slapping his riding crop against his boot just watching her go, his face expressionless. He made no move towards her, gave her no words of farewell in what he must realize would be their final parting.

  A sob rose in her throat but she held it in check until she had passed through the gate and into the field.

  Then she began to run and run as if she couldn’t put distance between them fast enough. ‘I hate you, Stephen Dunsmore. One day, I’ll have my revenge on you.’

  Those who could take time from work on the estate attended Walter Hardcastle’s funeral.

  ‘They’d all have come if they could have,’ Bill Morton told Eveleen. ‘But you know what Jackson’s like.’ He had nodded across to where Josiah Jackson was standing. ‘He’d dock their pay if they missed a couple of hours to attend. He’s only here because he has to represent the Dunsmore family. But him and ya dad never got on. I think Jackson was jealous of your dad because Walter always got on well with Mr Dunsmore. Him and ya dad went back a long way to when Mr Ernest worked as hard as any of the men he employed.’

  Eveleen’s mind was working fast. How stupid she had been. It was Mr Ernest, Stephen’s father, she should have gone to see. Maybe he would have been kinder, more understanding. But at Bill’s next words, her hopes faded. ‘But that was a long time ago. Before he got rich and moved up in the world.’ He sighed. ‘He seems to have forgotten now how they started.’ Then he added resentfully, ‘And all those who helped him do it. And now with all this Parliament business.’ He put his arm about Eveleen’s shoulders. ‘Ne’er mind, lass. Least we can sleep in our beds at night with a clear conscience, eh?’

  ‘Not for much longer, Bill,’ Eveleen said quietly. ‘If what my mother says is right, we’ll be out on our ears now the funeral’s over.’

  To this Bill could say nothing.

  Josiah Jackson knocked at the door of their house the following morning.

  ‘I’ve come to see your mother.’

  ‘She’s not well enough to see anyone,’ Eveleen informed him and, making no attempt to invite him inside, stood in the doorway with her arms folded. ‘You’ll have to deal with me.’

  The man gave a grunt of disapproval but said, ‘Very well then.’ He held out a long, brown envelope. ‘This is your formal notice to vacate these premises by the end of the month. There are lodgings to be had with other estate workers if you and your brother want to continue working here, but there’s no place for your mother. We do not require her services any longer.’

  Eveleen snatched the envelope from his bony fingers. ‘And where do you suggest my mother goes? The workhouse?’

  ‘If your father did not have the foresight to put a little aside, then I’m afraid she has no alternative.’

  ‘On the measly wages the Dunsmores pay?’

  Josiah wagged his forefinger at her. ‘You watch your tongue, my girl, or you’ll find yourself in the workhouse alongside her.’

  ‘That’d be better than working for the Dunsmores.’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Appalled at her own rash stupidity, Eveleen waited, holding her breath, for the axe to fall. The blow was not many seconds in coming.

  ‘If that’s how you feel, then you’d better all go there. You’re dismissed, Miss Hardcastle.’ The man smiled maliciously. ‘You and your brother. All of you. And you can be out of this house by the end of the week.’

  He turned and walked swiftly away while Eveleen closed the door and leant against it. Now what had she done?

  Thirteen

  ‘It’s all your fault, Eveleen,’ Mary wailed, rocking backwards and forwards in her chair. ‘You and that tongue of yours. How many times have I told you it’ll get you into trouble one of these days? And now it’s got us all into trouble. The workhouse! What would your poor father say if he was still here?’ She covered her face with her apron. ‘Oh, what will become of us?’

  Eveleen bit back the words, If Dad was still here, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Her rash tongue had done quite enough damage for one day.

  ‘If you hadn’t been so disobedient,’ Mary went on. ‘So wayward and caused him all that worry, he’d never have had a heart attack.’

  Eveleen felt the colour drain from her face. This was a guilt she had tried to keep buried, tried to put from her own mind, yet now her mother was voicing it aloud.

  ‘’Tain’t Evie’s fault,’ Jimmy said as he spooned the last of the apple turnover into his ever-hungry mouth.

  Eveleen glanced at her brother. It wasn’t often that Jimmy took her side. ‘Dad’s father died in the same way, didn’t he?’ he went on. ‘Was that Evie’s fault too?’

  Eveleen held her breath, but Mary was not listening to him. She was too sunk in her despair. ‘The workhouse,’ she was murmuring. ‘He saved me from it once, but now . . .’ Her voice faded away and she sat staring into the flames and shaking her head, sad and defeated.

  Eveleen took a deep breath and stood up. ‘We’re not going to the workhouse. None of us. Jimmy and me’ll find work. There are other farms, other cottages.’

  ‘You’re too young,’ Mary was refusing to be hopeful. ‘No one’ll give you a house any more than the Dunsmores’ll let you stay here.’

  ‘Then we’ll find work in Grantham and get lodgings or a house to rent. There must be work in the town.’

  ‘It’ll be hopeless.’ Mary was refusing to be optimistic. ‘How are you going to find anything by the end of the week? It’ll take us ’til then to pack everything up.’
She sighed heavily and added, ‘But what’s the point of packing up anyway, if we’ve nowhere to go?’

  Eveleen bit her lip. ‘Bill said they’d help out if they could. Maybe you could stay with him and Dorothy. We could put our belongings in their barn.’

  ‘And get him the wrong side of Jackson, an’ all? Get him the sack too? No, no, your dad wouldn’t want us to do that. He thought a lot of Bill Morton. He wouldn’t want you to bring trouble on him and his family.’

  Eveleen thought back to the previous day as the mourners had all trooped away from the graveside. Out of all those who had come to pay their respects only Bill and Dorothy Morton and their son had remained behind to offer practical help. Eveleen had been surprised and touched by Ted’s words. He had taken hold of both her hands and looked at her with serious eyes.

  ‘Evie, if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, you will tell me, won’t you? I heard what he said this morning. I wanted to black his eye.’

  Despite the sadness of the occasion, Eveleen felt the urge to smile. ‘I know you did. I could see it in your face.’ That was nothing, she thought, to what I wanted to do to him. She sighed. ‘Thanks, Ted. But I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do for us without putting themselves at risk, and . . .’ – there was a catch in her voice – ‘Dad wouldn’t have wanted that.’

  ‘I don’t reckon your dad would have thought for a minute that the Dunsmores’d do this to you though. But don’t forget, if there is anything I can do . . .’

  As she had nodded and thanked him, a tiny part of her mind was thinking, the only thing you can do is to marry me and get a cottage where we could all live. But she buried the thought deep. She was prepared to make all manner of sacrifices to look after her mother and Jimmy, to keep what was left of the family together, but that was one thing she would not do. Marry a man she did not love.

  And the man she had loved with all her heart had turned his back on her when she had needed him the most.

  Now, putting all thoughts of Stephen Dunsmore firmly out of her mind, she said, ‘Tomorrow Jimmy and me’ll walk into Grantham, Mam.’ She wagged her forefinger, half-playfully, half-seriously, at her brother. ‘And we’re not coming home until one of us has got a job.’