Flood (The Fenland Series Book 1)

by Ann Swinfen

  Off to the left, an archway led through to what I knew were the stables. On the right were the other outbuildings – a dairy, brewhouse, laundry, stillroom, and storerooms. There were no farm buildings nearby. The farm which served the manor was two fields away, so no smell or sight of beasts would trouble the inhabitants.

  On the carriageway leading up to that imposing but slightly absurd portico I hesitated. I had been inside the manor a few times before, when the Dillingworths invited the better local families to some festivity. That had been before the War and all the disruption it had brought. I suppose I could not have been more than twelve when I was last inside the house. Should I knock at the front door, where I had always been admitted before? Or – since I was come to seek a position in service – should I go round by the courtyard on the right and look for the servants’ entrance?

  I decided that as I was coming partly to seek the help that Sir John had so far failed to give, I should go to the front. The pillars which supported the portico looked like marble from a distance, but when I drew near I realised that they had simply been painted to look like marble and some of the paint was beginning to peel off. As I passed them I tapped one with my fingernail and realised it was nothing but cheap wood, not even stone. The roof of the portico cut off the sunlight like a knife and I shivered slightly as I raised the stout iron knocker on the old hall door. This was wood, but honest wood, solid oak and clenched together with square-headed studs bigger than horseshoe nails.

  My knock echoed inside the hall and my stomach flipped in dismay. It sounded too loud, too peremptory. There was a long pause and then I heard footsteps on the flagstones inside. The door groaned open and I found myself looking up into the face of the Dillingworths’ steward. I remembered him now, from those earlier visits, and from seeing him once in conversation with my father. I felt a little spurt of hope. If he knew my father . . . Then it died, for the man was eyeing me in no very friendly fashion.

  ‘Yes? What do you want?’

  His tone was abrupt, even uncivil. Instead of intimidating me, as it was no doubt meant to do, it stiffened my determination.

  ‘I wish to speak to Sir John,’ I said, and was pleased that my voice betrayed no sign of nervousness.

  ‘Oh you do? And who are you?’

  ‘I am Mercy Bennington, daughter of Isaac Bennington.’ I decided to attack. ‘Great-granddaughter of Mary Dillingworth, your master’s great-aunt.’

  He looked sceptical at that, but clearly could not be sure how to treat me. With some reluctance he opened the door a little wider and stepped aside so that I could enter the great hall, which soared two storeys high. Despite the summer warmth outside, it was chilly here, and I shivered. He pointed to a spot beside the door.

  ‘Wait there until you are sent for.’ He swept away, keys clanking at his belt, and disappeared through a door into the side wing of the house on the left.

  It was some while before he returned, which gave me time to regret my boldness in coming to the manor and to wish that I could bolt, but I could not bear the thought of the humiliation, having to admit to Tom that I had not had the courage to go through with my plan. Pride it was that kept me standing there.

  At last the steward reappeared. I had remembered his name now, Master Rogers. He was said to be an honest man, even if he thought a little too well of himself. He jerked his head at me.

  ‘This way. Sir John will see you.’

  I was ushered along a hallway and into a room overlooking the formal gardens behind the house. I had never been in this part of the manor before, nor seen the gardens which looked very strange to my eye, with geometric patterns of low clipped hedges through which gravelled walks wound in perfect symmetry. Although it was full summer, there were few flowers except, at the far end of the garden, I thought I could make out a row of regimented rose bushes just coming into bloom. A garden of dark green yew and grey gravel. It was a depressing sight.

  ‘Mercy Bennington, is it?’ Sir John, more courteous than his steward, had risen from a chair behind a table near the window and stepped toward me. He sketched a slight bow, nicely calculated to be polite to my sex while marking my inferior status. Master Rogers withdrew, closing the door somewhat loudly behind him.

  Sir John motioned me to a chair opposite his and we both sat. I found I was unable to decide how to speak, though I had been rehearsing what I would say all the way from home.

  ‘And what can I do for you, Mistress Bennington?’

  It gave me an opening. ‘It is about my father,’ I said. ‘He took the case of the commoners to court in Lincoln, to prove the charter which entitles us to hold the common lands in the Fens in perpetuity.’

  Sir John nodded, pressing the fingers of his hands together and raising them to his lips.

  I grew bolder. ‘Sir John, we have waited many months for word from your lawyer in London on this matter, and all the while the drainers are digging up our fields and destroying our crops. They have driven two people from their homes – Hannah Green and Nehemiah Socket. Their homes were burnt down and their possessions stolen. Hannah was struck in the face. Nehemiah was attacked and badly wounded.’

  Still he did not speak, but cocked his head on one side.

  ‘So at last my father decided he must take the case to court himself. And instead of hearing him, the judge passed judgement on nothing but the word of the adventurers.’ I was losing control of my voice in the face of his continuing silence. ‘They have thrown my father in prison and imposed a fine of five hundred pounds, which of course we cannot pay.’

  There was a flicker in his eyes at that. I was certain that he already knew everything I had said, except for the size of the fine.

  Now he sat back with a sigh and rubbed the knees of his velvet breeches.

  ‘Mistress Bennington, what is it you want me to do? If you have come here to ask me to pay your father’s fine, you have wasted your journey.’

  He smiled, but the smile moved nothing but his lips, and there was a hard edge to his voice. I felt my face flush with anger and embarrassment, but I strove to remain civil.

  ‘I have not come a-begging, Sir John. Except to beg you to urge your lawyer to act, and act swiftly, on our behalf. He seems to tarry forever over this matter.’

  ‘Lawyers move at their own pace, Mistress Bennington,’ he gave me a smile as condescending as his steward’s looks.

  ‘Not when they move to imprison a man who has done no wrong and came merely to seek justice.’ I knew he would not like my impertinence, but I could not hold back the words.

  ‘I will certainly write again to my lawyer. Will that satisfy you?’ His tone was cool, dismissive.

  ‘We would all be grateful, the whole parish, all the commoners, if you would do so.’ I wanted to make it clear that I was not a sole petitioner, seeking help merely for myself.

  He started to rise, but I held out my hand.

  ‘There is one other matter.’

  He sank back into his chair and I saw that he looked impatient, as though he felt I had trespassed too much on his time.

  ‘My family cannot possibly pay the fine by the due date, which is the fifteenth of August. The officers of the court are likely to seize some of our stock as surety, which means it will be even more difficult for us to pay. So that we may pay at least in part, we must sell some goods, and I have decided to seek employment.’ I swallowed. This was even more difficult than I had expected, in the face of Sir John’s silence and look of disdain.

  ‘I hoped that I might find a position here at the manor. I am lettered. I can keep accounts.’ I was humiliated by the disdainful smile which spread across his face. How could I have been so bold? A man like Sir John would not employ a giddy girl to write up his accounts. He would have a young man not long down from Cambridge, like his son, or a responsible older man like Rogers. I stumbled on, feeling more and more foolish. ‘I am a neat seamstress and a good cook . . .’ My voice tailed off as his expression changed.

  ‘I
t is Lady Dillingworth who supervises all household matters,’ he said. There was relief in his voice. He would be rid of me now. He stood and rang a small silver bell which stood beside the papers on his table. Rogers entered so quickly that I wondered whether he had been listening at the door.

  ‘Take Mistress Bennington to Lady Dillingworth, Rogers. She wishes to know whether my lady can offer her employment.’

  Rogers’s smirk told me that was no better than what he had expected of me. He jerked his head for me to follow and turned towards the door.

  ‘You will not forget to write to your lawyer?’ I felt I could risk Sir John’s disapproval of my forwardness.

  ‘No, no, you may count on it.’ A look of annoyance passed over his face, but he remained coolly courteous. ‘Good day to you.’

  I made him a curtsey, nicely calculated on my part to show that I was not yet in his employ.

  Master Rogers led me back along the corridor and stopped at the last door near the front of the house. He tapped, and on being answered stepped inside, shutting the door in my face. I could hear the murmur of voices from within, but not what was said. After a few minutes, Rogers opened the door.

  ‘Lady Dillingworth will see you now.’

  I stepped inside as pretty a room as I had ever seen. Where Sir John’s room – his office or study – had been lined with bookshelves except where a few family portraits were hung on the oak panelling, the walls of this room were covered with paper, hand-painted with exotic birds and butterflies. Tom had told me of such paper he had seen in London, but I had never seen it myself before. There were small tables holding Delft bowls of pot-pourri, and vases of tiger lilies and flowers I did not recognise, like deep cups in shape, in white and yellow. I thought how strange it was to have a garden of gravel and cruelly trimmed shrubs, but flowers cut and dying in the house. The chairs were covered with damask, the cushions were worked in rich embroidered silks, and the colours were so bright and so profuse it made my head spin.

  Lady Dillingworth herself was dressed in silks and sitting at her embroidery. I must have stood gaping a little too long, for she said brusquely, ‘Yes? What is it you want, girl?’

  I felt resentment rising in me, but choked it down. No one had ever addressed me so rudely, not even Rogers when he opened the door to me. I was, after all, a kind of cousin of the lady’s husband.

  ‘I am Mercy Bennington, Lady Dillingworth–’

  ‘Rogers has told me who you are. What do you want?’

  Unlike Sir John, she did not ask me to sit down.

  I stumbled through the tale of the commons, the drainers, the court, my father, the fine. Her face showed complete indifference. Unlike Sir John, she did not suspect that she might owe us something.

  ‘Well? This is all very . . . interesting, but why are you here?’

  ‘My family must raise the money to pay the fine,’ I said bluntly. ‘I am seeking employment.’

  ‘You wish to enter service at the manor?’

  At that moment, it was the last thing I wished, but I nodded mutely.

  ‘What can you do?’

  Once again, I ran through my accomplishments. As with Sir John, I did not mention that I could herd and milk cows, make cheese and butter, and shear sheep.

  Lady Dillingworth regarded me as though I was a rather inferior piece of fabric she was about to reject as being too coarse.

  ‘Very well. You may start as under kitchen maid, on one month’s trial. Come back tomorrow.’

  She turned back to her embroidery. I felt a slow-burning rage at what was clearly a dismissal. Under kitchen maid! It was a post suited to a child like Kitty.

  ‘On what terms, my lady? What wages?’

  She turned astonished eyes at me, whether because she was surprised to find me still standing there or because I had dared to ask such a question, I did not know.

  ‘Food and lodging. You will sleep with the other maids in the attic of the east wing. Two shillings a month and one day’s leave a month.’

  There was nothing I could do but curtsey and withdraw. Two shillings a month? How many months to reach five hundred pounds? More than my lifetime.

  Rogers was waiting in the great hall, as though he did not trust me to leave without stealing something. He did not open the front door but led me into the east wing, down narrow passages and out through the kitchen, where several women and girls were at work, chopping vegetables and dressing meat. They stared at me as we passed.

  ‘This is the door you will use in future,’ the steward said, throwing open a door into the kitchen courtyard. ‘And be here by six o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  So he had been listening outside the door.

  On the long walk home I had plenty of time to think about what I had done. My father, I knew, would be shocked that I could even consider hiring myself out as a servant to the Dillingworths. But under kitchen maid! I would be spending my time rising before all the rest of the household to light the kitchen fires, scrubbing the flagstones in the whole kitchen wing, plucking and gutting chickens and pheasants, scouring burnt pots, carrying all the heaviest loads, running hither and thither at the behest of all the kitchen staff. And I had told Sir John I was lettered and could keep accounts! Well, my pride had been well and truly humbled.

  As I saw the familiar shape of home at the far side of the field, I quickened my step. I wanted to spend every minute left to me in those surroundings which suddenly seemed very dear. With my hand on the gate to the yard, a thought suddenly struck me. The girl from Crowthorne, the one who had been dismissed by Lady Dillingworth because she was with child – it was her place I was to fill. In the past I had paid little heed to my Dillingworth ancestry, but now a kind of shamed fury filled me. I decided that I would tell my family merely that I had a position with the Dillingworths, and not what the position was.

  So abstracted was I by my own thoughts that it was only now that I noticed that all was not well about the farm. Firewood was scattered across the yard and distracted hens were wandering about. I could hear cows mooing in distress from the barn, needing to be milked. There was no smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. Suddenly alarmed I flew across the yard and into the kitchen. They were all there and looked up with frightened eyes as I burst in.

  ‘Oh, it is Mercy!’ Kitty ran to me and hugged me.

  ‘What has happened?’

  Tom was sitting in Father’s chair, while Hannah bathed his eye. There was blood on his eyebrow and the area around his eye was reddened and bruised. Nehemiah was grimly washing bloodied knuckles in a bowl of water, while my mother made a pretence of slicing bread, but had to keep putting down the knife because her hands were shaking so much.

  ‘The sheriff’s men came,’ said Tom. ‘Ouch, Hannah, that’s enough!’

  ‘Keep still, Master Tom, while I salve this cut above your eye. It’s a deep one.’

  ‘You didn’t fight them!’ I said.

  ‘Only got in their way a little,’ Nehemiah said, ‘but they pushed us aside. The one who hit Tom must have been wearing a ring, that’s what cut his face.’

  ‘They found the ale anyway,’ said Tom, ‘amongst the firewood. They’ve taken all the cows but two, and as many of the hens as they could catch, but your girls led them a dance and some got away.’

  ‘Now they’re off to the pasture for more of our stock,’ said Nehemiah.

  ‘Haven’t the cows been milked?’ I asked. ‘They’re crying out.’

  ‘I’d just brought them in when the men arrived and they only left a few minutes ago. Leave it, Hannah. I must go to the milking.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said. ‘It won’t take long if we’ve only two left.’

  I wanted to see for myself how bad the damage was. I herded the hens back out of the yard to their run and threw them some grain, then I climbed up to the hay loft. It was undisturbed, so the provisions we had hidden there were safe for the moment. I climbed down again, feeling sick. Even if I had been here there was nothing I could have
done that Tom and Nehemiah did not do, but I felt as though I had deserted them when they needed me most.

  To my relief our favourite, Blackthorn, was one of the two cows still left to us, the other was an elderly cow, Kingcup, who was nearing the end of her useful life. Blackthorn as least would provide us with some milk. Or provide them – I reminded myself – the rest of my household. After tomorrow I would no longer be here. I carried the stool and pail over to Blackthorn and spent some time trying to calm her, but she was still distressed and it took me twice as long as usual to milk her. Kingcup had quietened by the time I had finished, but gave very little milk anyway. I carried the pitiful amount through into the dairy. They had left us one cheese. I was thankful that the ones we had marked for selling were already stored in the Sawyers’ dairy. It would keep for winter food, or could be sold for coin.

  But where we would we be by winter? If the fine was not paid, would they seize the farm?

  I went back into the barn and put my arms around Blackthorn’s neck for comfort. Laying my cheek against her soft hide I could smell her sweet scent of hay and sunshine. She flicked her ear where my cap tickled it and snorted softly. As I stepped back I rubbed her head between her ears, and she turned her placid eyes on me, her mouth chewing quietly. I wished I could face the world with her calm grace. What would become of our other cows? Where would they be taken? I was not sure whether they would be impounded until the middle of August or sold at once.

  For the moment I left the two cows in the barn, for I had no wish to encounter the sheriff’s men rounding up our stock in the pasture. Back in the kitchen I lit the fire and laid out a simple dinner of bread and cheese. We could no longer expect to eat meat once or twice a day. Tonight we would sup on porridge.