by Tania Crosse
Some bemused compulsion drove her to glance swiftly over her left shoulder towards the dark and menacing silhouette of the prison buildings outlined against the blinding light as the sun sank in the autumn sky. She wondered what the convict would be doing now, locked in his cramped, damp and lonely cell for the night. But then her attention was snapped back to the road as they crossed the bridge over the Blackabrook by the quaint farmhouse known as the Ockery. It was rumoured to have once been the billet of two French prisoner-of-war officers out on parole, as had been the custom. Gospel had decided to take exception to the tumbling waters and was sidestepping restlessly. But Rose was determined to keep to a walk, her mind locked in a brown study. What was his crime? she wondered. New. A model prisoner, Mr Cartwright had said. He would have at least five years to serve, then, for that was the minimum sentence for Dartmoor. Five years . . .
They gained the brow of the hill and all at once the panorama of the isolated hamlet of Two Bridges lay beneath them, the picturesque West Dart river valley bathed in the apricot evening sunlight. The breath caught in Rose’s throat, the beauty of the dell with its old arched bridge once again enchanting her, though she had seen it a thousand times before. The water twinkled merrily as it rushed over the shallow, rock-strewn riverbed in its hurry to be across the moor and down to the sea, lengthening shadows playing mysteriously on the clear, deeper pools. Just one facet of the moor’s deceptive landscape, a gentle oasis in the savage wilderness that surrounded it.
Gospel shook his head and snorted impatiently. He knew he was nearing home and the handful of tasty oats the stable lad would feed him. But why was his mistress holding him back? They joined the steep road that dropped into the valley, then sharply up the far side, and the horse took the incline as easily as swishing away a fly with its tail. And then, as they turned on to the road towards Postbridge and the north-east corner of the moor, the familiar surroundings finally soothed Rose’s soul, and with a resolute clamping of her jaw, she gave the animal its head.
Gospel’s muscles exploded like coiled springs. Rose could feel the strength of his body beneath her as he powered up the hill, stretching every sinew of his vigorous limbs. She kept her hands together now at the base of his thick mane, gripping with her knees as she sank into the one, two, three, one, two, three rhythm of his pounding hooves, gathering speed until the glorious moment when the canter broke into a gallop and they surged forward as if of one being. She leaned out along his arched neck, her own body rippling to his flowing motion. Her hair streaked out behind her like the tail of some meteor, the wind whipping through her head and driving out all memory of the convict who, for one incomprehensible moment, had touched her heart, but who she would never see again.
On and on, until the extensive site of the gunpowder mills came into view, its sturdy buildings spread out, for safety reasons, on either side of the Cherrybrook valley. She sat back in the saddle, easing gently but firmly on the reins until Gospel was persuaded to slow his breakneck pace, and by the time they reached the first cluster of powder-mill cottages by the roadside, Rose was rising to the gelding’s lively trot. The lengthy gallop had hardly made him sweat, and Rose herself would have been happy to continue out over the moor for another hour to expend some of his energy, but the evening was drawing in with that autumnal sting in the air despite the sunny day, and she knew better than to trust the treacherously changeable Dartmoor weather at night.
They left the main road and continued along the powder-mills track to what, if anything, could be called the centre of the isolated community, a large building that served as both Methodist chapel and school, another row of neat little cottages, the manager’s house, a substantial cooperage and several other outbuildings. Up to a hundred men had worked at the mills not so long ago, living in the purpose-built cottages including those near Higher Cherrybrook Bridge. Others resided in nearby Postbridge village, whilst some tramped in each day all the way from Chagford, Peter Tavy and even Tavistock. There were not quite so many employees now. Demand for gunpowder had been falling recently with the closure of many of the local mines, though considerable amounts continued to be supplied to the massive Dartmoor quarries, including that of the prison, and also the Cornish slate quarries. The powder was carried by horse and wagon to a growing number of outlying magazines or storage sites across the moor, or directly to where it was required. Further afield, it was still exported via Plymouth all over the south-west and as far as south Wales and Gloucestershire, for licensed gunpowder factories were few and far between. But eight years previously, a scientist by the name of Alfred Nobel had invented a far safer explosive called dynamite, and its usage was spreading. Nevertheless, Cherrybrook remained a hive of activity with all its skilled labourers, coopers, carpenters, the blacksmith, the wheelwright and all the wagoners and stable staff. And Rose Maddiford, the venturesome daughter of the manager, knew and cared for every one of them and their families.
She turned Gospel’s head to the path that led across the rear of the cottages, and the spirited animal clattered into the small stable yard behind the manager’s house. Rose dismounted with her usual flourish as Joe Tyler hurried out of the back door, his young face split with his welcoming grin. At his heels pranced the boisterous Labrador, behaving, just as Rose had described to Molly, like an overgrown puppy, her tail waving furiously to and fro as she bounced around her mistress’s legs.
‘You’m late, Rose!’ Joe chided, his cornflower eyes stepping a merry dance beneath his thatch of straw-coloured hair. ‘Florrie’s proper vexed at holding dinner back. You’d best look sharp!’
But Rose merely bent for a moment to fuss over the jubilant dog, breathing heavily from the energetic ride and her well-shaped lips parted in a knowing smile. ‘See to Gospel for me, would you, Joe? ’Twouldn’t do to keep Florrie waiting now, would it?’
Joe chuckled somewhere in his youthful throat. He knew as well as she did that Florrie’s scolding would be no more than a mother hen’s clucking over her wayward chicks. Joe had served Henry Maddiford, his daughter and their housekeeper for seven years now, ever since Rose had rescued him from the cruelties of his master at a livery stables in Plymouth on a rare visit to the bustling city. He had instantly become one of the family, wrapped in the kindness that was the Maddiford way of life. Rose was now his beloved elder sister, although now he was eighteen he sometimes looked at her in a different light. But Rose was Rose, hare-brained, open, unique in his eyes. Taking your breath away, and filling your heart with exasperated love.
Rose threw open the back door and flouncing up the passage, poked her head into the kitchen. ‘Oh, Florrie, that smells delicious, and I’m mortal hungry. I’ll just slip upstairs to change, and then I’ll be down afore you know it!’ And hoisting the hem of her riding skirt up around her knees, she raced up the carpeted stairs two at a time before Florrie Bennett had time to open her mouth.
‘Rose, dear!’ Henry Maddiford’s fading blue eyes crinkled at the corners as his daughter floated into the dining room five minutes later. She paused for just a moment, framed in the doorway, her cheeks blushed a healthy peach as she beamed devotedly at him. His heart lurched painfully, for she was the image of his darling Alice, lost to him twenty-one years ago. Rose had changed for dinner, not into an evening dress, for she did not possess such a thing, but into a simple yet sophisticated affair of burgundy velvet, trimmed with black lace at the collar and cuffs, and with the fullness of the skirt drawn into a small bustle at the back in the latest fashion. All designed and created by her own hand, Henry sighed wistfully. Alice would have been so proud.
‘Father, I’m so sorry I was late back!’ She bounced forward, depositing a kiss on his balding head before she sat down opposite him at the highly polished table. She put out a stern finger at the young dog which stood beside her, gazing up with expectant eyes, and for once the animal obeyed and reluctantly lay down. ‘You know I went to see Molly, and well, the time just flies when I’m with her! And they were doing the ir
oning, so I had to help so that Molly and I could walk the triangle, and we had bread and dripping for tea, and—’
‘Well, I hope as you’ve enough room left for this yere dinner, young maid! I’ve spent all arternoon—’
‘But of course, Florrie! That looks absolutely mouth-watering! Roast beef, with lashings of juicy gravy and horseradish sauce, and piles of vegetables!’ she enthused with gusto. ‘’Tis just what I fancied! I’m starving!’
‘Well, I don’t know where you put it, I’m sure,’ Henry chuckled, shaking his head with amusement as he reached for his starched napkin.
‘I only hope as ’tidn spoilt,’ the older woman grumbled, trying to conceal the grin that was battling to break over her round face.
‘It looks superb, Florrie! But then you are the best cook in the whole of Devonshire!’
Her exuberant smile finally won Florrie’s heart for the millionth time, for the housekeeper could never be cross with Rose for more than a minute. She had helped raise the child from the day Alice Maddiford had died, her newborn babe in her arms, and Florrie had always looked upon the headstrong girl as her own. Her already ample bosom swelled with pride, not so much at the compliment as at the winning ways of her charge, who could charm the clouds from the grey Dartmoor skies.
‘I should think so, too!’ she agreed, her cheeks wobbling with laughter now. ‘Though I’ve yerd tell there’s a good French chef at the Bedford Hotel nowadays.’
‘And I’m sure you’re every bit as accomplished as he is.’ Henry’s expression retained its habitual benevolence, but there was that hint of firm integrity in his voice that made him the respected businessman that he was. ‘And next week you’ll have another chance to prove it. Mr Frean will be paying us one of his visits, and several of the shareholders will be accompanying him, so I’d like you to put on one of your best luncheons. Some of them are coming from as far off as London, so ’twould be nice to put on a good spread and show them we provincials can produce cuisine as excellent as in the capital.’
He winked playfully at his housekeeper as she wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Well, I’d best put my thinking cap on!’ she announced.
‘Go and enjoy your own dinner first, though, or you’ll faint from lack of nourishment.’ Not that there was any fear of that, he thought mildly to himself.
‘Yes, of course, sir.’ She turned to leave the room, but paused with her hand on the door handle. ‘But I’ll do you proud, I promise.’
‘Thank you, Florrie. I know I can rely on you.’ The gentle smile remained on Henry’s face as his faithful servant closed the door quietly behind her, and then he turned to his daughter. ‘So, you had a good afternoon, then?’
‘Mmm!’ Rose nodded enthusiastically as she struggled to swallow a mouthful of food. ‘Oh, this is superb! I don’t know how Florrie does it, but I’m certain she’ll surprise your visitors next week!’
‘Talking of which . . .’ Henry cleared his throat, and his features moved with unusual solemnity. ‘I want you to be there as the perfect hostess. I know you’ve flitted around before on such occasions, but this time I want you there as an accomplished young lady, to show them that everything in the garden is rosy, if you’ll excuse the pun.’
Rose’s fine brow puckered. ‘And isn’t it?’ she enquired seri-ously now, her eyes meeting his steadily.
Henry slowly pursed his lips, moving his gaze to stare at his wineglass, whose stem he was rubbing between his forefinger and thumb. ‘Not as rosy as it used to be. You know so many of the copper mines have closed in recent years, and those that are surviving on arsenic are worked on a smaller scale than before.’
Rose’s frown deepened. ‘But they’re only part of our trade. What about all the quarries on the moor? And the new one at Merrivale? ’Tis proving a good customer, isn’t it?’
Henry looked at her again with an anxious grimace. ‘Only so-so at present. ’Tis yet to become established as a going concern. And any of them could decide to change over to dynamite at any time. Sad to say, overall, our sales are down.’
‘Hence the meeting.’ Rose sucked in her cheeks. ‘But I can’t do anything about the sales. ’Tis the agent’s job.’
‘I know. But you can help to make a good impression. And,’ he hesitated, feeling uncomfortably hot, ‘we may need to start making some economies ourselves.’
Rose’s complexion paled as she blinked at him. ‘But . . .’ she stammered in horror, her heart suddenly beating wildly. ‘I can keep Amber and Gospel?’
‘Of course,’ Henry answered her obvious anguish. ‘But only if you give up other luxuries.’
‘Oh, thank you, Father!’ She sprang up from her chair and threw her arms about his neck. ‘I’m certain I can find lots of things to do without!’
Henry patted the back of this beloved child who had held his life together, but as he gazed out over her shoulder, he only wished the answer were so simple.
Rose dropped her sewing into her lap with a pensive sigh and bowed her head over her idle hands for a moment before rising to her feet and crossing to stare out of the parlour window. The weather had changed dramatically overnight. Rain had swept in from the west, smiting Dartmoor with a lashing deluge that had driven away the last vestiges of summer. The storm had battered relentlessly against the sturdy walls of the house, refusing to abate until mid-morning, and even when it did, a dampness hung in the air in fat, almost tangible droplets. Rose might have saddled Gospel, though, and followed one of the familiar tracks across the moor, for it would be unwise to venture off the path with the threat of a disorientating veil of mist, even for someone as used to the terrain as she was. But much as her spirit yearned to be away, there were other matters that required her attention. She had spent a couple of hours at the kitchen table opposite Florrie as they planned the luncheon for their guests the following week. And now she was patiently sides-to-middling a worn sheet, a long, boring process but one which allowed her to ponder what her father had said the previous evening, as her dextrous fingers plied the needle with endless small and tidy stitches.
Economies. Well, she was quite happy to make this one, even if it was tedious. Florrie had taught her to sew simple items when she was a young child, and now she only had to study a new style in a magazine and she could create it for herself. All that would have to stop now, if they could no longer afford to buy the material, though there was no reason why she shouldn’t alter some existing garment. But so long as she could keep Gospel, she didn’t mind. She would do without a fire in her bedroom. A stone bottle filled with hot water from the kitchen range and placed between the sheets at bedtime would be quite sufficient. As a household, they ate well, but cheaper cuts of meat, for instance, could be just as tasty when cooked to Florrie’s special recipes. There were numerous sacrifices they could make that were so small they would scarcely be noticed, and all their problems would be solved.
Yes, she decided with satisfaction, as she contemplated the progress along the track outside the house of a small wagon under whose tightly secured tarpaulin she knew would be stowed carefully filled leather-clad one-hundred-pound barrels of gunpowder, or ready pressed cartridges. The horse that pulled the wagon plodded steadily, its coat gleaming and the long hair or feathers at the back of its lower legs washed and brushed, probably by Joe since his main employment was in the powder-mills stables.
The thought of Joe made Rose purse her lips. As long as they all stayed together, nothing else mattered. She had two or three special dresses, such as the one she had worn the previous evening, all made by her own hand in attractive but good quality, sensible materials that would last for years. In her wardrobe also hung a warm coat that fitted over them, and her riding habit. She possessed several hats, not because she liked them, for she would rather go bare-headed, but because it was considered unseemly for any female of even the lowest class to walk abroad without one. She had one pair of dainty shoes to wear with the dresses, her riding boots, and two pairs of strong, sturdy boots for her e
veryday life on the moor. Generally, as today, she dressed in a simple blouse and skirt without the encumbrance of any bustle, adding a jacket or shawl or extra layers of underwear for warmth, according to the weather. Her father was equally well attired, so she had no need to visit Ellen Williams’s shop for anything but groceries for many a long year. They could do without wine on the table except perhaps on Sundays, and with her sewing skills she could always repair instead of replace, as she was doing now. Her father’s position as manager brought with it this comfortable, rent-free house, which had been her home ever since she could remember, and a generous salary. If her father had taken a small drop in his wages as she imagined he might have done, well, there really was nothing to worry about.
She dragged her gaze away from the wagon as it trundled on into the mist, and turned her eyes instead in the opposite direction towards the scattered buildings of the gunpowder factory itself. Sure enough, her father was walking past the cooperage next door, dead on time for his luncheon at half-past twelve. Rose smiled to herself as she wondered if old Silas had anything left to eat for his croust, or midday meal. The fellow had been a powder-maker at Cherrybrook since the whole enterprise had been started by Mr George Frean over thirty years before, and knew his job so well he was scarcely likely to cause himself an accident. Nevertheless, walking in at the crack of dawn from his home in Postbridge, Silas always ate the midday pasty he brought with him at the same time as his breakfast – just in case he should be blown up beforehand and never get to consume it!