High Garth

by Mira Stables

  Chapter Ten

  The end of hay time might make life a little less strenuous for the men folk but it ushered in a busy season in kitchen and dairy. Berries and currants were ripening fast and Ann was eager to make all the jams and pickles that she could, not only from the produce of the old garden, but from the abundance of wild fruits—bilberries, crab-apples and later, she hoped, blackberries. Cheese making had begun, too. She was busy from dawn till supper time, but she was young and strong and the work offered plenty of variety, so she sang as she worked and bloomed visibly. Life was good. No thoughts of ill-starved romance clouded her enjoyment.

  Her one small remaining anxiety was Philip’s education. This progressed rather erratically. Hay time had meant a break of a whole week, and a small boy was naturally reluctant to settle down to steady routine again. He had made excellent progress in reading and his penmanship was fair. His general knowledge was superior, for he had an enquiring mind and a retentive memory. But arithmetic he detested. They were still struggling with the two times table, and though he could count and add pretty accurately, subtraction remained a mystery. One, moreover, which he had no desire to solve. He became adept at the gentle art of creating a diversion whenever the hated sum book came out.

  Why, he enquired one morning, did Miss Beverley teach him to make figures which were different from the ones on the kitchen clock? Encouraged by this sign of interest, Ann spent some ten minutes in explaining about Roman numerals and how complicated they became when you wanted to write large numbers. Philip, who could tell the time pretty well when it suited his purpose, marked with delight that both hands of the clock were approaching the figure eleven, which would signal his release. When she showed signs of reverting to the sum book, he said innocently, “Then if there are different ways of counting, why don’t you teach me to count ‘Yan, tan, tethera’, like Jim does when he’s counting his sheep? That’s the Yorkshire way.”

  “Because when you go to school, all the other boys would laugh at you,” said Ann patiently. “You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

  “And because if I were to spank you, my lad, it would hurt just as much if I counted yan, tan, tethera as if I said one, two, three,” said a quiet voice behind her, “and you wouldn’t like that, either.”

  Patrick had come in through the dairy entry, kicking off his muddy boots to avoid trailing the dirt into the kitchen, so that they had not heard him. Ann wondered how long he had been standing there. Philip flushed scarlet and ducked his head.

  “I had thought to ask you if this young rapscallion might have a holiday from lessons on Friday, which is his birthday,” Patrick went on sternly. “And I find him deliberately idling. Yan, tan, tethera, indeed! It might be better if he foregoes holidays until he has learned to mind his book, if he is not to grow up an ignorant young savage with no better prospect in life than counting sheep.”

  At this dreadful threat Philip’s eyes filled with tears, though he manfully closed his lips on the sob that tried to escape. Ann felt the rebuke quite as much as her pupil, even if she did not show her discomfort so plainly. But the downcast eyes, the underlip caught in white teeth, spoke plainly enough to the perceptive eyes of love. Patrick cursed his clumsiness. He had meant only to help her, to strengthen her hand. Instead he had distressed her. How best to mend matters?

  He dropped a hand on Philip’s shoulder and said gruffly, “Be off with you, idle-bones. I’ll try if I can coax Miss Beverley to come with us on Friday. And after supper tonight, we’ll see how you acquit yourself with the twice times.”

  His mind relieved of its prime anxiety, Philip gathered up his slate and pencil and fled. Patrick turned to the silent girl. “Young horror, isn’t he?” he said cheerfully. “I don’t know how you keep your patience. But give him his due, he’s an ingenious little devil. Last year—before you came—it was putting off bedtime. You’ve no notion of the excuses he devised. His milk was too hot—or too cold; he hadn’t said his prayers; the moonlight would keep him awake; the string of his nightshirt was in a knot and he couldn’t undo it; the milk had made him thirsty and he wanted a drink of water—no end to it. You seem to manage much better. I wish you will teach me the trick of it before you desert us in September.”

  Ann revived swiftly to this skilled handling. The meek apologies dried on her lips. “Because I tell him stories if he comes right away,” she confessed, laughing. “I’m not sure whether it’s blackmail or bribery—but it’s not a very moral approach.”

  Patrick laughed too. “It works—that’s the main thing. I’ve been meaning to compliment you on the improvement in him. He is happier and busier and better mannered. It has made a vast difference to me, having the care of him taken off my hands. Is he making reasonable progress in his studies?”

  “Except for arithmetic,” agreed Ann, shaking her head, but no longer feeling crushed by her own deficiencies.

  “Yan, tan, tethera?” teased Patrick. “For myself I always had a soft spot for ‘Yan-a-bomfit’ and the beautiful finality of ‘Gigit’, though I never ventured to tease my tutor with them. But he is only six, after all. Which reminds me, what about this picnic? Can you manage it? You know I sometimes wonder how we did before you came. Certainly we were never so comfortable or so well fed. I have good cause to call down blessings on a certain brass candlestick!”

  Such praise, when she had looked for reprimand, put Ann in a glow of happiness. She blushed rosily and stammered confused thanks, her mind already busy with plans for a picnic lunch that should rival Mrs. Hartley’s. Patrick said that Bob Alder was very willing to lend Donna for her to ride. He himself would ride Maggy and Philip had Jigs. It remained only to discover Philip’s wishes as to the selected spot.

  But Philip, approached on this head after supper, had a surprise for them. He had acquitted himself very creditably with the two times, having spent the hour before supper in rhythmic recitation, and his face shone with the confidence of recent achievement as he said, “I want to go to the Court. It’s not so very far if we cut across by Hollin Bush. Is it, Will?”

  “It’s a mighty long way for Jigs,” said Will uncomfortably. So that was why the child had been so uncommon persistent in his enquiries as to the exact direction of the Court. Will rather wished that he had not been so helpful with his replies.

  Patrick looked dubious. “It could be done,” he admitted, “if we made an early start. But why the Court, brat? There’s nothing to do there. And to make no bones about it, I’d as soon not picnic on land that was once ours. Wouldn’t you rather go exploring in Kingsdale?”

  Philip’s chin jutted obstinately. “No. Not this time. Because I want to see if my acorns are growing.”

  Even Patrick looked blank at this. Seeing their mystification, Philip elaborated.

  “Papa had lots of trees cut down. So Sturdy said we must plant some more. And he gave me a whole bag of acorns.”

  Since Sturdy was the lodge-keeper at the Court, the matter was now plain, and though Patrick viewed with distaste the prospect of re-visiting his childhood home in what seemed to him a somewhat clandestine manner, he raised no further objection. There were not many treats in Philip’s life. He would not spoil this one by showing his own reluctance.

  The weather, at any rate, chose to favour the picnic, and Jim promised them that there would be no rain to spoil their pleasure. They set out early. The horses would have to be rested in the heat of the day, and, as usual, there were several places where they would have to walk. Patrick said little, but Philip made up for it. He was filled with the glory of being seven, only slightly tarnished by the fact that he had been obliged to leave his birthday gifts behind, all save the woollen cap presented by Meg and Jenny. This he had insisted on wearing, though it would have been difficult to imagine a more unsuitable head-gear for a scorching July day. He had also failed in a spirited attempt to convince his brother that there would be plenty of space for the model schooner in one of the saddle bags, and that the little lake at the Court w
as just the place for a ceremonial launching. It seemed impossible to convince the child that he could no longer come and go as he pleased in his former home.

  This brief set-back was promptly forgotten once he was in the saddle. He was soon chattering away as gaily as ever, drawing Ann’s attention to such features of interest as appealed to a small boy. These ranged from the bleached skull of a rabbit to a derelict cottage where Will had told him that you might find an owl’s nest. Scenery held no attraction for him, but it was different with his elders. They were coming now to a softer, richer country. Ann might have succumbed to the wild magic of Deepdale’s high fells, and because they were her first love they would always have a special place in her heart. But the Dee valley in high summer had beauty of a different kind, a gentle maturity that held nothing of complacence. These lush pastures, too, would endure the savage onslaught of winter at high altitudes, but this was their smiling time. They lay open, fertile, welcoming; and every curl of the track presented new vistas of changing loveliness. Ann, suddenly aware of the exhilaration of holiday, of new sights and scents, straightened in the saddie and sniffed the mingled odours of gorse blossom and hay and river with deep appreciation.

  With the decision to ride to the Court rather than into Kingsdale, the idea of a camp fire had been abandoned. Fortunately it had never reached Philip’s ears! Perhaps next time, thought Ann cheerfully, in the confident assumption that she would be there to make one of the party. Patrick suggested that they should lunch by the river, where wide shelves of sun-baked rock offered themselves as seats and tables. It was a delightful spot, with trees sufficient to give a shade for the horses and the song of the river to provide an accompaniment to idle talk.

  A small boy and a shallow stream need no entertainment from grown-ups. Philip was never out of sight. He wandered back to them once or twice, to show a pebble, “all stripey like a peppermint humbug”, to report the presence of a trout, “at least that long” under a big rock, and to renew his supply of eatables, but to all intents and purposes they might as well have been alone. Ann, busy with the food, was quite unconscious of self, and Patrick, lulled by the beauty of the day, allowed himself to forget everything but the pleasure of watching her, beneath lids lowered, presumably, against the brilliant sunlight. He wished, idly, that she had been wearing the old pink dress. In that she had seemed young and vulnerable—almost attainable. Today’s riding dress, though plain enough, gave her an elegance that put her beyond his touch. But at least for today she was all his. He watched with tender amusement as she set out the carefully prepared feast.

  Because it was a feast, she had roasted a chicken, cunningly seasoned with rosemary and carefully prepared for picnic eating. She had baked little white bread cakes to go with it, crusty outside and soft within, getting up at four o’clock so that they should be baked in time and eaten in their first perfection. Luckily in all the birthday excitement no one had commented on the smell of fresh-baked bread that pervaded the kitchen. And greatly daring, she had brought a pot of butter mixed with chopped thyme and parsley to spread on the bread, though knowing the dubious eye with which men folk always regarded strange foods, she had taken the precaution of bringing one of plain butter as well. It had been her first action, once the picnic place was chosen, to set these, and one or two other items to cool in the stream. Philip surveyed the portion that his brother had accepted and wanted to know what had turned the butter green, but seeing Patrick eat it with obvious relish was persuaded to try one himself, after extracting a promise that he need not finish it if he didn’t like it. He took a very tentative bite and made no comment, but Ann noticed that he took two more pieces, well laden with slices of chicken, before retreating to his chosen vantage point, a rock in midstream that could only be reached with the help of three rather wobbly stepping stones.

  “This bread is absolutely delicious,” said Patrick suddenly. “No, not the herb butter, though that’s good, too. The bread itself. Did you make it?”

  Ann nodded, pleased.

  “And what time did you get up this morning?” demanded her employer acutely.

  She grinned, and told him. “But it was for Philip’s birthday,” she pleaded excusingly, seeing his brows draw together.

  It served. His anger melted, though he did his best to sound severe as he told her, “You are a thoughtless headstrong chit! You’ll be dying on my hands before I get you home tonight. Up at four—and then riding all day. Never heard of anything so ridiculous.”

  Ann stared at him solemnly, made a gallant attempt to look guilt-stricken and penitent, and giggled.

  The mobile brows lifted enquiringly.

  “I was just remembering some of our childhood adventures,” she explained. “I’m no sheltered flower, you know. I was brought up to early rising—even to riding all night at times, with food and sleep snatched where they could be got.”

  “That’s as maybe. But while you are in my charge you’ll take no such foolish risks with your health,” he returned firmly. “What’s more, you will rest for an hour now, before we set out again.”

  She protested that she was not in the least tired but he paid no heed, arranging an empty saddle bag and his discarded jacket to make a pillow for her and cutting a couple of armloads of bracken to soften the contours of the unyielding rock. “So seasoned a campaigner should be able to sleep on that,” he told her. “Try to catch up on some sleep. Philip and I will investigate the possibilities of that trout, but we’ll not go out of earshot.”

  She closed her eyes obediently, half pleased by his concern, half resentful of his masterful ways. The makeshift couch was surprisingly comfortable, the murmur of voices, an occasional shriek of excitement from Philip, mingled with the stream noises to provide reassurance. Before she had done wondering how long she must lie passive before she dare get up and join in the fun, she was asleep.

  Perhaps she was not quite the seasoned campaigner that she had pretended, but she did possess one attribute that most soldiers eventually acquire. However deep her sleep, she usually awoke to immediate awareness of her situation. So it was on this occasion. She lay still for a moment, savouring the luxury of sunsoaked idleness and wondering vaguely how long she had slept. She could still hear the murmur of Patrick’s voice, though he was speaking very softly, doubtless out of consideration for her supposedly sleeping self. What a beautiful speaking voice he had, she thought dreamily. Softened and deepened as it was now, a voice to entrance the sense.

  Ann heard him say, “But today at least I may keep. Today you are mine. All my life I shall remember the curve of your cheek pressed against my old jacket, the softness of your mouth, relaxed in sleep, and the lovely shape of your small scarred hands against the green of the bracken.”

  There was an odd thundering in her ears. Her heart was behaving in a most peculiar way. It seemed to be beating madly somewhere in her throat till she felt as if she must suffocate. But she could not really have heard those words? For once dreams must have carried over into waking.

  Startled, half unwilling, she opened her eyes. Patrick was leaning against a birch tree, one arm crooked round a convenient branch. On his face, half hidden in the tree’s dappled shade, she glimpsed for a moment such an expression of adoring tenderness that involuntarily she gasped and blinked in sheer disbelief. It was only for an instant. But when she opened her eyes again he was smiling down at her in perfectly friendly fashion and saying apologetically, “Did I startle you? I came to see if you were awake. Philip has been building a dam, and he demands your presence at the great moment when he releases the pent-up waters.”

  Philip’s voice calling from the river completed the return to normality. Ann accepted the hand that was offered to help her to her feet and scrambled down to the bed of the stream, still a little uncertain as to whether or no she had dreamed the whole. Watching Philip as he jumped triumphantly on the erection of turves and stones—to the considerable detriment of his clothes—she put aside the warm intimacy of those moments o
f waking; carefully, as one would place in quietness and safety, some small feathered creature that had fluttered unaware within one’s grasp. Later—tonight perhaps—she would permit herself to remember.

  Chapter Eleven

  Loitering so long by the river, they must waste no more time, announced Patrick, or they would be late for the birthday spread that Janet had promised to prepare against their return. But the horses were well rested and very willing and they made good speed along a much-used bridle track. Ann was quite thankful for Donna’s playful ways, since they demanded all her attention. Patrick was quiet, but perhaps that was the hurt of returning as an alien to his lost home. Philip was quiet too, but Ann had no hesitation in ascribing this to a surfeit of jelly and fruit pie. Certainly he sprang to eager life when they overtook a red-headed lad somewhat older than himself, jogging along placidly on a fat cob.

  “Sam! Sam!” he cried joyously, ranging alongside. “It’s my birthday, and we’ve come to see you. And this is my very own pony.”

  “Sam Sturdy,” explained Patrick, as the lad grinned at them bashfully. “Anyone at home at the Court, Sam?”

  The lad rubbed his nose. “Well—yes and no, sir,” he said doubtfully. “They bin back best part of a week, but never to ’ome much. Happen Sir Stephen’s somewhere about place, but ’er ladyship drove off into Kendal just afore I set out. Spankin’ new carriage and all.”

  Ann could not help seeing the tightening of the knuckles as Patrick’s brown fingers clenched on Maggy’s rein, but his voice was careless enough as he said, “Miss Beverley and I are scarcely dressed for an afternoon call. Do you think your father would permit you to accompany Philip on his explorations?”