The Girl from the Tanner's Yard

by Diane Allen

  12

  Thomas Farrington hid in the shadows of the hedge that ran on either side of the path from Black Moss Farm to the road that led to Providence Row and the flay-pits, waiting for Lucy to return home from work. He paced back and forth, thinking over the plan that he had hatched in his head since the discovery of Bill Bancroft’s secret. He’d lusted over Lucy Bancroft for so long and knew she was the key to inheriting the flay-pits after her father’s day, if he was to marry her. He spat out a mouthful of saliva as he thought about her disdain for him and how little respect she had shown him, even though he was her father’s right-hand man. Well, that was going to change as from today. She would do as he wished, else it would be the worse for her family.

  He stood still as he heard Lucy coming down the road and then stepped out in front of her, his plan clear in his head. Today was the day he would become top dog and she would respect him.

  ‘For Lord’s sake, you frightened me to death!’ Lucy exclaimed and then walked on past him. She wasn’t going to stop and be alone with a man she always thought not quite right in the head, and of whom she was frightened. She wondered whether to break into a run, but knew that in her long skirts he would easily catch her.

  Thomas followed her every step and caught hold of her arm tightly and made Lucy stop in her tracks, pulling her round to look at him. ‘That’ll be the last time you look down your nose at me, if you’ve any sense. Or it will be the worse for you and yours,’ he snarled as he held her tight.

  ‘Let me go, you idiot! I’ll tell my father, and then it’ll be the worse for you!’ Lucy pulled on her arm and tried to free herself, while Thomas caught her other arm and pulled her tightly to him.

  ‘No you don’t. You listen to me, Miss Flighty, you’ll do as I say.’ Thomas held her closely, his foul breath making Lucy feel nauseous as he held his face just inches from hers. ‘I know your father and mother’s little secret, and I’m not about to hold my tongue unless you do as I demand.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are on about. Now let me go – you are mad in the head and need locking up,’ Lucy yelled and struggled.

  ‘Mad in the head, am I? It’s not me that’s buried all those babies in the lime pit in the yard. That could be classed as murder or, if not murder, then your father could be jailed by the authorities for not notifying them of their deaths. Even that would give your father at least two years in jail for each baby buried there. Time enough for your own family to be put out on the street, and for the slander that would follow to ruin you all. So what are you going to say now, Miss High-and-Mighty?’ Thomas held her even more tightly. ‘Now that I know your dirty family secret.’

  ‘Let me go! I don’t know what you are on about. What babies?’ Lucy struggled, her heart pounding as Thomas put his face next to hers. The stench of the flay-pits was on his clothes, for unlike her father, Thomas never bathed and he stank.

  ‘You know – you can’t help but know. And now I’ll tell you what you can do to stop me from opening my gob to the peelers in Denholme. You wouldn’t want to see your mother and father took away and both your brothers and your sister left parentless. That would be a terrible shame.’

  Thomas kissed her cheek and Lucy squealed and tried to kick him and free herself.

  ‘Now that’s no way to treat your husband-to-be – because that’s what I am, unless you want the world to know about your father and mother’s secret. You’ll marry me to keep your family’s shame hidden.’ Thomas sneered and tried to kiss Lucy as she protested, shaking her head.

  ‘Never! You can do your worst,’ Lucy screamed.

  ‘Then I will and you’ll lose everything, and that will include your nice clean job with your high-and-mighty Mr Brooksbank, I’ll see to that.’ He pushed Lucy back into the thorn bush at the side of the road and attempted to kiss her again, before loosening one of her hands from his grip in order to feel her breasts.

  ‘Never! I’ll never marry you.’ Lucy slapped his face with her free hand and managed to push him off her body, as the thorn bush pierced her clothes. She kicked Thomas hard and tried to shake him off her, as he kept his grip of her arm.

  ‘You will, and you will start by walking out with me. You’ll meet me here on Saturday night – else Sunday morning I will be walking into Denholme and having words with the sergeant there.’ Thomas held her arm tightly and pushed her back into the thorn bush.

  ‘I’ll never do that. Me walk out with you – I’d rather die! You are a filthy, despicable man and I don’t know why my father employs you. I hate you. I’ll never marry you,’ Lucy yelled at him.

  ‘Oh yes, you will, or else everything your father has worked for will disappear in the blink of an eye. And you will be so desperate that the prospect of marrying me will seem like heaven. Don’t think of saying anything about this to your father, either, else I’ll make more problems in that yard of his and he’ll soon find out who the real boss is. And it’s not him. Those men that work for him look up to me, not him.’ Thomas forced another kiss from Lucy and then pushed her further into the thorn bush. ‘Saturday evening, six o’clock, here – else it will be the worse for you.’ He threw Lucy to the ground and stood over her. ‘And I expect more than a kiss. After all, you’ve promised more to every man you’ve flirted with, so now it’s time to show me what you’ve got.’

  Thomas leered over her and then spat next to her. He would have her, if not by fair means, then by foul. It had been a good night when he had seen Bill burying the family shame, and Bill had played straight into his hands. He swaggered off down the lane back home to satisfy himself, before going for a drink at The Fleece.

  Lucy lay, distressed and crying, in the roadside, thankful that she had not been raped or worse, as she watched her filthy attacker walking down the road towards the flay-pits. What was she to do? Thomas Farrington knew everything, and he could ruin her family with just a few words to the police down in Denholme. She’d no option but to meet him on Saturday night, but she’d no intention of ever marrying the manipulative, horrible bastard. For now, she would keep out of his way and not say anything to anyone about the attack. Come Saturday night, she would be more prepared. And if Thomas thought he was going to lay a finger on her, he could think again, because she might flirt with men, but she would never lift her skirts for any man – especially a man like Thomas Farrington.

  ‘Are you alright, Lucy? You seem quiet this morning.’ Dorothy looked at her normally chatty daughter, as she buttoned up her boots before setting out to walk up to Black Moss.

  ‘I’m fine, Mother, just a little tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.’ Lucy looked up at her mother and wanted to tell her about Thomas Farrington’s threat, but didn’t wish to give her more worry.

  ‘Don’t you work too hard for that Adam Brooksbank. You’ll get no thanks off that sort, and you never do. They take everything for granted.’ Dorothy looked at the white face of her daughter as she stirred the porridge for everyone’s breakfast.

  ‘He’s not like that, Mam. He looks after me well and never asks too much of me.’ Lucy quickly defended her boss.

  ‘Aye, well, you can sit down and have some breakfast before you go up there. You look pale and if you get any thinner, there will be nowt left of you. It’s alright watching your figure, but you need something inside you in order to work.’ Dorothy shoved a bowl of steaming porridge in front of Lucy and watched as she pulled a face at the breakfast being thrust under her nose.

  ‘I’m not hungry, Mam, and I’m going to be late. Give it to our Nathan.’

  Lucy grabbed her shawl, not giving her mother the chance to reply as, out of character, she left her home by the front door, rather than walk out of the back door and through the yard, where she knew Thomas Farrington would already be at work. She didn’t want to set eyes on the man. She hated him and the more she thought about meeting him on the coming Saturday, the more she realized that she could not do it, no matter what his threat. He’d have to carry out his threat; or perhaps she cou
ld move what was left of the poor babies buried under the lime without anybody knowing. Both thoughts filled her with fear as she climbed up the lane that led to Black Moss Farm, passing the hedge where Thomas had attacked her. The scratches of the thorn tree were still sore on her back, and her blouse had been torn by his aggression. And she was filled with terror as she remembered the look in his eyes and the way he had treated her. There was no way she would ever marry a man like that and ruin her life. No good would come of such a union, so she had to think of a way to thwart his threats. And she would rather die than lie next to him every night of her life.

  The morning was warm, but it made no difference to Lucy as she walked up the road to the farmhouse. The weather could have been doing anything and she would not have noticed, she was so lost in her worries. Walking through the farmyard, she was thankful for the refuge of Black Moss – she was safe there. Thomas Farrington would not dare bother her there, and Adam Brooksbank would defend her, if ever he dared to. She could relax and go about her business until it was time for her to walk home again. And with today being Thursday, she would ask Archie to wait for her and would walk back home with him. Archie would never even think of doing the things Thomas Farrington had done to her, with his filthy hands groping her breasts. How dare he, she thought, as she stepped into the porch of the farmhouse and opened the heavy oak door into the homely kitchen.

  ‘Morning, Lucy. I’ve just finished chopping the kindling sticks. I can lay the fire, if you wish?’ Adam looked up at his maid and smiled.

  ‘No, it’s alright, sir. I’ll do it.’ Lucy knelt down next to the fire and riddled the still-glowing embers from the previous evening, laying the newly chopped sticks on the warm coals and blowing gently for them to catch fire, before adding coal to the blaze.

  ‘I’ve filled the kettle and got the bread out of the pantry. A slice of bread and butter with some cheese will suffice for my breakfast. I want to be out in that garden as soon as I can. The day promises to be a good one, so hopefully I’ll get the rest of the soil turned over and then you can help me set it with whatever seeds we have.’ Adam sat back in his chair, with his jacket not yet on and his braces hanging down by his side, instead of being pulled over his white chambray shirt.

  Lucy looked at her boss. He was better than any other man she had ever known. Who else would do the things he had done, when it was expected of a maid.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll brew your tea and butter the bread, and then I’ll go and milk the cow. It does look like a good day – spring is here, by the looks of it. It will soon be summer and the swallows will be returning to nest under the eaves of the buildings. They always tell me that summer is not far away,’ Lucy said as she put the kettle on to boil. ‘Archie is due to be here today, isn’t he?’ she enquired, hoping that he had not changed his mind about the day’s work.

  ‘Yes, he’s going to be up on the moor. He’s going to make a start on the top pastures, now that all is straight in these bottom fields. I can let the cow out in another few weeks, so she won’t have to be fed, once the odd sneaky frost has disappeared, so that will be a job less. Next I’ll go to the May Fair and buy myself some sheep and perhaps a piglet, and then I’m fully stocked and can quite happily feed myself and sell the surplus for a little profit down in Keighley. To think I turned my back on all this, all those years ago. I didn’t know what I was giving away.’ Adam sighed.

  ‘Perhaps it was not the right time for you, sir, but now you appreciate it more. You sometimes don’t realize what you’ve got until it’s threatened.’ Lucy passed Adam a slice of bread and cheese rather than have him leave the warmth of the fire, and poured him his tea when the kettle had boiled.

  ‘You have got a wise head on your young shoulders, Lucy. I wish I had been blessed with as much sense when I was your age. Instead I was headstrong and selfish.’ Adam looked into the fire and thought about the past.

  ‘I’m sure you did what you thought was right at the time. Sometimes you have to do things that you regret, but hopefully things always right themselves.’

  Lucy stood up straight and looked at her master. He had regrets, but none of his regrets would touch hers, if she got blackmailed into marrying Thomas Farrington. She couldn’t do it; she wouldn’t do it; and she would not be walking out with him on Saturday night.

  13

  Adam stood back and looked at his handiwork: the garden was free of weeds and the ground was dug over and planted with potatoes, broad beans, beetroot and cabbages. And Lucy had planted a row of peas, with sticks foraged from nearby hedges already in place, for the young shoots to grow up. It had been a good day, but now he was in need of a slice of the bacon-and-egg pie that Lucy had left him for his supper, and a drink.

  The days were drawing out and the sun had not yet set, when he decided to sit outside with his supper and ponder the day. He bit into his cold pie and looked around him. No wonder his parents had been so content to live here, for there was nothing more to be desired in life. He’d enjoyed his day, getting his hands dirty with the earth’s good soil and Lucy keeping him company. Although saying that, she had not been her usual sparky self today, it seemed, and she’d asked if she might walk home early with Archie, even though she didn’t seem to be flirting with him in her usual manner. In fact, the more he thought about it, Lucy had definitely been a little reserved in her ways the whole day. He must remember to ask her if she was troubled by anything, and if her mother and family were alright? It was usually her family that she was bothering about, when she had not a lot to say for herself.

  He took another bite out of his pie and followed it by a drink of tea, then thought how good a gill of ale would be, after a day of toil in the garden. In fact he’d been meaning to pay a visit to The Fleece for some time. Perhaps this evening was as good as any, he thought, as he collected his cup and empty plate from beside him and went inside, to change his shirt and wash before he walked the half-mile to where the inn stood by the roadside, at the crossroads between Halifax, Keighley, Cullingworth and Denholme.

  The Fleece was the local hostelry for those who worked at the flay-pits and the quarry. It was Thursday evening, so nobody should be intent on drinking themselves into a stupor, as all would have work the following morning. Thursday night would be as good as any, he decided, as he pulled on his waistcoat, added his fob watch and drew on his jacket, picking up his walking stick as he left the house and starting down the lane with a whistle. A gill of the finest Yorkshire bitter would be a welcome reward for all the effort he had put into the garden, and it was time he met some of the locals and made himself known to them.

  A soft spring breeze was blowing, the smell of the surrounding peaty moorland filled the air and the skylarks that were busy nesting flew up above his head, flitting and singing, as Adam made his way down the path and onto the main road, stopping finally outside The Fleece’s main doors. When he had passed it on the night of his arrival home, the inn had looked foreboding and dark, but now, in the light of the setting evening sun, the old drinking hole looked welcoming as Adam walked up the three steps into the entrance of the centuries-old inn.

  ‘Good evening, sir. What would you like to drink on this fine spring evening?’ The jovial barman, with his red cheeks and a balding head, but sporting a fine pair of greying sideburns, leaned on the bar and looked at the gent who was new to his inn.

  ‘A gill of your best dark ale, please.’ Adam stood at the bar and looked down the low-beamed room, with tankards hanging from the beams and whitewashed walls covered with paintings of local scenes. It had been a while since he had last drunk in the old place, and it had obviously changed hands in his absence. He looked around for a place to sit, once he had found the correct payment for the tankard of frothy ale that the landlord put in front of him. On the other side of the bar, in the main room of the inn, a group of young men stood together. All were drinking fairly heavily, and were laughing and making enough noise to wake the dead.

  ‘I’d stop in the snug e
nd, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir. Alex Braithwaite and his cronies are in, and they’ve been drinking since they arrived just after dinner. His father will have something to say to him in the morning.’ The barman winked and nodded to the tall blond-haired lad who was entertaining all the well-dressed men that stood around him, with his tales of derring-do. ‘They get a bit ripe with their language and then, if some of the lads from the flay-pits come in and all, they usually get to arguing.’ The barman nodded to the small oak table in the corner of the room next to the fire, which had just been lit. It was the best seat in the small snug, and Adam could still hear and see all that was going on in the main bar, but without getting involved.

  ‘I think you are right, although I don’t mind the freshness of youth and I’ve not been that sheltered. I doubt they will say anything that I’ve not already heard.’ Adam smiled. ‘I’ve spent many an hour doing the same myself in my younger days, doing the exact same thing in the same spot, so who am I to judge?’ He took a sip from his gill and winked at the barman.

  ‘So you are from around here? I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of serving you before?’ The barman looked at him and shook his head as a roar went up from the other side of the bar. ‘Bugger it, now we are in for fun – some of the lads from the flay-pits have come in through the back door. I’ll have all on to keep the peace, as they hate one another. I’m Ernest Shepherd, but these are not my flock. If I weren’t making money out of them, I’d kick their arses home, the whole lot of them.’ He threw his not-too-clean towel over his shoulder and turned to serve his new customers.