by Mary Mackie
‘Don’t!’ I twisted to look at him. ‘No, don’t think it. We mustn’t wish them dead.’
He gave me an odd, sardonic smile. ‘It wasn’t them I was thinking of. Oh…’ at my look of horror he took my face between his hands and kissed me hard, leaving my mouth bruised. ‘Don’t look like that. I don’t mean it. Just sometimes, when my life seems to have lost all meaning…’ With one finger he traced the line of my brows, the shape of my nose, a tender light growing in his eyes. ‘Do you know how expressive your face is? I could never tire of watching your face, love. I felt that when I first knew you. If I hadn’t been such a young fool… I should have defied my parents. I should have made you my wife. If only I had had the courage…’
‘Hush.’ I stopped the words with my fingers across his lips. ‘We can’t change what is, Geoffrey.’
Our love found expression in physical closeness, until once again desire blotted out all else. He loved me sweetly, leading me to my fulfilment while himself holding back.
Again he left me in time, his body rigid until he let out a long, long breath and a shudder ran through him. His arms tightened, until I almost cried out for the pain of it, as he kissed me fiercely. Then he turned away and sat up, stretching himself like a cat.
I laid a hand on his back, spreading my fingers against the play of warm muscle under his skin. ‘There was a time you were not so careful.’
‘I know.’ He glanced down at me, sadly and tenderly. ‘Thank God nothing came of my stupidity.’ Nothing – only a child lost for ever, and three years of exile for me. But now was not the time. When I told him, everything must be right. I managed to return his look steadily, and even to smile a little. ‘You should have a child, love. You should have an heir. Is Lucinda…’ But before I could frame the question properly he abruptly got up and began to dress.
‘It’s late. We must go.’
And so I knew that he did not wish to talk about his wife, any more than he wished to talk about my husband. In this private world, Lucinda and Basil had no place.
* * *
As I walked away down the narrow street, my lips still bruised from his kisses, every step brought me nearer to reality – nearer to the guilt that waited, driving away the warm glow that was on me. I had planned to visit Aunt Beatrice but I was afraid she would see the truth written on my face. Everyone I encountered seemed to look at me with knowing eyes.
My way led down St James Street, where the sign on a window still read ‘J. Stead, Seamstress’. I sometimes saw Mrs Stead about the town, grown older, greyer, thinner… still alone. Was that the fate of mistresses?
Adultery. It was an ugly word.
* * *
Despite my misgivings, and my frequent vows to end the affair, Geoffrey and I continued to meet as often as we could. For a few hours on each occasion the sordid room on Greyfriars Gate was transformed into an arbour of love, where heaven was briefly ours.
What harm were we doing? Basil no longer wanted me, and Geoffrey’s marriage was not happy – he never talked about Lucy but that in itself seemed to indicate how little he cared for her. But each time I left him my conscience told me I should not see him again. If we continued in that way, we should be discovered sooner or later. Or perhaps our love would become as unclean as the room where we met. We might come to blame and hate each other for the squalor of it.
Despite all my rationalising, the meetings continued. Each time, I promised myself, would be the last. But each time, when it came to it, I had to see him just once more. And once more. And once more.
The cold weather held into March. We suffered a minor disaster when the shepherd’s hut went up in flames during lambing. It took with it the orphan lambs that Taggart had been rearing by hand, though the shepherd himself was unharmed – the fire started during the day when he was at the far side of the lambing pens. But it upset him. I can see him now, almost in tears, wearing the clothes he had worn for weeks, with a thick growth of beard – during lambing he never left his post or shaved. He swore that he had left his stove safe. He couldn’t think how it could have happened. It didn’t make sense.
We put it down to a freak accident. But it did mean that Taggart had to sleep in the barn, away from his flock for a few hours every night, and a few nights later something got in among the lambs and killed a dozen of them, and two ewes, mangling their throats. The vet said it looked like the work of dogs.
‘Ye shouldna have peached on the man Chilvers,’ was McDowall’s opinion. ‘He has friends hereabouts. Yon Davy Timms is still at large. And there’ll be others who’ll no’ be pleased that you turned their friend in to the Peelers. If ye ask me, this is their revenge.’
It was not a comfortable thought.
Nor was that an end to it. When it seemed that the thaw was coming, the men set to work readying the farm equipment. Only then did we discover that two of the ploughs had been damaged: one had a handle sawn half through, on the other the links and chains that held the whipple-trees had been loosened. Along with the trouble in the lambing field it left suspicions hanging. Were there militant unionists among my own men? McDowall denied it, and so did Plant – Orchards’ men were all loyal; it had to be outsiders.
We informed the police, with little hope of their catching the culprits; many petty crimes were being perpetrated against farmers by unionists and other malcontents. This month it was Orchards, next month it would be somewhere else.
Basil too seemed to think that Amos Chilvers’s accomplices must be behind the troubles, but he became impatient when I wanted to discuss it. Any small interest he had taken in the farm seemed to have evaporated, along with any tender feelings he had once had for me.
Since I could hardly share my worries with Mama, who would have fretted herself into hysterics, or with Geoffrey – those precious hours when we met were too brief to waste them in discussing farm business – I found myself confiding in Robert Wyatt. Now that he was back staying with his family at the Grange, Robert frequently accompanied Felicity on her visits.
‘It’s a bad time for farming in England,’ he agreed. ‘Everything’s changing. And I wouldn’t be a tenant to the prince, not at any price. Have you ever thought of emigrating? Maybe you should come out and see how we do things in New Zealand.’
He had been so successful himself that he saw emigration as the answer to everyone’s ills. However, when I mentioned this conversation to Basil he said that Robert Wyatt should ‘keep his blasted advice for those that need it. We’re doing fine here, without his interference.’
Basil did not take to Robert, not at all.
But Felicity and her sisters enjoyed being squired by their handsome brother. He was certainly of a more pleasant disposition than Hal, and better looking, too, with much of the open air about him, in brown skin, fair hair streaked with sunlight, broad smile, ready laugh, and merry hazel eyes.
* * *
On 7 March, that year of 1873, my brother Johnny gained his majority and came home to claim his inheritance. The formalities were completed at the solicitor’s office in Lynn, where the uncles, as trustees for Father’s estate, handed over responsibility to Johnny. They would continue to stand by as advisers, naturally, but he was now master of his own fate. The fact seemed to bemuse him.
We celebrated with a family dinner at Weal House, to which everyone came, including Uncle Henry. I overheard him telling Johnny about some of his foreign trips with the prince, to which Johnny replied, ‘Yes, that’s what I want to do – travel. One can get tied down too soon, don’t you think?’
Uncle Henry, nearing forty and still a merry bachelor, heartily concurred.
Next day we held a feast for our workers, who cleared one of the biggest barns and decked it out with bunting and lanterns, celebrating the coming of age of their new master with dancing and an impromptu variety show, with everyone giving his party piece. Benstead recited a droll monologue; Ned Plant revealed a magnificent bass singing voice; Taggart played the fiddle, accompanied by his wife o
n a penny whistle, and young Jack Huggins amazed us all with a juggling act in which he kept a ball, a stick, and a milking stool all spinning in the air together. When McDowall’s children, Stella and Donald, appeared in Scottish dress to perform a sword dance, it seemed to point to a happy future of contentment for us all, working together as one unit.
The only shadow over the evening was my concern about Johnny, who despite his smiles remained grave and somehow apart.
It was a day or two before I had the chance to tackle my brother about his intentions. On an afternoon when at last freezing winds gave way to milder breezes, he and I rode out to see the farm and I pointed out the various fields, the merits and drawbacks of certain areas of clay or gravelly sand; I told him about the current stage of ploughing and harrowing, of our problems with the freezing weather, foot-rot among the sheep, blight in the beet, and of course the game that caused so many headaches both with its rearing and its destruction.
Johnny listened, nodded, said, ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and ‘I see.’
Having had enough of it, I drew rein and looked directly at him. ‘Well, are you going to take it on, or not?’ I hadn’t meant to sound so aggressive but I was tired of his attitude. I had worked for over four years in order to keep the farm for him; I had married Basil in order to keep the farm for him; I had sublimated my life, my hopes…
Johnny slid me a sidelong look. ‘Take it on? How do you mean?’
‘Don’t you know what I mean? The farm’s yours now. Are you coming home to take over?’
He blinked at me. ‘Hasn’t Basil talked to you about it? I told him – at the party in the barn – I asked him if he’d be willing to stay on for a while. He said he would.’
That surprised me into silence – I had thought Basil was only waiting his chance to be gone.
‘There’s so much I want to do before I settle down,’ Johnny said. ‘So much more I have to learn. Farming’s not what it was in Father’s time. The great plains of America are opening up, and they’re vast. Grain, and cattle – when the new refrigerator ships get going they’ll be sending us beef, too. With steam ships moving cargoes that much faster there’ll be more and more produce coming from abroad. Not only from the Americas but Australia and New Zealand. We’re going to have to think differently, work differently, to face that challenge.’
He reminded me of Victor, enthusing about steam-engines. He also reminded me of Robert Wyatt, with whom he had had at least one long, intense discussion.
‘Since you say “we”,’ I remarked, ‘am I to assume that you do intend to be involved?’
‘Of course! Of course I do. I regard it as a sacred trust, left to me by Father. But…’ He frowned, trying to find the right words. ‘But first I want to finish my education, and see something of the world.’
A sigh eased out of me, barely audible in the breeze, and I turned my eyes to the rolling horizon where young winter wheat was showing green. Along the headland a boy ran with a clapper, crow-scaring. ‘Robert Wyatt’s persuaded you to try New Zealand, I suppose?’
‘No. I’m going to America.’
I looked at him along my shoulder. ‘You have it all planned?’
A slight flush burnished his pale cheek as he admitted, ‘A friend of mine… well, he has an uncle – Sir Youngman Houser – who owns a spread out there – a cattle ranch, that is. I’m going out there for a year, to work with him and travel about a bit.’
‘I see. And what will happen when that year is over?’
‘Then… then I’m not sure. Look, I know you love the farm. The thing is… when I do take it on, you’ll have to leave. I couldn’t live in the same house as Basil, and besides… besides, I shall want to do things my own way, without you for ever at my elbow watching me. This way, it means you can stay here for a bit longer.’ He searched my face for a moment before saying again, ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
Odd how the human mind works, how we can delude ourselves. In all the time I had striven, both while Father was alive and since he died, the farm had been all-important to me. Yet now that I was expected to stay on, to keep fighting against impossible odds, I realised that I had actually been looking forward to relinquishing the burden.
‘Basil thought so, too,’ Johnny said. ‘He agreed to stay on as nominal tenant because he thought it was what you wanted.’
‘Well, it is, of course,’ I said, and – perversely enough – in part it was true.
Because that was what he wanted to hear, Johnny didn’t probe further. ‘Then what are we arguing about? Come on, I’ll race you back for tea.’
He won the race. I let him. I hung behind and eventually let the horse slow to a walk, my thoughts in turmoil. I loved the farm; it was my home and I wanted to stay, but at the same time I had dreamed of letting go the work and the worry, of turning to my own life. In some vague subconscious I had looked forward to having time for myself – time, perhaps, to mend my marriage, to plan on raising a family.
As for my other, wilder dreams about Geoffrey Devlin… they would always be with me, no doubt. But they were unattainable. If I were sensible I would pack them away and look to making something of the reality that was my lot.
I asked my husband why he hadn’t told me about his conversation with Johnny. ‘I thought you hated the farm. You’ve often said—’
‘Maybe I’ve changed my mind. You’re happy here. I’ll stay for your sake.’ But he wouldn’t meet my eye.
Baffled by his sudden consideration, I said, ‘I could be happy elsewhere, if it was what you wanted. I shall soon be thirty. If we don’t have another child soon it may be too late.’
‘No good either of us pinning our hopes on that. Look at your aunt and uncle at Weal House, wed for nigh on forty year and no child to show for it. Best have something else to keep you occupied.’
Once he had been eager for us to have a family, but since Georgie died he seemed to have lost his appetite for fatherhood. Indeed, he so seldom turned to me in the night that there was little likelihood of my conceiving from him.
My life was in flux. My destiny lay somewhere away from Orchards Farm, but the shape and manner of it were hazed in uncertainty.
* * *
At last the weather gave, the ploughs, harrows and seed drills went out. I hired a team of local men to pick stones; it was back-breaking work, but most of the men seemed glad to be earning. However, there was still some discontented muttering, especially when March Manyweathers brought storms of hail, high winds and driving rain.
On a brighter day, when the young crop was springing green and the hedgerows budding with hawthorn blossom, I walked out to Batty’s Bottom, our lowest field, to assure myself its heavy clay soil was ready for harrowing; I didn’t entirely trust McDowall’s judgement on the matter. As I came out of the gate in my working clothes, boots heavy with clotted mud, serge skirts ragged and filthy at the hems, I saw in the lane a young woman, seated side-saddle on a lovely chestnut gelding, her head and shoulders framed against the brightness of the sky behind her.
She might have been a model for a fashionplate, wearing a grey velvet habit trimmed with black. Black feathers bobbed in a matching cap, with a thick, spotted veil drawn over her face.
She had been waiting for me.
Lucinda Devlin. Geoffrey’s wife.
‘Mrs Pooley,’ she greeted me.
Though my palms pricked with apprehension, I managed to reply calmly, ‘Mrs Devlin. Good morning.’
‘I’ve been wanting to speak with you.’
‘Indeed? Will you come up to the farm? My stepmother—’
‘I should like to know what’s going on between you and my husband.’
I stared up at her, at the feathers describing a graceful curve against the cloud-scudding April sky, at the pale face with its cruel disfigurement half concealed behind the veil. Through a throat that was suddenly dry, I said, ‘Going on? I’m sorry, I don’t—’
‘Please don’t trouble to lie. I know what’s between you.�
�� A tear trickled down her cheek and tangled in the veil, and when she spoke I heard the catch in her voice. ‘Oh, don’t worry, he hasn’t betrayed you. He never would. Not Geoffrey. It’s just that I know him so well. I always knew there was someone. I’ve often suspected it might be you. But I was never sure, not until that night at the lake. It was written on both your faces. He came after you, didn’t he? You were together, in the darkness. You’ve been seeing him ever since then.’
‘Mrs Devlin…’
‘No, don’t.’ She put out a hand, palm forward, as if to bar the sound of my voice. ‘Don’t deny it. I’m not angry. I’m almost glad, in a strange way, that I know who you are. It means I can appeal to you, woman to woman. The others… well, the others were just passing fancies. I didn’t care who they were, so long as—’
I found my voice, though it sounded unfamiliar even to me. ‘Others?’
‘Did you think you were the only one?’ She shook her head, pitying me. ‘Oh, no, Mrs Pooley, there have been others. Many others. Here and in Italy. In London, too. Men…’ Her mouth twisted on the words, ‘Men will take their pleasure, no matter who suffers for it.’
Other women. Shock held me cocooned, unable to think.
‘I have tried not to mind it,’ Lucinda was saying. ‘I knew he would always come back to me. But you… there’s something different about you. I know it from the way he speaks of you, and from the way he looks at you. The way he acts when he’s been with you. And it frightens me. Oh, please, I beg you…’ She was almost strangling on her tears, her voice growing thick and faint as she pleaded, ‘Don’t let him leave me. I don’t care if you sleep with him. I don’t care about that. Be his mistress if it makes him happy – and it does, I can see that. I won’t try to stop you. I won’t make trouble. But… don’t let him leave me. That’s all I ask of you. Please… don’t take him away from me! If he sends me back to Italy, I… I’ll kill myself. I will, I’ll kill myself!’