by Mary Mackie
I looked up, surprised. ‘You – and I?’
‘We’ve been so comfortable this last few months, haven’t we? Papa would find us a little house, wherever we choose. I know we could be pleasant together, Rose. You don’t have to give me an answer at once, but do at least think about it. We could be companions for each other in our old age. Sisters – sisters in sorrow.’
Phrased like that, it sounded less than appealing.
* * *
All the time we had been away, I had not been able to rid myself of thoughts of the great shoot that the prince planned for his birthday. It was like a storm hovering on the horizon, drawing steadily nearer. One thousand brace. Orchards would never stand it. I knew I had to go home, to be there, to stand in defence of my land and my people, whatever the result.
There was another reason, too – I wanted to be nearer to Geoffrey. There had been no word from him. Not that I expected to hear. He had made it clear that I must make the next move. Going home was a start.
Felicity and I returned to find autumn colouring the Norfolk landscape with scarlet and gold, flame and rust. Mrs Benstead and the maids had the farmhouse sparkling, the larder overflowing with good food, the air redolent of baking and pickle-making and plenty. Haystacks loomed tall about the yards; pigs were fattening in their styes, sheep in the pasture, bullocks coming home from the marshes; shelves in the fruit store groaned under their burden of apples and pears. And – what both pleased and saddened me – my trap was repaired good as new, thanks to Ben Chilvers, with a fresh coat of red paint and black and white curlicues done by the local sign-writer. The trap would always be a reminder of Basil.
McDowall and I walked the farm, under a sky of scudding clouds whipped up on a wind that tossed bright leaves through the air and had gulls and rooks struggling. As we talked, I learned of arguments with gamekeepers over nests and young birds that had had to be left undisturbed, so that weeds choked the fields and some areas could not be harvested; and I saw for myself the presence of hares so numerous that a field of mangold tops was a solid mass of heaving brown bodies.
‘The keepers deny it,’ McDowall said, ‘but they’re importing hares by the hundred. We’ll have nae beet tops nor green crops left by the ninth o’ November.’
‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ I demanded.
‘What could you have done to stop them? What can anybody do?’
The keepers’ only concern was to provide ample game to make the prince’s birthday battue the brilliant success he so confidently anticipated. The ninth of November was a scant two weeks away.
The prospect depressed me. I foresaw only more of the same, on and on for ever – bigger and bigger shoots, more and more Guns, huge numbers in the game record books. His Royal Highness refused to understand that a farmer had to make a living. If farming interfered with his sport then farming must give way. How could one fight that kind of arrogant, selfish blindness?
On a fine afternoon, out walking with Felicity and me and his three younger sisters, Robert Wyatt let the others get ahead while he recounted one or two things that McDowall had omitted to tell me. The men had been grumbling, essential work had been neglected, and Ned Plant was once again threatening to leave. Robert hadn’t informed me of these things because, as he said, he hadn’t wanted to worry me unnecessarily while I was trying to recoup my strength.
‘It’s not my place to say it,’ he added, ‘but your McDowall is a poor sort of steward. To begin with, he’s never where he should be. Once he knew you were gone, he started taking time off, vanishing for hours or days, leaving everything to poor old Ned Plant – without whom you’d be in sorry straits, I’d have you know. It’s him that has kept this place going. McDowall’s just plain lazy. And he’s undermining morale with his lackadaisical attitude, putting things off, letting things slide. If he’d been my man, I’d have sacked him long ago.’
‘And who might I get in his place?’ I sighed. ‘Better the devil you know… Anyway, Johnny will be home soon. He’ll deal with it.’
‘Let’s hope he hurries, or he may be too late. If Beck has his way you won’t need a steward. For you won’t have a farm.’
‘What?’ My scalp felt tight with alarm. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that Beck’s planning to put one of his cronies in at Orchards. I met the man – not more than a week ago. He was riding the lanes, viewing the farm, bold as you please. He’d even been up to the house and asked to be shown round, though apparently Mrs Benstead soon saw him off.’
‘She hasn’t mentioned it to me!’
‘I told her not to bother you with it. I said the man had misunderstood. I didn’t want the servants fretting.’
‘And where did you meet him?’
‘I happened to be riding by when I saw him examining the soil in that lower field of yours – the one with the heavy soil and the willow copse. Batty’s Bottom, isn’t it? Anyway, when I asked him what his interest was, he said he was to be the next tenant. He even hinted that he’d come to some financial arrangement with Beck – bribed him, not to put too fine a point upon it – to get the Hamiltons out and himself installed.’
I could only stare at him, shivers parading up and down my spine. ‘Oh, Robert…’
‘He said his name was Towers – Sebastian Towers, if that means anything to you. I didn’t reveal who I was, except that I said I was from New Zealand. So he talked quite freely. Seems his wife and daughters are looking forward to having their social prospects advanced by the connection with the prince.’
‘Oh, dear heaven,’ I sighed. ‘That man Beck has done nothing but work against me ever since I faced up to him at the audit. Maybe we should let this Towers person have the place. He may not think it such a bargain when he knows what living with the prince and his shooting really means.’
‘You’re just weary,’ Robert said with a smile.
‘I’ve only recently returned from a long holiday.’
‘Not long enough. It can take years to recover from the sort of blows you’ve had lately. Years, and maybe a whole change of scene. Felicity tells me you and she may think of setting up home together.’
‘It has been mooted.’
‘But you’re not ready to give up on life, I’d guess.’
I sighed, shaking my head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You’ll never give up, Rose. It’s not in your nature. You’re a fighter.’
‘I used to be.’
‘A leopard can’t change its spots.’ He turned aside to lean on a field gate, beyond which the root tops were thick with brown bodies, all chewing merrily. When we shouted, the nearest ones started up and ran a few yards, only to settle down to feed again.
‘Hopeless,’ I sighed. ‘They’ll ruin us, but what does the prince care? Mr Towers should see this.’
Squinting against the low sun, Robert pulled his hat brim down, not looking at me. Nor answering me. What he said was, ‘How would the prospect of New Zealand appeal to you?’
The idea was so unexpected that I couldn’t think how to reply. I watched his averted profile, taking refuge in misunderstanding. ‘I thought you already had a housekeeper.’
‘So I have.’ He turned his head to look at me with steady hazel eyes. ‘You know very well what I’m saying, Rose. I’m asking you to be my wife. I think we could do well together. I’ve always been fond of you, you know. Since we were children.’
‘Robert…’
‘Think about it,’ he advised. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to come away with me rather than stay here pining for Geoffrey Devlin?’
The blood drained from me with a chill, the surge of it sounding in my ears like the sound of the sea in a shell. Had Felicity betrayed my confidence? Hardly able to think, I breathed, ‘Who told you that?’
‘Hal did,’ Robert said quietly.
‘Hal?’
‘After you went away to Brighton, he told me what had happened. He laughed about it – how he caught you running to the woods and made a wild g
uess about Devlin, and saw the truth from your face.’
Dear heaven… Hal had guessed the truth? Then Geoffrey hadn’t told him about us. Geoffrey hadn’t lied to me.
‘We had a terrible fight about it,’ Robert said. ‘I told you he gave me a bloody nose, didn’t I? It amused him that everyone thought he was the man in the case. It added to his reputation.’
‘Then why…’ I managed, licking dry lips, ‘why did he tell you the truth?’
‘Because he knew it would hurt me.’
He didn’t need to say more. One of Hal’s main talents had been for inflicting pain on those weaker than himself.
‘It doesn’t matter, though,’ Robert said, laying a hand on my arm. ‘It’s all past and done with. Come with me to New Zealand, Rose. A wife like you would be an asset. You’re a lady. You have breeding. But you don’t mind hard work. You know about the land – about sheep. I don’t want a milk-and-water girl who’ll sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam. I need a partner. A helpmeet. There are precious few comforts out there, but it’s a good, healthy life for a strong woman. Think about it, won’t you? I plan to go back early next year. We could get married quietly, just before the ship sails. Lord knows you’re no grieving widow. Why be hypocritical about it? It would surely save you from being haunted by the past. Out there nobody cares about that. You can make a fresh start.’
It was not the most romantic proposal a woman ever had, but at least it was honest. I asked him to give me time to consider.
Feeling less at ease with him, and needing time by myself, I made my excuses and turned aside to walk through the fields alone, leaving the Wyatts to go on to the Grange for tea. My talk with Robert had only presented me with more problems. Did I want to remove myself to the other side of the world with a man for whom I felt nothing more than friendship? Wasn’t one loveless marriage enough for any woman?
There was also the new threat to our tenure of Orchards. What hope had I of outwitting Beck if he had set himself to get rid of me at last? He had the prince’s ear, the prince’s approval, while I was still out of favour. Damn the man!
For the first time in months a surge of real emotion set my blood drumming – a surge of anger. How dared Beck plot to take Orchards away from me? Had he really promised the tenancy of Orchards to someone else? How dared he?
I found myself emerging from the fields into the narrow hilltop lane where the new water tower stood tall among trees, a magnificent erection of gothic red brick. A hare scurried away from me, startling two more that bobbed up among the grasses and loped away down the lane, only to veer aside as horses came trotting, a pair of fine bays drawing a closed carriage. Its passage made me draw aside to give room and I glimpsed the royal coat of arms on the carriage door.
I started to walk on after it, but a voice from the carriage bawled, ‘Stop!’ Someone inside thumped on its roof to signal the driver and he drew rein some yards ahead of me. The door swung open. An equerry stepped down, doffing his hat.
‘Mrs Pooley,’ he called. ‘His Royal Highness would like to speak with you.’
Sighing to myself, for I had hoped to remain unnoticed, I trailed through the grass and directed a curtsey to the open doorway of the carriage. In the shadows, framed against the far window, I saw the top-hatted head and shoulders of the Prince of Wales.
‘So you’re back, Mrs Pooley,’ he said shortly. ‘Not before time. Been neglecting your duties, I’d say.’
‘I left the farm in good hands, sir,’ I replied, though the criticism stung.
‘It’s not the same as being here yourself. Not the same at all. It seems to me you’re guilty of neglect. These lanes need making up, and the verges ought to be cut. Your fields are rough with weeds and your outhouses need a coat of paint. It’s not good enough, Mrs Pooley. I expect my tenants to have a care for appearances. This is Sandringham estate, not some run-down, uncared-for open village.’
‘I shall be glad to set things in order,’ I said, ‘but it can’t be done until the shooting season is over and we are no longer hindered by the need to tread softly for sake of Your Royal Highness’s game.’
The equerry beside me drew a sharp breath of reproof and I saw the prince’s eyes narrow.
‘I hear your brother is intending to take on the tenancy now your husband is no longer with us,’ he said.
‘That was my father’s intention, sir.’ Had he something in mind to thwart those plans?
‘How soon is he expected home from his jaunt to America?’
‘Quite soon, sir. Quite soon.’
‘What’s he doing over there when he’s needed here, tell me that, eh? Gallivanting about, wasting his time like so many of the younger generation these days. Well, he had better come home soon, Mrs Pooley, or he may find that my intentions differ from those of your father. Tenancy agreements have their bounds, you know. Can’t let one of my farms go to ruin for want of a proper master, can we?’
Oh, I detested him for his arrogance, for half-spoken threats that he would carry out without a second thought as to our welfare. Anger made me blurt, ‘Then perhaps Mr Towers will do better, sir.’
‘What?’ He sat forward, so that I could see him more clearly. ‘What’s that? Who the devil is Mr Towers?’
‘It seems he’s the man your agent has chosen as the next tenant for Orchards,’ I said, feeling so bitter and helpless that I no longer cared if I offended. ‘Well, why not? Mr Beck has worked for years to get rid of me, it seems only right that he should have the privilege of choosing the next tenant. Especially when, as I hear, he expects to be well rewarded for his patronage.’
‘Mrs Pooley!’ The equerry was outraged. He tried to intervene, but the prince snapped, ‘Leave it, Waterson.’ Through the shadows his eyes narrowed as he perused my face. ‘Is this true, Mrs Pooley?’
‘It’s what I’ve heard, sir, and I’ve no reason to doubt my source. But one thing I do know – your land agent hates me and has for years taken every opportunity to blacken my name. He has done his utmost to work against me – and against you, sir, for he’s told you lies and twisted the truth in order to turn you against me. I am Your Royal Highness’s most loyal subject, though I confess I am not the most meek and mild. And now my brother stands to lose his inheritance – everything my father worked for – because of one vindictive man who has deliberately poisoned Your Royal Highness’s opinion of me. It cannot be right, sir. It cannot be right!’
The prince looked furious. I half expected to hear him order me to the Tower, echoing Mr Carroll’s Queen of Hearts – ‘Off with her head!’ Frowning as blackly as ever I had seen, he settled back into his seat. ‘You should have been here, Mrs Pooley, not hiding away in France all summer. I only hope, for your sake, that all is ready for my birthday battue. I shall hold you personally responsible if anything goes wrong. Good day to you, ma’am!’
The equerry, giving me a look of deepest disgust, stepped back into the carriage, the door closed and it was away.
I stood a while sunk in depression, close to tears; thanks to my temper, I had just ensured that Johnny would be put out of Orchards.
* * *
Later, at the farm, Felicity commiserated and soothed me, assuring me that the prince was not so vindictive as I imagined. Little she knew, thought I. She talked encouragingly of our going away somewhere and setting up home together once Johnny was installed as tenant at Orchards – I had not told her of her brother’s different proposal and neither, apparently, had he.
Everyone had ideas of what I should do with my life. Everyone except me; I was just floating, letting events sweep me along. To disaster, so it felt. To add to my torment, there had been no word from Geoffrey since I returned home. What had he discovered in Brighton? Had he found any clue to the whereabouts of our daughter? Every time I went out I half dreaded to hear some new tittle-tattle about a child brought to Ambleford, but there was only silence.
Had he grown tired of waiting for word from me? Had he turned elsewhere for comfort? Ho
w could I blame him if he had? He had been patient with me despite all the times I had doubted him, or let my fears override my love for him. And when, at last, he had been free to ask me to marry him, all I had done was prevaricate.
The days drifted away, towards the prince’s birthday and the great shoot.
* * *
On the night before the shoot I couldn’t sleep. Tomorrow the prince and his guests, his dogs and his guns would be taking over my farm.
The keepers, who had camped out in my coverts all summer to guard the game, had warned me that they intended to beat through Poacher’s Wood, then across the meadow and the field called the Upper Half’un, to the copses on the hill behind the house. Carriages would fetch the Guns back to the big house for luncheon, and the afternoon would be spent around Five-Acre Wood. It was as if the prince, bent on vengeance, had determined to violate every part of the farm I held dearest. Pegs had already been set out to mark the positions for the Guns. Farm roads would be off-limits to everyone except those involved in the shoot. It was proof that the farm was his, not mine.
I crept downstairs in the middle of the night and huddled by the parlour fire, nurturing the embers into a small blaze. Felicity was asleep in the guest room which she had made her own since June, and the tweenies and Swift were in the attic dreaming their own kind of dreams. Shivering, I stared into the fire, remembering the times Geoffrey had been in this room. How I wished he were here now.
The noise was at first so distant that I couldn’t make it out, just a commotion that resolved itself into sounds of shouting and dogs barking. I stood up, hugging my dressing gown round me, staring at the velvet-draped window. The sounds were coming from Poacher’s Wood. Coming nearer. Men, and dogs.
And then there was a shot – a single blast of a shot-gun quite close at hand. The shouting came nearer, and the cacophony of dogs. Then someone hammered at my door.
I pulled back the curtain, unlatched the shutter and opened it a fraction, peering out into the night. Across my driveway one or two lanterns gleamed on a group of men with noisy, restless dogs.