All the dear faces (10 page)

She remained at the window for a while and the presence of her mother crept about her again, touching her with that almost shy affection which was all she had ever shown her daughter. Defensive somehow, as though she had expected a rebuff or perhaps her husband's irritation which could not do with any show of what he would have thought of as weakness. What a sad, drab life she had led, her daughter reflected, doing her husband's bidding, working every hour of daylight and then beyond into the dark night with no thought of her own needs, or even if she had the right to any, or her own satisfaction. With no hope of reward, not even that of affection nor gratitude from the man she had married. Her home had been her life. Keeping it neat and clean and the best she could make it and she would turn over in her grave if she could see it now, Annie thought sadly
.

Her clear, brown eyes became clouded as she looked back sadly at the hard and empty life her mother had led. And yet had her mother ever done anything to attempt to better it? Had she, in the beginning, when she was young and strong and pretty, perhaps able to cajole a kiss and a smile from her young husband, determined on a place for herself, one of importance in her husband's life, not that of a drudge but as an equal in the equally divided labour they shared? Had she made an effort to achieve for Lizzie Abbott and the family which she presumably hoped to have, some grasp of independence, some comfort, an identity which was hers, a knowledge of who Lizzie Abbott was, not Joshua Abbott's wife, but herself, or had life and Joshua Abbott trodden her down to the browbeaten woman Annie herself had known? Had she done her best to force her will on the harsh reality a daleswoman was destined to know, to twist it until it gave her some measure
of peace, content, hope, joy? Perhaps she herself was being unfair. Perhaps there was no way a woman such as her mother could ever gain what surely was due every human being, in some quantity and which Annie Abbott meant to have. Oh yes, make no mistake about it. She had been given this farm, this chance, and she would have all the things her mother had been deprived of. She would have these things. She was not awfully sure what these things were but if hard work, tenacity, a resolute will, a powerful determination and a knowledge of her own individuality, her own uniqueness was a gauge to reckon by, then she would succeed. She would not be another Lizzie Abbott. She would not depend on, nor answer to, any man, as her mother had, as she herself had been forced to do when she had run off with Anthony Graham. She would get there by herself. Again she was not awfully certain where there was, or how long it would take but she'd reach it somehow. On her own it would be difficult. It would be doubly so with Cat. A child born out of wedlock. A woman with no man's protection. She would be hard-pressed to find a friendly smile, particularly among these taciturn, independent, moral men and women of the dales and fells of Lakeland, not one of whom would give her the time of day when they saw what she had brought back with her from the outside world
.

But she had this farm, this land. She had no money, no livestock, nothing but the coppice wood standing beyond the field at the back of the house, but in which surely, with the knowledge her father had ground into her as soon as she could toddle, just as he would a son, she could make a living, something on which to feed her and Cat until she got on her feet? She would dig and plant and sow, weed and hoe and grasp sustenance from the earth as the Abbotts had always done. She would take one day at a time until the winter was over, find work, perhaps, in some other woman's kitchen as her mother had done in hard times. Anything to earn and save some money so that when spring came ..
.

Spring! Dear God, here she was, her blood thinning in
her veins, her breath ready to freeze in the air about her, her bare feet shuddering on the icy slate floor, no fire, no food, day-dreaming about spring when the harsh Lakeland winter was still to be got through. She should be looking for kindling to light the fire, for the oats to make clapbread to put in her child's mouth. Oh, please, God . . . just this once . . . Dear God . . . look kindly on me . . . Let there be peat . . . and oats in the kist .
.

It was there, just where her mother had placed it before she went up the stairs to her death. The kindling beneath the sconce, plenty of it, enough to start a fire and out in the barn would be the stacked, dried peat, the tree roots and ash tops her mother would have gathered to put on the slow burning fire. On the little shelf above the fireplace was the flint and striker and next to it in the 'candle-bark' in which they were kept were the rushlights her mother had made during the long winter evenings. When she had 'nothing else to do' since to drag her weary body to bed before she had the permission of her husband would have been unthinkable
.

The soot proved tricky. No matter how she brushed it, swept it, wiped it away, it lifted in a drifting cloud to settle on her hair and clothing, getting in her ears and every fold of her fine flesh. It was on her face and hands, she could taste it; she breathed it in with every breath and it made her cough and sneeze, but nevertheless within half an hour she had the beginnings of a fire and a pan of water, fetched hurriedly from the spring beside the house, bubbling gently over it, waiting for something to put in it. But what? The oats in her mother's kist had gone mouldy, she discovered, and were uneatable and besides the salt and the spices there was nothing in the house. No pickled meats in the brine vats, no salted pork. Cat was still sleeping, her face a grey smudge on her grandmother's white pillow, and Annie's only hope was that there might be a carrot or a potato, or a turnip to make turnip bread still left in her mother's vegetable garden. Obviously whoever had locked up the farm for the lawyers had removed all the edible food when they left, the smoked ham and mutton which
usually hung under the chimney canopy. If there had been any
!

She was just swinging the cloak about her shoulders, ready to brave the elements and see what could be found in the vegetable garden when some fist hammered lustily on the front door
.

Chapter
6

“
Dear God in Heaven, what have you been up to? You look like some climbing chimney boy," were his first words and her amazement turned at once to irritation and, surprisingly, momentarily to a deep mortification that he should find her in such a sorry state.

“
What do you want, Reed Macauley?"

“
Well, first of all I would be obliged if you would stop calling me by my full name. Reed will do, or Mr Macauley. Whichever you feel the most comfortable with. On second thoughts, though, perhaps the latter might be more appropriate since we are barely acquainted." There was a wry gleam in his blue eyes. "And I can't say I care much for your attitude, Annie Abbott . . . there you have me doing it now. I merely happened to be passing on my way to the blacksmith in Hause. Victoria has . . ."

“
Victoria?"

“
My mare."

“
Good God! What a name for a horse."

“
So people keep telling me. Or at least they do until I prove to them, usually with my fists, that the name is perfectly proper since I meant it as a respectful gesture to Her Majesty in the year of her coronation, which is when my father gave her to me. Though, to be honest . . ." He grinned and she could feel her own mouth tug, ". . my sense of humour does not appeal to everyone."

“
No, I can see that it wouldn't. Now, if you don't mind I have a lot to do . . ." treating him as though he was an unexpected and unwelcome caller who hoped to take tea with her, he thought irritably, though this time he kept his quick temper in check
.

“
Yes, I can imagine," he managed to say mildly enough. "A bath would be the first task, I should . . ."

“
Mr Macauley, since you prefer to be called that, I have only just this minute got a fire going. My child is ... "

“
Ah, yes, the child. It did occur to me that, being a somewhat . . . er . . . unconventional mother you might not have considered the state in which you would find Browhead, your parents being . . . gone, and the house untenanted as it has been for over a year. I realise it will seriously insult you ... " again the wry gleam, ". . . being as independent as you are, but . . . yes, yes, it is none of my business you are going to say, I can see it in your expression, but I was presumptuous enough to enquire into your circumstances and as I was on my way down here anyway, I brought something over. It was my cook, you see, a good-hearted woman, so she put one or two things together and I promised her I would bring them over.
”

Nothing to do with him, of course, he would have her believe. Left to him she and her child could starve to death, or share a bed in the workhouse.

“
Not much . . ." he continued airily, ". . . but if you . . . well, the child is bound to be hungry, or so my cook tells me, so, I will be on my way if you have nothing more to say. I am getting confoundedly wet dithering about here on your doorstep."

“
Nothing more to say?" she repeated somewhat foolishly.

“
Miss Abbott, you strike me as being a woman who always has something to say, more than likely on subjects which don't concern you. I am merely being polite so do not put on that aggrieved air with me and if I were you I should take this basket . . ."

“
I want none of your charity, Mr Macauley." She lifted her defiant head and though the soot lay in a fine cloud about it, it in no way detracted from the beauty of her hair. Since her mother had cut it many years ago no scissors had been put near it and it tumbled in a great profusion of rich copper, the curls, so tight he wondered how she got a
brush through it, falling down her straight back to her buttocks, wild, thick and springing. As defiant as she was, he thought, marvelling, needing no ribbons or ornaments to enhance its shining loveliness. She pulled her mother's old cloak about her as though it was made of velvet, ermine trimmed, and he felt her courage move him. Her clogs sounded a rebellious clatter on the wooden threshwood as she prepared to close the door but he stood his ground, no sign of the emotion she aroused in him showing in his face, his own proud head somewhat bowed beneath the low door frame. They confronted one another, neither ready to give way.

“
And the child?" he asked harshly, angry at something in himself which he did not care to name. A weakness she had awakened in him twice now and which drew down his dark brows in a frown
.

She hesitated then for if she was prepared to starve rather than accept Reed Macauley's largesse could she condemn Cat to the same fate? Neither of them had eaten a really decent meal for weeks ever since she had left the bar-parlour of The Plough in Market Harborough. Bread and cheese mostly, which was cheap and filling, a hot potato from a stall, milk, warm and frothy straight from the cow on the farms they had passed.