All the dear faces (18 page)

“
I'll give thi' a lift if tha' like, Annie. 'Op up, an' t' nipper. Stick them dogs in t'back.
”

She could not have been more surprised if the Prince Consort himself had invited her to share his carriage but quickly, before he could change his mind, she 'hopped up', lifting Cat up beside her and dragging the two reluctant dogs by their ropes until they lay in the back of the cart.

“
Thanks Bert," she said gratefully, wondering if Sally had mistaken her husband's antipathy towards 'fallen women' though her woman's instinct which had been fine-honed during the last four years, did not believe it.

“
'Tis nowt, Annie, only neighbourly," he said, running his smile over her, a smile she knew well, a smile she
had seen
on many men's faces and though he made no move towards her – well, he wouldn't, would he, not with Cat on her knee and the two young dogs in the back – she was quite sure that, had it been broad daylight, Bert Garnett would not have given her the time of day and she was even more certain that she had just come up against another of those obstacles she had mentioned to this man's wife only the other day
.

Chapter
10

The Merle Collie ran silently at the heels of the black mare, so close it seemed in imminent danger of being struck on its nose as the lethal iron-shod hooves lifted in the gallop. The path on which they travelled was stony and well defined, snaking between the beck on one side and the growing bracken and heathery upland on the other. The horse's coat rippled like black satin across its muscled flanks and straining neck, the sunlight giving it a gloss even the hard work of its groom could not improve on and the two animals, each well bred, moved with that special grace only the thoroughbred can achieve
.

The man on the mare's back was of the same breed, sitting so easily and naturally in his saddle he might have been part of the animal, his head high, his back straight and supple, his strong horseman's legs which gripped the mare's side well muscled in the thigh. He was soberly dressed in a dark grey riding coat and breeches. He wore a tall black beaver hat. At his throat was a snowy white cravat, beautifully laundered and impeccably knotted, and in its folds glittered a gold and diamond pin. It seemed to say that though he was a man dressed for the work at hand, whatever that might be in his well-cut, beautifully tailored coat and trousers, he was also a man of wealth and style
.

The sound of the horse's hooves on the steep and stony path was barely discernible, obliterated by the roar of the magnificent waterfalls which pounded down the precipitous wooded ravine at the base of the Bakestall plateau from where the mare had just come. Dash Beck, issuing from the vast waste of Skiddaw Forest, leaped exultantly over the lip of the escarpment towards the gentler pastures below,
plunging in a series of falls to a mighty torrent of roaring thrashing waters. Whitewater Dash, it was called. A great inferno whose thunder could be heard many miles away down the valley and whose spray shimmered like the diamond at Reed Macauley's neck in a myriad sparkling droplets over horse, rider and dog
.

The track became more pronounced as the silent trio dropped down towards the valley, still desolate and lonely but showing signs of the hand of man in the appearance of a well-tended drystone wall running away from the beck and meandering through the bracken until it began to climb up the rolling slope of the opposite fell. There was a farmhouse, small and grey, surrounded by a grove of larches, with outbuildings and a yard in which pecked dozens of hens and a showy cock. A couple of dogs barked lustily on the end of chains and a man looked up from some harness he was tinkering with, nodding dourly in Reed Macauley's direction. A cart stood by the gate which led out of the yard and a small boy sat on the plank which served as a seat, flapping imaginary reins and 'gidduping' to an imaginary horse. Fresh white washing strained at the washing line to the side of the house and grey smoke was wisped in torn shreds from the circular chimney. A well-built Lakeland farm, Upfell Farm, belonging to the Mounseys and since he had married Sally Mounsey, Bert Garnett. It was as old as the fells in which it was set, or so it seemed, with its thick walls and heavy roof, its interior like so many Lakeland farms crammed with crooked doors and tilted floors and odd little staircases up and down. There were hundreds of them scattered in sheltered crannies against the fells of Cumberland, the one to which Reed Macauley was drawn but which he had no intention of visiting, none at all, even though he happened to be passing, a mile or so away towards Gillthrop. He could not get her out of his mind – that was his trouble. Three months now since he had last seen her nearly up to her waist in the snow and still, at some part of the day, perhaps for only a flashing second, she came to haunt him. She was always laughing. Though she might be imperious,
her head held in that haughty, stiff-necked way she had, her grandness would dissolve into warm and lovely laughter, into the glowing love which she showed her child. Eyes long and brown and clear would narrow and melt with her emotion, her mouth wide and smiling over her perfect teeth, all brilliance and warmth, an enchantment which brought him time and again down the track alongside Dash Beck and on to the lower slopes of Great Cockup where her farm lay
.

Each time he went there he would turn about impatiently and gallop off home furious with himself and his own weakness for were not women all the same? This one was no different to any of the pretty and willing females with whom he was acquainted and who were available to any man of wealth. But still he could not rid himself of her. He had been across to the inlands of his farm, the big grassy slopes which were surrounded by drystone walls and where his ewes had been brought to lamb. In winter Reed and all the other sheep farmers brought their flocks down to these safe pastures where if the weather was exceptionally bad — and when was it not, in winter? — they could be given hay to augment their feeding
.

He had three shepherds who knew every inch of the terrain but still he felt the need to keep an eye on his flock. It was lambing time — April — and the ewes had been gathered for easier shepherding. The ewes were mated and the lambs of Lakeland were born later in the year than their southern cousins for up in the north where the weather was fickle and menacing, even up to the month of May, new-born lambs would be hard put to survive the fierce late blizzards which were a feature of the district. It had been known for snowstorms to linger well into May and when they were done with there was the hazard of foxes which raided among the newly dropped lambs, of ravens who would tear out their eyes and of eagles who would carry off the newly born in their strong talons. It needed constant vigilance not only on the part of his shepherds, but their sheepdogs who guarded his flocks, one of which ran at his heels today
.

Bess was that most unusual of sheepdogs known as a 'Merle'. Most Collies have dark brown eyes but hers were a bright and vivid blue and it had been remarked sourly more than once among his neighbours, many of whom envied him his wealth and position that it was only to be expected that a 'fancy dan' such as he would have a dog whose eyes matched his own. Not for him the usual black and white of the Border Collie but he must have something different and Bess's body colour, though she had the white Collie marking on her face, chest, feet and also her tail tip, was of broken black and grey, giving the impression of torn patches of cloth. The two pups he had given to Annie Abbott were both 'Merles' since Bess was their mother
.

He heard her voice as he drew his horse to a walk beside the singing beck and in the most alarming way he felt his heart move lurchingly in his chest. The horse he rode and the dog at his heels both pricked their ears.

“
Blackie, Bonnie, come," the voice called, and as he and his animals moved over the small rise which separated the Mounsey farm from hers he saw her. Again his heart bounded and though no blame could be attached to her since she had done nothing to cause it — for could she help her own loveliness? — he felt the angry impatience rise in him. She was dressed in her usual plain hodden-grey skirt, which had once belonged to Lizzie Abbott, though he was not aware of it. Lizzie had been shorter than Annie and the hem of the skirt came barely below her calf, revealing the fragile slenderness of her white ankles and her feet which were pushed into her clogs. The bodice was low at the neck and almost sleeveless and her skin was rich and creamy, as lustrous as a pearl where the sunlight touched it. Her hair had been plaited at the back of her head, one long plait as thick as his own forearm, crisp and glowing a rich copper, swinging down her back to her buttocks where it curled vigorously at its end. She looked glorious, the plainness of her attire, the drabness even, revealing her beauty more than had she worn silk and satin and costly jewels. She lifted her hand to shade her eyes as
she watched her dogs progress and her breasts rose in proud fullness, the nipples hard and pointed beneath the thin material of her bodice
.

His breath caught in his throat and he felt his manhood stir enquiringly, tight and uncomfortable against his saddle. Jesus Christ . . . Oh, Jesus Christ, but she was the most . . . there was really no word . . . none
.

The child was sitting on the wall at the front of the farmhouse, her own bright copper hair catching and reflecting the April sunshine, a halo of burnished curls springing about her small head which turned to look in his direction as he approached
.

He had meant – or so he told himself – to ride on by the farmhouse, keeping to the track which ran behind it, but some wayward impulse, some madness – and he knew it was that – had him draw on the reins, bringing his mare to a halt. The collie who ran behind him stopped when he did, standing when he did, though her eyes were bright and watchful and her ears swivelled to listen to the commands the woman gave. They were familiar though of course the dog knew they were not meant for her
.

Reed did not get down. He sat and waited for Annie to look in his direction, lounging indolently in his saddle, not at all concerned whether she did or not, his careless posture implied, though in his eyes, should anyone have cared to look, was a prick of light and a narrowed tension which belied his careless demeanour. Both mare and dog waited for a command and when none came the dog lay down, her head on her paws, the very picture of relaxed indifference though her eyes, which swivelled from side to side, gave the lie to her appearance
.

Annie Abbott took as much notice of him as she would a passing sheep – less, for if he had been a sheep, she might have wondered whom he belonged to, he thought angrily. She stood, her hands on her hips now, her feet apart, watching the two young dogs as they flew up the field towards her. She let them get within ten yards of her then her voice, crisp and commanding, told them to "Liedown", which they both did at once. One of them began to creep on its belly, its eyes on her, its tail moving rapidly on the tufty grass, loving the 'game' but longing to run to her and greet her with its joyous affection but her hand stayed him and her stern eye kept him there until she spoke the words "Come here" when they both leaped forward. It took a moment or two of patient handling since they were young, no more than puppies, but she had them sitting, one on either side of her, their bright faces turned up to hers, their bright eyes asking "What next?"

“
Go on then," she said, reaching to pat each fine head, "Go to Cat," and the pair of them began the frolicking to which dogs of their age are prone, leaping up at the child on the wall. Cat jumped down to them, fending off their loving tongues and exuberant kisses. Laughing and beseeching them to "Get down, Blackie, get down, Bonnie," she began to run down the field, the two dogs at her heels
.

The man and woman did not speak. The tension between them was immediate and both of them were aware of it. It was ridiculous, of course, since they were nothing to each other, each was thinking, merely neighbours, and what was in that to cause this tendency to be short of breath, the reluctance to meet the other's eye, to shift about in the saddle, to shuffle on the tufty grass, as she was doing. It was in both their minds confused, angry, fearful even, and when their eyes met the impact of it was alarming
.

He was already irritated by the way his heart had quickened when he heard her voice, now his alarm, since it was alarming to be so affected by a woman, when none before had done no more than stir his loins, made him sharp, cruel even.

“
Those dogs are meant for sheep, not for performing tricks in a field." They were the only words he could think of to cover his own breathless reaction to her presence.

“
Is that so, Reed Macauley? Well show me some sheep
and I'll set about training the dogs to them. If not, then take them back with you since I know they came from you and if there are limits to be put on what I do with them they're no good to me."

“
I did not say they came from me. I know nothing of them but they were obviously bred to be sheepdogs and to have them playing the fool . . ."

“
If you did not leave them tied to my door then who did, tell me that? That bitch you have there is very rare and those two are the same colourings. There can't be many Merles in this area."

“
I know nothing of that. I am only remarking that it is a complete waste of two good dogs to have them performing tricks and playing with the child as they are doing.
”

The shrieks of laughter and the excited barking which came from the bottom of the field grew merrier, though the child and the dogs were hidden from view. The grasses were growing tall, studded with bright daisies and cowslips, and beneath the hawthorn tree which stood to the side of the farmhouse wild daffodils swayed and nodded in the light breeze. There was a smell in the air of growing things, of newness and brightness and hope, and of their own volition the eyes of the man and woman met and clung, truth in them, though not acceptance. Her anger grew for it was fed by her fear. Her lip curled, lifting over her teeth as though she would like nothing better than to sink them into some part of him which would hurt, or better yet, maim him.

“
Whether they came from you or not, and I can think of no one else in this . . . this God-forsaken place who would part with them, especially to me, they are mine now and I shall do with them as I please.
”

They were not of course, arguing over his dogs but something much deeper and more meaningful.

“
That is your privilege, Miss Abbott, naturally since as you say, they are nothing to do with me . . ."