All the dear faces (27 page)

“
Nay," Phoebe said, "it's not like thi' ter give up so easy. I've not known thi' long, but tha've never struck me as bein' someone as'd lay down an' whine just 'cos a few daft buggers . . ."

“
Oh Phoebe, I know, I know. Those daft buggers as
you call them are not worth shedding a tear over, but sometimes something happens, on top of all the other misfortunes, which just seems to . . . well . . ."

“
What sorta things, Annie?"

“
Oh, I don't know, things you don't quite expect. They creep up on you from behind, and even though you're half expecting them, indeed you know very well they're bound to happen, they take you by surprise and . . . knock the breath from you.
”

Phoebe hadn't the slightest idea what Annie was talking about and the expression on her plain little face said so. She was a practical girl who understood the mischievous tricks life played on you, the calamities which you could see and feel, just like the one that had befallen them, yes them, since Annie's troubles were her troubles now, but all this business about things creeping up on you, behind your back, seemed a bit nonsensical to her. What sort of things? Did Annie mean like that Bert Garnett who was always skulking along the path from Upfell Farm and down to Browhead? Hanging about when his wife and mother-in-law thought him, she supposed, to be away on farm business, slipping into Annie's kitchen after dark on some pretext or other. His eyes were like those of a weasel fixed on Annie's breasts and he licked his lips as a cat might, which is about to lap at a saucer of cream. Oh aye, he was the sort who'd creep up behind your back, he was, but Phoebe was surprised that it should upset Annie who was quite capable of giving him a lug round t'earhole if he so much as laid a finger on her
.

They stood at the gate, Cat and Phoebe, waving and waving to her as she trudged up the lane in the direction of Gillthrop. The heavy sledge creaked along behind her. The rope they had hitched to it already bit into her tender shoulders beneath the old shirt and jacket which had been her father's. The dogs kept close to her side, looking back as she did, until they had turned the curve of the lane and Cat and Phoebe were out of sight.

“
Well lads," she said to them, settling her father's hat more firmly on her head, for it would not do if her hair
fell about her shoulders, "let's get going." She hitched up the trousers making sure the braces on them were secure, for the waist was too big for her. They felt strange, but the freedom in walking was marvellous. No wonder men wore them, denying the privilege to their womenfolk, she thought, as she strode through the village of Gillthrop. Women who stood in their doorways stared at her, aware that they had seen the tall youth somewhere but not awfully sure where it could have been
.

She took the road straight ahead to Uldale, squaring her shoulders beneath the chafing rope with which she dragged the sledge, the ache there infinitely less than the one in her heart which had begun when she had heard of Reed Macauley's impending marriage
.

Chapter
15

It was the man from Long Beck, the farm up by Dash Beck, who knocked at the door, and Phoebe opened it knowing they had nothing to fear from him.

“
Where is she?" he demanded to know abruptly, almost before the door was ajar, ready to push it wider and stick his foot in it, just as though he expected it to be shut in his face. He peered over Phoebe's shoulder, his frown forbidding but in his eyes was that look Phoebe had seen in them when last he was here.

“
The mistress is not 'ere at the moment," she said politely, as Annie had taught her. Phoebe was not to say where she was or how long she would be, Annie had said. On no account was Phoebe to let any caller know that Annie would be away overnight, in fact Phoebe was to act as though Annie was no further away than the coppice wood, or up on the peat moor digging for peat.

“
Can I give 'er a message?" Phoebe continued, her face expressionless, empty of all but her need to be courteous but at the same time close the door in the visitor's face since the biting wind was nipping smartly in through the open door.

“
Where is she?" the man said again, only his barely controlled awareness of the need for restraint on the doorstep of another's home keeping him from pushing past the stiff figure of the young girl and into Annie's kitchen.

“
She's out just now," Phoebe shifted not an inch.

“
But where, for God's sake? Is she up on the fell?" he asked, turning to stare up into the high distance of Great Cockup. He shaded his eyes with a gloved hand against the bright, cold autumn sun, then turned again to look down the sloping fields towards the lake as though Annie
might suddenly appear. The afternoon sun cast long shadows as it settled behind the stand of trees by the waterside. Tall Scotch pines, dense and darkly green, and all about them and about the lake, on its far side and blazing up the fells to where it met the grey craggy rocks, was the golden glory of the drying bracken. Gold and yellow and orange melting down to the blue and purple waters of the lake where the colours mingled, rippling out from the shore in moving beauty. On the very tops of the tallest fells there was the first faint dusting of winter snow.

“
Nay, I couldn't say," Phoebe answered politely, "but she'll not be long.
”

It was a mistake and as the words left her mouth, Phoebe knew it.

“
Then I'll wait," the man said at once and before Phoebe could test her puny strength against his, he had pushed open the door and was inside. The dog at his feet was told brusquely to wait, and the door, taken from Phoebe's hand, was closed upon the animal
.

Reed Macauley looked about him, ready for the affronted voice of Annie Abbott to come at him demanding to know what he was doing in her kitchen since he had not believed what the girl had told him. She was in the house somewhere he had decided, keeping her distance, unwilling to confront him, to listen to him, no matter what he had to say to her
.

And what had he to say to her? he asked himself, as he had done ever since he had ordered his mare to be saddled and had set off in the direction of Browhead. They were nothing to one another, he and Annie Abbott. They had never, in the twelve months he had known her, touched one another, never kissed or clasped hands. They had known no physical contact, had exchanged no promises, no vows, nor even words which might be construed as loving, and yet he loved her. She loved him. He knew it and so did she and he was, in the spring, to marry another woman. So why was he here? To do what? To say what? He did not know, he only knew that the compulsion to come, now that Esmé and her parents had returned to
Yorkshire, going before the winter snows locked them in, had been unassailable. Of course, he had heard of her misadventure in Keswick — who in these parts had not —and he meant to put it right if he could do so without upsetting that proud and rebellious spirit of hers. He'd give her the damned sheep if she'd let him, and if not, sell them to her at the lowest price he was able, if she would let him. That was the trouble. She was so damned high and mighty, she was likely to take offence and tell him to go to the devil, taking his sheep with him, even if he offered her the pick of his flock. But he couldn't let her go on like this, being humiliated and treated contemptuously by everyone in the district, sneered and jeered at, working her fingers and her proud back right down to the bone in her determination to be successful. Jesus, he had the power, the wealth, the influence to put a stop to it right now for there were not many in the parish of Bassenthwaite who did not owe a favour to Reed Macauley, and it would take but a word from him to set her on her feet and on the path she wanted to go. Of course, if he did that he would also give her the power she needed to snap her fingers at him when all he wanted, all he had ever wanted was to have her dependent on him, soft, loving, submissive, waiting, sighing for Reed Macauley. He wanted to look after her, not give her the means to look after herself. Even if he married . . . when he married Esmé, he and Annie could . . . many men had an .. . arrangement to which their wives made no objection. It was, at least amongst the upper classes, quite normal for a man to have a mistress, providing he was discreet and did not fling it in the faces of those with whom he was acquainted. Ezra Hodgson and Ben Pearson both kept a cosy nest with a pretty bird in it, Ezra in Penrith and Ben in Rosthwaite, far enough away not to offend the sensibilities of their wives, but near enough to ride over when they had a fancy for . . . well, what men with good, sensible, but unresponsive wives, needed
.

His eyes roamed the room as he waited for her to appear, noticing the shining, fragrant cleanliness of the
homely kitchen. So had his mother's looked years ago when he was a boy and the Macauleys, though well set up farmers, had not had the wealth, nor the need for the luxurious living he now enjoyed. His mother had worked in her kitchen, directing her maids in the making of soap and candles, bread and all the good food she had stuffed into his father and himself. A true farmwife, who thought nothing of spinning and weaving the cloth for their clothes, in between her many other household chores. Now, his wife had no need to do more than adorn his drawing room when her callers came, sit at his table and make small talk when his guests dined, make herself available in his bed when he needed her, and produce his children which a well-trained nurse and governess, or tutor, would bring up for her. Not for her this gleaming, glowing, well-polished comfort, the good smells of nourishing food which she had cooked in her nostrils, and the sight of her children about the kitchen table, busy on their primers, as Annie's child was, dogs sprawled by the fire and . . . dogs . . . where were the dogs? . . . The dogs were not here so where in hell had Annie got to where she needed her dogs with her? She had no sheep so why had she . . . ? Where had she . . . ? Where was she . . . ? The two girls round the table . . . reading apparently . . . two places set with plates and cutlery . . . not three . . . two . . . so where the devil . . . ?

“
Where is she?" he said for the third time
.

*

She had reached Caldbeck within the week. Though as the crow flies it was no more than ten or so miles from Gillthrop, the roads were winding and tortuous, simply no more than rutted tracks in some parts, high and treacherous, and she had made many detours as she moved from farm to farm, village to village, cottage to cottage, in the selling of her besoms, her swill baskets and her long woollen stockings. Though most of the farm women made their own, her goods had sold well in the villages and the small towns of Uldale and Caldbeck. Women there did not have the materials to make such things themselves, relying on
pedlars to bring them to the door or the market stalls at fair time. The stallholders at the fairs in the cycle of trading had bought the goods they sold from the farm women and, of course, wishing to make a profit for their trouble, had put a penny or two on the price, and the tall, good-looking young man with the soft voice was welcome with his cheaper and better-quality goods. She had spent three days in Uldale, moving with her sledge to every house in every narrow street, the dogs one on either side of her.
Blackie
and Bonnie were uneasy, quick to alarm, should something they did not care for threaten their mistress. They were not accustomed to people, to other dogs, to cats, horses, carts and carriages and every one seemed to them a menace with which they must deal. It took Annie's sharp commands to keep them from lunging at all and sundry. The men who passed her by, though they could not have said why, stared at her, curious and strangely ill at ease with the young man who had the graceful gait of a female which sat awkwardly on his tall, long-legged frame
.

She had pulled the sledge, lighter now and easier on her chafed shoulders, through Longlands, Greenhead, Branthwaite and Fellside, going up and up, higher into the rolling peaklands towards Caldbeck Fell, where she could have taken a short cut over the tops had she not wished to go on to Parkend, Whelpo and Caldbeck itself. It was in Caldbeck she knew she would find, as she had done in Uldale, many customers for her wares. She had spent the nights in tiny inns, taking the cheapest room, alone of course, since to sleep in a double or triple, sharing with other men, though cheaper, would have caused no end of trouble; she smiled to herself as the thought came to her
.

It was getting colder. The days were shortening and soon the last fortnightly cattle market would be held at Rosley, which was her destination. She had already gone past files of slow-moving cattle, and some sheep, winding their way along the passes and the fellsides, some on their journeys to new pastures and some to the cattle fair
.

Whitsuntide was the time of the largest fair at Rosley Hill when travellers with their beasts came from all points of the compass to sell their goods and their animals. Rosley was on the main drove road from Scotland to the north of England and it attracted thousands of men, and women too. Its influence reached across the Solway and into Annan and Dumfries, mile after mile of gentle greenery and lush enclosures which housed the cattle and other animals as they made their way there from the Solway Plain and beyond. To the east of Rosley was the grazing ground of High Hesket, which meant that the market was set in exactly the right place to meet the needs of man and beast. Foot passengers from Carlisle and Penrith as well as Scotland found the going easy. Travelling people such as the young actor who had seduced fourteen-yearold Annie Abbott were drawn there. Pot-selling women came balancing enormous baskets of pots on their heads, the basket resting on a weather-bleached hat braided with ribbon. They wore long gaudy gowns with a blue flannel petticoat showing at the front. They smoked a short pipe for they cared nought for any man's opinion and usually had a horde of youngsters about them who carried baskets on their hips. There were carriers and collectors of news, since it was hard to come by up on the rolling fells of Hesket Forest and Westward. There were men dealing in rags and skins, women who told fortunes, vagrants and Irishmen in increasing numbers who came from Ireland into Whitehaven on coal vessels, making their way to wherever there was a promise of work, and beneath it all was a vague and shifting underworld of organised gangs of thieves and pickpockets, waiting to pounce on the unwary
.

But there were none of these about as Annie Abbott approached The Drover's Rest two weeks after she had left Gillthrop. It was too late in the year for the 'fair' people, those who came to beg and entertain at the great Whitsuntide Fair. There were about her the last of the men selling what remained of their cattle and sheep and none took any interest in the tall youth who pulled an old
and empty sledge and at whose heels two silent dogs trailed. Except one
!

He was leaning against the inn wall, a pint pot of ale in his fist, one heel resting on the stones behind him, one hand deep in the pocket of his narrow corduroy trousers. He was tall, young and lean and straight as an arrow. No bulk about him, but a taut whipcord strength which seemed to promise toughness. He had brown, curly hair and grey, cat-like eyes set in a clever face. His mouth had a humorous twist to it, as it dipped into the ale and his grey eyes were watchful, everywhere at once, keen and alert as though he was not only guarding his back but planning his route ahead
.

His eyes stopped moving as they came to rest on the figure of the tall young man and a puzzled, deliberating expression narrowed them in his brown face. He watched as the youth moved gracefully across the inn yard, a sledge at his back, his stride as long as any man's, his shoulders slightly hunched, his head set somewhat awkwardly on his shoulders, just as though he was doing his best to hide something
.

But what? He was a perfectly ordinary young man, tall and slim and very shabby, but then so were many of the travellers who entered and left the inn. It was a working man's inn, cheap and clean, where dozens of drovers stayed as they took their masters' cattle and sheep, to and from the fair. He studied the young man as he leaned to put a slim hand on each of the heads of the dogs and they both lay down next to the exceedingly fragile-looking sledge. He went inside and the man leaning on the wall drifted after him. He did not know why.

“
Have you a room?" he heard the youth say in a low voice to the innkeeper.

“
We 'ave that, lad, at least a bed if that's any good to thi'."

“
I'd like a room to myself, if you please." The landlord looked surprised.

“
Nay, lad, this is t'last fair an' I'm pulled out wi' drovers. Tha's lucky to get thi' a bed to thissen, which tha'll have,
I promise thi', but not a room. See, there's only one other in't room an' that's this chap behind thi'. He'll not mind sharing, will tha', sir?
”

Charlie Lucas smiled infectiously, raising his pint pot in the direction of the landlord, before turning to look into the softest, most incredibly beautiful pair of brown eyes he had ever seen on any human being, let alone another male, and it was then, as the strange imperceptive feeling of disquiet became stronger, that he began to realise.

“
Not at all," he said, looking enquiringly at the youth, waiting politely to see if he was to share his room.

“
No, thanks . . . I'll . . . No, thanks . . ."

“
There's not a bed to be found in all of Rosley, lad," the innkeeper said somewhat irritably since he'd no time to stand around prattling on about beds with this strange-looking lad, especially one he could rent without trouble, and strange the lad was an' all. He'd better watch himself with some of the men they got around here who, short of a woman, didn't care where they stuck their 'John Willys'. Odd sort of a lad he was, who, had he been a girl, would have looked as pretty as a picture. Perhaps that's why he was so keen to get his own room, having had experiences of a . . . perverted sort before. Still, the other chap seemed harmless enough, the one who'd offered to share, but no, the lad was walking away, shaking his head as though someone had suggested he sleep in a bed with a dozen others and a ewe or two as well.

“
No, thank you, it's most kind of you ... " Most kind of you! The landlord wiped his cloth over the bar top, staring in amazement at the young man's back. Most kind of you! Whoever he was, he had the manners of a well brought up lass but he'd better watch himself because already several of his customers were nudging one another and staring after him
.

Annie could feel the interest in her as she stepped through the doorway and into the sharp autumn sunshine. She would have to be careful what she said, really she would. She quite forgot sometimes that young men, whatever their station in life, just did not use the same phrases
as women, and she had slipped up several times when she had been selling door to door in Uldale and Caldbeck but then it had not mattered unduly since she had been dealing with women who had been inclined to like the politeness of the young man who was peddling his besoms and swills. They had not questioned it when she had smiled and remarked on the weather – when it had turned wet – and on the state of her clogs; the mud which she was traipsing on to their clean doorsteps and how sorry she was about it. How kind they were to offer her a mug of ale, she had said, but thank you, no. She did not wish to appear rude but . . . They had smiled, thinking her quite charming, thinking she was a good-mannered and well-spoken lad to be working as he was, but these rough men who lived the lives of nomads and vagrants, some of them, had no such appreciation of pretty manners, and walking was difficult too. It was her habit to straighten her back and shoulders, to walk tall and proud, her head held high, but this action thrust forward her breasts and to hide them she found she must slouch along with her shoulders hunched. The times she had forgotten, striding out eagerly towards her goal, which surely now was in sight, only to remember when some man studied her in puzzlement
.

She spoke softly to Blackie and Bonnie as she untied the knotted rope of the sledge, looking up and down the narrow track on which The Drover's Rest stood. She could see at once that there was not another building in the area. The fairground was enormous and empty beyond it. There was a well where water was drawn to water the animals and in the middle of the fairground was a large cow pen in which many animals lowed restively. At the far end of the ground was a public quarry where possibly she might find a ledge with an overhang where she could shelter for the night but all around her was nothing but the vast expanse of Rosley Fairground and the rolling hills of Westward leading to the Solway Plain.

“
You'll find nowhere in which to shelter, I'm afraid, not at least where you'll be . . . safe.
”

The voice was neutral, pleasant, with no accent that
she could place. The words were spoken softly, almost in a whisper and it was obvious that the man who spoke them meant no one to hear but herself
.

She turned only her head and that but a fraction. Her jacket collar was up and she had wound round and round her neck one of the long knitted scarves she had fashioned herself last winter. It came up about her chin, almost covering her mouth. Her father's soft felt hat was pulled down to her ears and between the muffler and the hat, her eyes blazed defiantly. Speaking over her shoulder, her own words were as quiet as his.

“
What's it to you," she said, "where I sleep?" trying to sound like one man taking umbrage with another.

“
Nothing at all . . . lad. Not to me. But it will to you if it's discovered you're not what you seem."

“
I don't know what you mean." Disconcertingly, in her panic, her voice rose to its normal pitch and the man at her back smiled.

“
I'm sure you do and I'm also sure you have a good reason for your . . . masquerade. Believe me, I mean you no harm but there are dozens who would if they . . . found out you were . . . not as they are. Why don't you go back inside and, before someone else takes it, tell the landlord that you have changed your mind about the bed? That you would be happy to share with Charlie Lucas. Yes, that's me, young . . . sir, Charlie Lucas at your service.
”

From the corner of her eye Annie saw the impish smile, the slight bow, the raised whimsical eyebrows and, suddenly and for no reason whatsoever, she liked what she saw. Nevertheless she had no intention of allowing anyone, even this rather personable young man, to penetrate her disguise
.

Her voice was gruff. "I've no idea what you're up to, mister, and I don't want to. I'd just as soon sleep out of doors with my dogs, than share a room with anyone, if it's all the same to you. As for being safe, I've nothing worth stealing." Her hand, of its own volition, went to the deep pocket of her father's ancient trousers where, sewn into a small bag and attached to the pocket lining was her
small hoard of savings. It had come from the sale of her swills and besoms and stockings, and included what she had scraped together over the past year. A tidy sum which was to buy her sheep tomorrow
.

The man noticed the movement but he did not let her see it.

“
Besides," she went on, tossing her head, unaware that a wispy curl of shining copper had escaped over her left ear, "I have my dogs to protect me," which, if she had thought about it, was a strange thing for a man to say.

“
Just as you like then, but before you move off into that crowd of drovers, those who have nowhere to sleep except where, presumably, you mean to lay your head, and who, most of them, are as drunk as lords, I should pull my hat more firmly over my head, or they may take a fancy to see more of that rather lovely curl which is falling round your ear.
”