All the dear faces (7 page)

`Annabelle Abbott,' it said, 'late of Browhead Farm, near Hause in the county of Cumberland .
.

Dear God . . . she couldn't read it . . . the candle-flame flickered so . . . and her hands would not stop their trembling . . . Annabelle Abbott . . . that was her .. . her name and there could be no more than one Annabelle Abbott surely? And if there were, this one lived at Browhead . . . it was her. It was her
!

At last she reached the end of the words, the words printed in the four-week-old copy of the Lancaster Herald, the words which appealed to Annabelle Abbott or anyone who knew of her whereabouts to contact the firm of solicitors, Hancock, Jones and Hancock, in King Street, Lancaster
.

Chapter
4

King Street was a pleasant thoroughfare in the centre of Lancaster. It led away from the Town Hall which was large, pillared and handsome and, at this time of the day, its wide shallow steps were busy with the feet of the respectable and hard-working citizens who had business there
.

She and Cat had walked from Warrington where her money for railway fare had run out. They had moved in an almost straight line going northwards through Wigan and Preston and Garstang, but happily on more than one occasion they had been given a lift on the back of a cart, the farmer taking pity on the weary woman and child and inviting them to 'hop up' and sit among the crates of indignant hens and geese, the sacks of corn and potatoes he was taking to market. Annie had been grateful, smiling her glowing smile, lifting Cat up where the child would instantly fall asleep for as long as she was allowed, as she did herself at times. Weeks they had been on the road and if they did not get to Lancaster soon, what small reserve of pennies she had kept for food would be finished and she would either have to stop somewhere for a few days to earn a bob or two, or resort to begging
.

It was November when they reached the town, a harsh November day which struck through the increasingly threadbare fabric of their clothing and Cat shivered as she and her mother moved along that last mile, the ancient castle which dominated the town and which had been the landmark towards which they had been inching for days, looming high in the November mist. It was a shire house and county gaol, Annie was told by a tinker who had taken it upon himself to travel with them the last few miles from
Scotforth, a sprightly Irishman who carried a pack on his back and had a merry twinkle in his eye and who offered to carry Cat as well. Annie could not refuse for Cat was nearing exhaustion and though she was afraid the man might expect some reward, and not of the monetary sort, she allowed it
.

On the top of the castle stood a large tower called 'John of Gaunt's Chair' from where, the tinker told them, having been this way before, there was a fine view over the whole of Cumberland and even, on a clear day, across the sea to the Isle of Man. Lancaster was a small but splendid port on the River Lune over which a brand new bridge spanned, with five elegant arches. Market days were Wednesday and Saturday, their informative friend told them cheerfully, handing the dazed child back to her mother, smiling indulgently since he had children of his own, he added, letting her know that though his eyes admired her he had no designs on her person
.

It was Wednesday and the streets were busy but, the tinker having given her directions she found her way to King Street easily enough. It was a tree-lined jumble of old houses, one of which had been made over into a doctor's consulting rooms, an architect's office and, on the second floor, the rather grand quarters of Hancock, Jones and Hancock
.

The clerk at his high desk in the small front office eyed her and her daughter with the appalled air of a man come face to face with persons of the lower order, those whom, had he been at his own home, he would have ordered to the back door. Annie smiled wryly. Having been on the road for eight weeks she could not blame him since she and Cat were not looking their best. Nevertheless she kept her head high and her expression lofty as she passed him the dog-eared, practically unreadable scrap of newsprint which she had torn from the old edition of the Lancaster Herald. He took it between his thumb and forefinger as he might a piece of mouldy and evil-smelling cheese.

“
I'm Annabelle Abbott," she said, "and this is my
daughter Catriona. I am here to see either Mr Hancock or Mr Jones, whoever is available."

“
Indeed! and on what business?" ready to show her the door for her impertinence.

“
My own. The newspaper cutting asked for me and I am here."

“
But this is months out of date. I'm not sure . . ." "I was in Leicestershire."

“
Oh . . ." not at all sure why that was significant.

“
I walked a good deal of the way so if you will tell Mr Hancock I am here I would be obliged."

“
He is very busy."

“
We will wait," and tipping her head regally she guided Cat towards a chair which was placed against the wall
.

It was the same with Mr Hancock, whose expression of amazement matched that of his clerk. He seemed to remember something about a farm, he said, when he had recovered his composure, and the name of Abbott rang a bell though he could not quite recall .. .

“
Why have I been summoned here?" She cut through his ramblings, his vague fumbling with this paper and that, his shouted orders to his clerk to fetch the . . . what was the name again? . . . turning to Annie . . . the box marked Abbott . . . yes, yes . . . and when her bald question finally penetrated his tangled mind which, it seemed, had been thrown into some confusion by her appearance, his expression was startled.

“
Why?" he repeated.

“
Yes. What does this mean?" indicating the newspaper cutting which the clerk had returned to her as though afraid he might be contaminated by its continued presence between his fingers
.

Mr Hancock had the correct papers before him now which he studied through the thick-lensed spectacles on the end of his nose.

“
Aah, yes, of course, it's about the farm," eyeing her abundant hair which, though she had done her best with it, was cascading in a rippling mass over the weary, straining cloth of her elderly bodice.

“
The . . . the farm? Browhead?"

“
Indeed. What else?"

“
But . . ."

“
Now that your mother and father are dead . . .
”

The rest of his words faded away as she entered the dizzy, echoing tunnel which was long and black and shocking and when she came out of it at the other end Mr Hancock was talking of legal matters which, he said, were apparently in order and all that was needed was for her to. . .

“
My . . . my parents are both dead?"

“
Indeed, that is what I said."

“
When?"

“
Oh, it must be twelve months since . . .
”

She scarcely remembered leaving his office, nor the few shillings which Mr Hancock — kindly now — pressed into her hand for her railway fare to Penrith, nor much of the journey either, and it was not until the man spoke to her that she came out of her shocked state
.

She was arranging the child's clothing when he first noticed her, twitching its little bonnet more closely about its face, stuffing tendrils of bright copper hair beneath the brim, re-tying the scarf which already fitted snugly about its neck, but doing it so fiercely the child was pulled this way and that like a puppet on strings. She — he had decided the child was female — didn't seem to mind, accustomed to rough handling, he supposed, perhaps knowing no other. She stood patiently, submitting to being turned about for the woman's critical inspection; to a general smoothing down of the drab, ankle-length skirt; to a forceful tug at the equally drab shawl which was crossed over her narrow chest and tied at her back, the last ministration nearly taking her from her small feet. Then, bringing a glowing smile to the child's face, the woman knelt down and planted a hearty kiss on her upturned cheek. The gesture was so spontaneous, so full of irrepressible and loving warmth the man felt his own lips twitch in a smile
.

It was a scene with which he was very familiar though
not one he had experienced for twenty years. His own mother had treated him thus before he set off on his short-legged fell pony across his father's land which lay up beyond the splendour of Dash Falls. From there he had dropped down the packhorse route which skirted Lonscale Fell to Latrigg and on to Keswick where he had attended the grammar school.

“
Now then, Reed Macauley," she would say in her broad-vowelled but rhythmic Cumberland dialect. She always called him by his full name when she wanted to impress upon him the importance of what she was about to utter. "Now then, Reed Macauley, mind tha' keeps tha' scarf tight round tha' neck. There's a fair bottom wind blowing' down t'valley an' I'll not have thi' tek cold for the want of a bit o' sense.
”

As if he would, her expression said. Her son! He'd never had a cold in his life, no, nor any of the childish ailments which afflicted other weaker boys, but she had to have her say nevertheless, for it was only in this way that she could demonstrate her deep and abiding love for him. He was the apple of her eye, the darling of her heart, the centre of her universe but if her life had depended on it she could not have told him so. Instead she would fuss about him, her work-worn hands at his neck fixing his scarf to her own satisfaction beneath his chin. His cap would be jammed down on his head until it met his scarf. His durable hodden-grey jacket, the wool from which it was made spun and woven by her from the fleece of his father's own sheep, smoothed down briskly, his buttons checked to make sure they were all done up as she liked them to be
.

Her pride in her only son, her only remaining child, was enormous but it was kept well hidden beneath her own snow-white, cruelly starched apron bib where her heart lay. Any physical or emotional manifestation of how she felt about him was beyond her. Die for him she would and right gladly, to save him a moment's hurt, but to kiss him, as the woman had just kissed the small girl, to put her arms about him would have seemed a foolish and wasteful embarrassment to a woman of her practical nature
.

So she made sure he was warm, well fed, that his clothes were of matchless quality, laundered and immaculately pressed; mended when he tore them in the endless scuffles lads of his age engaged in. That his boots, the best his father's money could buy, were well polished. In short, that Reed Macauley, her son, wanted for nothing
.

The engine of the Lancaster-to-Carlisle train standing at the platform of Penrith station and from which he had just alighted gave a mighty shriek and several horses in the station yard tossed their heads nervously. The noise and the sudden confusion which it caused brought him sharply back from the past and he straightened himself to his full height. He was a tall man, lean of waist and belly and hip but with strong muscled shoulders which filled the roomy, sleeved cloak of navy cashmere he wore. His hair was thick and a rich, dark brown, ready to curl vigorously from beneath the brim of his tall beaver hat. He was amber-skinned and clean-shaven and his eyebrows frowned above eyes which were compelling in their narrowed watchfulness. A vivid blue they were, in which the clear northern light had put the brilliance of a sapphire. They were framed by long black lashes. He could not be considered handsome, though many women thought so, since he was too fierce, his chin too arrogant but there was about him an observant, mocking humour which allowed him to view those of his acquaintance with something less than the serious application they often thought their due. There was in the casual stance of his long, lounging body and the insolent lift of his dark head, a sure belief in his own infallibility and the sense that here was a man who was diverse, complex, a man with many shades and nuances to his nature which no one had ever been allowed to penetrate
.

His obvious and complete masculinity did not prevent him from dressing in a way which in another man, particularly one from these parts, might have been considered dandified. The men of the lakelands of Cumberland, his own father among them, wore what their fathers and
grandfathers had always worn. Homespun of hodden-grey made from the mixed wool of their own sturdy Herdwick sheep. Serviceable, durable and warm, jackets, breeches, gaiters and sturdy boots, for the climate of the lakes was damp and chill for a good part of the year. Not for them the immaculately tailored dove-grey trousers Reed Macauley had taken to wearing after the death of his father, nor the fine worsted, plum-coloured coat, and as for the cloak which was lined with fur of some sort, well, what kind of man went in for such fripperies and more to the point, what would become of him? Certainly not the taciturn, blunt-spoken, independent men who were Reed Macauley's neighbours and business associates
.

He removed one of his buff-coloured kid gloves and took out his pocket watch, a magnificent gold hunter, flicking open the case to check the time before returning it to his waistcoat pocket. A thick chain hung across his chest and on the smallest finger of his hand a diamond sparkled. He took out a cigar case, selected a cigar, lit it and breathed in the smoke with a lingering pleasure which was almost sensual
.

He had been lounging against the station yard wall waiting for the lad from the inn to bring his horse which had been stabled there, when the woman and the child had caught his attention. The clattering of the animal's hooves on the cobbles, the barking of several dogs which were bristling and snarling up to one another by the yard gate, the tuneless whistle of a coachman who waited beside his mistress's carriage, the nervous whinnying of the greys which pulled it, all these sounds penetrated Reed Macauley's state of unfocused abstraction and he shivered slightly as though the ghost of his mother had touched him as she moved back into the past
.