Gates of Paradise (25 page)

‘I keep an orderly establishment,' she said to the two girls, when Mrs Mumford had hobbled them into her presence. ‘I wish that to be understood directly, or we shall not proceed.'

It was understood. Solemnly.

Miss Pearce nodded. ‘I've seen you in church, I believe,' she said, holding up her lorgnette to take a close look at her applicant. ‘Wearing a red cardinal. Do I know your parents?'

Betsy explained who they were and was nodded at again.

‘I will tell you what I require in a cook-housekeeper,' Miss Pearce said. ‘I believe in complete honesty. You will cook my meals and shop for such foods and delicacies as I require, you will bake my bread – I presume you can do that – you will wait at table, you will wash and iron the more delicate items of my apparel, with particular
attention to the lace – we have a wash-house in the garden – you will dust and clean and you will open the door. Mumford will wash the heavier items and keep the floors scrubbed and empty slops and so forth. I will provide board and lodging and such clothing as you require for service when I have company and you will have one afternoon a week when you will be free for your own devices – although understand that I do not allow followers. As to remuneration, I will pay you £4 per annum, sums to be received quarterly.'

Betsy stood before her, thinking hard. It was a good offer, less than she'd received at Turret House but a great deal more than she was earning as a milkmaid and she knew she could do the work and do it well. She was aware that Molly was pinching her arm to make her reply but Miss Pearce was peering at her through that lorgnette again.

‘Can you read?' she asked.

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘Then I shall require you to read to me sometimes of an evening,' the lady said. ‘My sight is not what it was, I fear. Would that be agreeable?'

It would.

‘Very well, then,' the lady said. ‘I think we have covered all the salient points.' She smoothed her apron with a mittened hand and looked up to make her final pronouncement. ‘I shall require a reference, as you would expect. Could you provide one? Who was your previous employer?'

Betsy's heart shrivelled. Just at the very moment
when she was thinking that this was a job she could do and that she wanted to come back to Felpham and do it, all hope of it was being swept away. But she offered Mrs Beke's name. How could she do anything else?

‘Return tomorrow at the same time,' Miss Pearce instructed, ‘and I will tell you my decision. That will be all.'

‘She'll say no, sure as eggs is eggs,' Betsy said as they walked away from the cottage. ‘Old Ma Beke'll tell her I'm no better than a trollop and that'll be that.'

Molly tried to encourage her. ‘You don't know that,' she said valiantly.

‘I do.'

They'd reached the church and the footpath to Molly's home. ‘I've got to go,' she said. ‘Pa'll have the cart ready for me an' he hates bein' kept waitin'. Write to me an' tell me what happens.' And she kissed her friend and ran off along the path.

Betsy walked back to the farm as slowly as she dared and very miserably. There was no hope for her. It
was
all over.

But she was wrong. Mrs Beke had a sharp tongue but she wasn't vindictive. The letter she wrote in answer to Miss Pearce's query was honest but certainly not damning. She had employed Betsy Haynes for the last six years, she said, ever since she joined the household as a girl of twelve. She was a hard worker and willing, was an adequate cook, baked an excellent loaf and was fast becoming a
skilled needlewoman. If there was a drawback to her character it was that she had a tendency to be a trifle headstrong and would therefore need firm handling. ‘
However that would present no problems to such as yourself. I trust you are in good health. I remain yr obedt servant, Margaret Beke
.'

The job was offered to Betsy that afternoon and was taken with such obvious relief that Miss Pearce made use of her lorgnette again and decided to reemphasise her most important restriction. ‘I don't tolerate followers,' she said. ‘Not under any circumstances. I hope you understand that.'

‘Yes, ma'am,' Betsy said, drawing herself up tall to emphasise her understanding. ‘There's no likelihood of any followers, ma'am. No likelihood at all. When would you wish me to start work?'

It was arranged that she should join the household early next morning so as to be in time to cook breakfast. By midday, news of her return was all round the village, because her mother had met her when she was buying meat at the butcher's and old Mrs Taylor had seen her when she came down to the brew house for yeast. By the time the regulars gathered in The Fox that evening, even her follower knew about it, and it was generally agreed to be ‘a danged good thing'.

I shall see her Sunday, Johnnie thought, and we can walk out again. The weather's fine an' she's back an' everybody walks out after Sunday service. Everybody, but not Betsy. Apparently she had to stay in the house and cook dinner while her mistress
attended church. It was a miserable disappointment to him and an annoyance to her father.

‘I don't see why she won't let the girl come to church,' he complained. ‘Tha's not Christian, keepin' her at home. She could cook the meal afterwards same as you do.'

‘Not to fret,' Mrs Haynes said. ‘We shall see her on her afternoon off, an' I shall make a point of meetin' her when she's out a-marketing, which she will be most days so she tells me. The great thing is she's in the village an' she'll have good food to put in her belly an' we knows where she is.'

But that didn't help Johnnie Boniface. After being parted for so long and cast into such misery, his need to see her again was more urgent than it had ever been. He took to drifting out of the grounds at odd times of the day and wandering about the village in the hope of meeting her, even though he knew he was neglecting his work and that Mr Hosier didn't approve. And eventually he discovered that she walked down the road to the George and Dragon as soon as she got up in the morning, to buy the small beer for Miss Pearce's breakfast. It was all the knowledge he needed. The next morning he was in the jug and bottle before she was and ready to open the door for her as soon as she appeared.

He was so happy to see her again he was smiling like an idiot. He wanted to dance and jump in the air, to sing and shout, to pull her into his arms and kiss her. But with so many people watching them he
managed to be circumspect. ‘Welcome back,' he said.

The smile she gave him seemed shy, as if they were being introduced to one another, and although she said good morning in a neighbourly way, there was a distance about her that was even more disquieting than her smile.

‘I heard you were back,' he said, ‘workin' for ol' Miss Pearce.'

She was holding up her jug for the small beer, but she turned to agree with him and smile at him again. ‘Yes.'

The full jug was helpfully heavy. ‘You got a load on there,' he said. ‘I'll carry it for 'ee.'

She settled the jug on her hip. ‘Best not,' she said. ‘Miss Pearce don't like followers. She told me most partic'lar.'

‘I shan't be followin',' he said, trying to joke her into a better humour. ‘I'll be walkin' alongside of 'ee.'

‘You knows what I means, Johnnie. It aren't a bit a' good you sayin.'

‘I tell 'ee what,' he said, as she walked out of the inn. ‘Why don't you come to The Fox of a mornin'? You could buy her small beer there as well as anywhere an' we could meet an' maybe have a drink together. I goes down about noon, reg'lar as clockwork, for to get Mr Hosier his afternoon ale. Partic'ly if 'tis warmish. That wouldn't be followin' now would it?' It was part question and part hopeful plea.

She pondered before she set off along the road. ‘Well,' she said, ‘we'll see.'

‘Tomorrow?' he hoped.

And tomorrow it was. But it wasn't a success. She was so formal with him, aware that people were watching them, sitting as far away from him as the settle would allow, careful not to allow any touch of any kind. And as his senses were in a state of aching alert, he was uncomfortable and ill at ease. When they'd finished their beer, he walked back to the house with her, as far as he dared, and carried her jug and offered his arm to her – and tried not to let her see how crushed he was when she didn't take it. But as he strode back to The Fox to buy Mr Hosier's ale, he felt cast down and dispirited. Winning her back was going to be a long slow job.

From then on, he made sure he was in The Fox at noon every day, whether or not she was likely to be there. Sometimes she arrived with her jug and stayed with him for a few minutes and sometimes she didn't. After a week he asked her whether they might meet on her afternoon off, but she told him she was pledged to spend it with her mother, ‘least for the time bein', on account of Miss Pearce'll be watchin'.' He tried to persuade himself that she was being sensible, and told himself that time was a great healer, that love conquers all, that faint heart never won fair lady. But country saws were no comfort to him and there were days when his heart felt faint as a shadow. And to make everything
worse, he was being plagued by the local militiamen to join the Volunteers.

There were thirteen in the company already, mostly young men and boys, and mostly farm labourers, and they were putting pressure on everyone likely. ‘You got a spade 'aven't you Johnnie?' they said. ‘Spade, shovel, saw, strong pair a' hands. Tha's all you need. You can dig trenches an' fell trees, can't you? You must have a fellin' axe, workin' for ol' man Hayley. Very well, then.'

At first Johnnie had mocked that a spade wouldn't be much use against a soldier with a musket but they soon dealt with an excuse as feeble as that.

‘We aren't s'pposed to be fightin' men,' they said. ‘Oh, no. We aren't required for to fight the beggars. What we're a-goin' to do is harass 'em, so's they can't jest go a-marchin' across the country wherever they thinks fit, on account of we'll have blocked the roads and the bridges and dug up trenches to stop their hosses. We got all sorts a' tricks up our sleeves. You join us, you'll see.'

‘I got too much work in the garden,' he told them. It was an excuse and a very transparent one and they all knew it. What he really wanted was to stay where he was and look after Betsy. That was the important thing. He had to make sure she got away to a safe place. He wasn't sure where, although he'd been thinking about it ever since she came back to Felpham. Slindon Woods probably. They'd hardly want to fight their way through that.
If he was any judge of what was likely, they'd head off for Chichester and the road to London.

‘If them Frenchies come, you won't have a garden,' they warned. ‘You wait till the next high tide. Be a different story then.'

It was a different story for everyone in the village, for this time it really did look as though the invasion fleet was coming. The barracks north of Chichester were built and occupied and Chichester was loud with redcoats; the farmers had made plans to move out all their livestock; the millers had prepared carts to carry the corn into hiding; the wagons to evacuate the women and children were cleaned and ready, and all the draught horses in the village had been commandeered to pull one vehicle or another. Every high tide brought a flurry of anxious activity and when the immediate danger had passed, the villagers were bad-tempered with the worry and fatigue of yet another alert.

‘Oi can't be doin' with all this taradiddle,' Reuben complained. ‘Evasion, evasion, tha's all we ever hear. Oi tell 'ee straight, tha's gettin' roight on my wick. If they're a-comin', let 'em come says Oi. We had enough a' talk.'

It was a warm spring evening and the doors and windows of the inn were open to allow the regulars to enjoy the air. In ordinary times they would have been talking about the growing harvest and predicting a good one.

‘Quite right, Reuben,' Mr Cosens said. ‘I've had
my sacks on an' off the wagons these last weeks more times than I've had hot dinners. It's really getting me down.'

‘We're all down,' Mrs Grinder sympathised. ‘What we needs is somethin' to gee us up a bit.'

And as if in answer to her prayer there was a sudden confused noise in the street outside, a thud and crunch of hooves, a man's voice shouting orders, much clinking and rattling, and the steaming rump of a huge bay horse appeared in front of the windows, followed by another and another. Within seconds the inn was empty as the regulars ran out of all three doors, tankards in hand, agog to see what was going on.

Their quiet village street was full of cavalry and more were arriving as they watched. Ten, twenty, and still they came, filling the space before the inn with noise and movement and pulsing colour and the strong smell of horses. They looked like giants, sitting so high on their red and blue saddles with their long blue-clad legs commandingly astride, and their uniforms were a wonder to behold, their scarlet jackets dazzling against the grey browns of the flint walls behind them, their great tricorne hats richly plumed and heavily black against the unassuming thatch. And what accoutrements they had. Sabres and sabretaches swung from their waists, formidably to hand, and their jackets were sashed and braided and beribboned as if they had ridden straight from the king's court at St James's Palace.

Their officer was the most splendid of them all and had the most impressive manner. ‘Mr Grinder!' he called. And when that gentlemen stepped forward to acknowledge his name, ‘You have stabling for nine horses, I believe, sir. Very well. You are prepared to take nine troopers are you not? Cock! Smithson! Scolfield!'

The military had arrived.

The offices of the Sussex Advertiser, Chichester. Friday April 23
^rd
1852