Mist Over Pendle (15 page)

She inquired into that as soon as the session was ended. Young Master Nutter, she was told, had indeed sought speech with her, but when he had learned that she was occupied he had at once called for his horse, declaring that he would not wait that day; and with some vague talk of the morrow he had at once departed.

Margery listened without comment, and went away thoughtful. Young Master Nutter, it seemed, had still something to learn. She thought he had a great deal to learn if he supposed she was to be dealt with so. And if it should suit his convenience to wait upon her the next morning, he should have disappointment for his pains; she would ride to Wheathead and make her promised visit to Richard Baldwin.

She was away early the next morning, and she got off the Forest road as soon as she could--lest she meet Master Nutter riding to Read. She went down to the Sabden brook, as though she were bound for Goldshaw; if she continued on this road she would come to the Newchurch, and Tom Peyton had explained to her that beyond the Newchurch this road would lead her to Barley and thus to Wheathead. This morning she rode in homespuns in place of the orange-tawny. Roger, who seemed to have a trick of remembering things, had been as good as his word, and the clothes he had promised her had been laid out for her inspection the night before. There was a cloak of russet serge, of the quality called puke--which meant that it was of a fine weave and dyed in the wool. There was a riding-skirt of the same, simpler and less pleated than the orange-tawny safeguard. There was a sleeved jerkin of soft brown leather, and boots and gloves to match it. And as a final proof that Roger remembered, there was a pair of breeches in the russet serge. She had fingered them dubiously, asking herself if she dare be seen in them. She had seen their advantages, but she had left them at home this morning; safe and practical though they were, they were not her choice for a first visit to Richard Baldwin.

She rode easily and without haste, for her mind was pleasantly occupied with another problem of clothes. Roger’s generosity had gone farther than the homespuns. From some old family chest he had suddenly produced a full ten yards of flame-tint satin, sleek, soft and shining, and had flung it to Margery with the jest that if it was too gay for a puritan she had his leave to turn papist; and Margery, who cared nothing at all for his jests if only she might have the satin, had coo’d with delight and made away with it on the instant. She was now considering what to do with it. She was well enough versed in the fashions to know exactly what she wanted. She was a competent needlewoman when she chose to be, and Anne Sowerbutts was at least useful. The making of a kirtle was therefore possible. But she would need buttons and thread, laces and silken points, all of a fit quality; and she could not plan the kirtle in detail until she knew just what was to be had. That, she thought, was the immediate problem. How and from whom did one buy such things in Pendle? This she must now discover, and it was no use asking a man.

She came to the Sabden brook and began the steep climb to the Newchurch. Tom Peyton had given her clear directions. She must go past the church and down a steep and curving hill which would bring her to the Pendle Water, flowing down a great rent in the hillside. Once past this rent, which Tom had called a clough, she must cross the Water, and at once she would be in Barley; and in the street of Barley she would find a lesser stream flowing to the Pendle Water. This lesser stream, if she rode up it, would lead her to the mill at Wheathead.

Her thoughts reverted to the kirtle and its trimmings. She was wondering if she could properly ask Mistress Baldwin, if she should chance to meet her, about the laces and the buttons. Perhaps not about laces, she thought, remembering her puritan status. But surely she could ask about buttons? The strictest puritan could scarcely condemn a girl for wanting buttons.

Round a bend of the stony track a horseman came, riding swiftly towards her, abruptly Margery stopped thinking about buttons. Something in his slim build and graceful carriage was familiar, and in another minute he was close enough for all doubt to be ended. Here was Miles Nutter.

“God’s Grace!” said Roger Nowell’s cousin, and reined in to await events.

Either he was sunk in thought or he was misled by her homespuns. He gave no sign of knowing her until he had come abreast; he had, indeed, almost passed her when he realized who it was. He was prompt enough then. He wheeled skilfully, and came up to her, his horse pawing and his hat a-flourish.

“What fortune’s this?” he said. “I’m enchanted, madam! But may I know your purpose this day?”

It was civilly spoken. Margery gave him credit for that--and for good looks too, as he waited in front of her, dapper and smiling, his beaver in his hand and his black curls a-flutter in the wind. Her answer was more encouraging than she had intended it to be.

“I ride out, sir. I take the air and I view these moorlands.”

No need to mention Wheathead until he had declared himself further He did so very promptly.

“May I have the honour, madam? I was on my way to Read to learn if I could be more fortunate than yesterday. May I view the moorlands at your side?”

Again it was civilly spoken. It did not, indeed, explain his blunders of yesterday, nor what he was doing on this unlikely track; but it was not an answer that could well be resented. Margery accepted it gracefully.

“I shall be happy of your escort, sir.”

He was at her side at once, and together they began the climb to the Newchurch. But somehow speech seemed to have failed Master Nutter, and they rode in a silence which each seemed to expect the other to break. It lengthened and became acute, and Margery found herself forced to speak first.

“I saw you yesterday,” she told him as they passed the little church. “But I saw you only through glass. I had no chance to speak with you.”

He evidently saw the implied question, for his embarrassment was plain.

“It was my regret,” he said at length. “I was so pressed for time. I had indeed scarcely a minute.”

“Then I wonder, sir, that you thought fit to appear at all. That must have cost you many minutes.”

Miles Nutter positively reddened. He had clearly no answer, and his distress was so apparent that Margery began to feel sorry for him. For all his odd behaviour, there was something likeable in him and she decided to draw it out.

“I think we’d best forget it,” she said. “This is another day, and a better one. We view the moorland. Let that be all.”

His relief was palpable. He roused himself at once and began to talk amiably, pointing out the clough and the stream that sparkled in it. Margery said little, thinking that it would be better to let him talk than to make him listen, and she confined herself to a few prompting questions.

But when they came to the Pendle Water he turned sharply from the road, making along the stream towards the clough. Then he halted, seeing that Margery did not follow.

“We may climb a part of this clough,” he explained, “and if we then bear to the left we may come down into Goldshaw. It’s a most pleasant ride.”

“No doubt, sir. But I’ve ridden through Goldshaw already. Is not Barley yonder across the water? I planned to .ride that way.”

“There’s naught of interest in Barley. Believe me, madam, I do know this ground. The dough’s our proper way.”

Margery began to be irritated again. He had freely offered to escort her, and she had supposed that to mean that he would escort her where she chose to go. Apparently he took a higher view of the privilege of an escort. But she kept her temper and spoke him fairly.

“Since I’m new to Pendle, sir, may I not be humoured? I’ve a mind to ride to Barley and thence to Wheathead. Will you not suffer me, sir?”

“Wheathead! Madam, I do assure you there’s nothing at Wheathead, nor yet at Barley. Believe me, if you please, we’d waste our time.”

He seemed heated about it, and Margery began to lose patience.

“By your leave, sir, there’s at Wheathead a mill where I’m invited to visit. That’s my purpose, sir, and surely a very proper one?”

“Proper enough.” He spoke without conviction. “Yet I’ll be most grateful, madam, if you’d ride this way with me. It would ... it would give me much pleasure.”

He ended lamely, and still his earnestness seemed out of proportion. Certainly, she thought, he was none too obliging. It seemed that she was to fit his whims in all matters; and that, indeed, had been his attitude yesterday. She was not disposed to comply.

“I ride to Wheathead,” she answered firmly. “Do I have the honour of your escort, sir?”

To a gentleman of manners there was only one answer to make, and she could see in his face that he knew it. But he did not make it.

“Madam, I do beg you---“ Every line of his body showed his unhappiness, but he clung to what he had determined. “I’m not for such a ride this day. It grows late, and . . . and I’d best be returning.”

And without another word he turned his horse, splashed through the stream, and went cantering off down its farther bank. His hat waved in farewell, but he did not turn his head.

Margery sat her horse in silence, her cheeks red and her eyes glittering. This was rudeness almost to the point of insult, and inexplicable rudeness at that. She was still flushed and angry as she found the lesser stream and followed it through the village of Barley and out to the moorland beyond. The fellow, she thought, was clearly impossible. He ended every meeting with a display of contempt for her, and she must see to it that he had no further opportunity. And again a hot anger went sweeping through her as she thought of it.

Above her a curlew called, and at that she looked up into a clear blue sky, richer from the white of the billowing clouds. She looked down at the clear stream, splashing and gurgling at her feet. She saw the mossy stones and the tufted grass that swayed and shivered in the moorland wind. She felt the wind in her hair. And the curlew called again.

Margery felt better. She began to think more clearly, and soon she was asking herself what lay between Miles Nutter and Richard Baldwin. For Miles Nutter had left her abruptly the other day when Richard Baldwin had appeared; and Miles Nutter had left her abruptly this day when a visit to Richard Baldwin was proposed. Surely there was something here? Margery frowned with perplexity. These Pendle undercurrents ran deeper than she liked, and the mud in them was thick.

She had not much further to go. In another mile she found that the stream had cut itself a channel and was running between banks. She rounded a bend and came suddenly upon a rippling pool, deepened by a low stone dam, grey and mossy; and beside the dam was a sturdy grey mill, its timbered wheel churning steadily in the seething torrent from the sluice. Fifty yards back, on the rising ground above, was a low stone house, squat and sturdy as the mill, and flanked by granary and stables. A horsed wagon stood on a road beyond the granary, and men were loading sacks into it under the watchful eye of Richard Baldwin, who stood by the open door with a tally-stick in his hand.

He turned as he heard the oncoming horse, and it was evident that he had quickly recognized the rider. He lifted his tally-stick in friendly greeting, and as he came to meet her he laid it on the low stone wall that ran beside the pool.

“You’re well come,” he told her. “I’m glad indeed to see you here.”

And Margery believed him. He stood by her stirrup, his face aglow in the sun as he looked up at her, and there was no mistaking the sincerity of the man. The strong brown face, the firm mouth, the steady deep-set eyes, gave proof enough of that. His eyes, too, were without the hardness that could so quickly cloud them; nothing shone from them now but pleasure.

He held her stirrup as she slipped from her horse, and then he stood in silence, looking down at her from his greater height and nodding approval of her russet homespuns. She stood his scrutiny without apprehensions, knowing that he must approve. Her clothes fairly matched his own, she thought, as she noted his russet breeches and leather jerkin, and the tucked-up sleeves of his white shirt. He was open-necked, bare-headed and dusty, as befitted one of his creed, Margery gave them credit for that. These puritans were not idlers, and master though this man was in the mill, his own hands would take their share of the burden.

He called a lad to take her horse, and then he led her past the mill and up the bank of the pool to the house beyond. The heavy oak door, set under a low stone lintel, was ajar, and gave passage to a clatter of voices from within; and as he led her to it, the door swung fully open and a girl appeared, standing quietly under the stone.

Richard Baldwin was smiling affectionately as he spoke, “Here’s Mistress Whitaker, Grace. Come from Read as she promised.” He turned to Margery. “I grow proud of my daughter these days,” he added.

Grace Baldwin smiled prettily, and her father stepped back, his gaze moving from the one girl to the other as she and Margery eyed each other.

He had some reason to be proud of his daughter, as Margery quickly perceived. She judged Grace Baldwin to be almost of her own age and of much the same height and figure. Her steady eyes and chestnut hair were plainly from her father, but her brown face had a pleasing softness that was certainly not his. Yet there was no undue weakness here, for her mouth was moulded after her father’s fashion, and there was staunchness to be read in the firm little chin below her white teeth. She held herself well, and stood trim and self-possessed in a brown kirtle of twilled woollen saye, with laced collar and a white cambric cap.

She addressed herself directly to Margery.

“From what I’ve heard, mistress, he’s proud of his guest too. But come within, and I’ll help you from your cloak.”

Margery found herself smiling; something in this fresh and friendly voice attracted her and made her wish to be friendly in return.

“You’re kind,” she said. “And I’ll be glad to be rid of it.”

She followed the girl through the open door into a big low stone-flagged kitchen. The open door and the windows to left and right of it let the light flood over the scrubbed top of the great table that filled the centre and bore an array of plates, spoons and knives, all set ready for impending dinner. Beyond the table, facing the door and taking the eye at once, was a huge fireplace-- a round stone arch, full fifteen feet across, and having deep within it the stone hearth and the low benches that ran on either side of it. Over the red and powdery heart of the fire was a great iron pot, three chains running from its rings to a blackened hook in the arch above; and from the pot, clear through its heavy lid, came the sharp crackle of boiling fat. Lesser pots hung from lesser hooks, and sent wisps of cheerful steam to join the blue smoke that curled from the outer logs.