Saddle the Wind (16 page)

Agnes had left school just that past summer. Sarah would like to have kept her there a few years longer in the hope that she might eventually have been equipped to find work as a governess somewhere, but there just wasn’t the money. And anyway, apart from a passion for music, Agnes had no real aptitude for studying and book work, and where the competition for such employment was so fierce there was no guarantee that at the end of her studies she would have been able to make a living for herself – particularly when, even at the best of times, the pay for such work was so poor. So, she had found a job with Thompson, the village baker, helping in the bakery and the family house, fetching and carrying from seven in the morning till four in the afternoon. She didn’t enjoy it, but it would do until something better came along. Any spare time she had she spent with the choir or playing the old piano in the front parlour.

‘Was Blanche there this morning?’ Sarah asked.

Agnes nodded. ‘Yes, with Marianne and a woman I’ve never seen before.’

‘Ah, yes, one of Mr Savill’s friends. Blanche mentioned them.’ Sarah paused. ‘I’m glad Mr Savill heard you sing.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I must go. There’s not much for you and Arthur to do – just set the table and keep an eye on things. I shan’t be long.’

With her words Sarah took up the flowers and left the cottage.

As she made her way along the lane the November day was cold and damp and the last of the morning fog was still hazing the trees beyond the hedgerow. Dead leaves scattered beneath Sarah’s feet as she walked.

As she drew near the church she saw that the time on the church clock was just after half-past-twelve. She always chose this time, in the period of quiet after morning service when all the worshippers had gone home to finish preparing Sunday dinner. Now as she entered the gates she saw that there was just one other person in sight, an old woman, who bent over one of the graves. She recognized her as Mrs Perkins, the widow of a gardener who had once worked with Ollie up at the house. Sarah quietly exchanged greetings with her then made her way over the grass to the grave beneath the cherry tree, almost bare now of its leaves. There she laid the flowers on the grass and took up from the grave a chipped earthenware pot. The roses that she and Arthur had placed in it two Sundays before were dead and she took them out and dropped them in the rubbish bin near the hedgerow. Then she moved to the rainwater butt, filled the pot again and returned to the graveside.

When she had put the chrysanthemums in the pot she placed it back in the earth, straightened and looked at the headstone. Mr Savill had paid for it. On the stone were engraved the words:

MARY

BELOVED DAUGHTER OF

OLIVER AND SARAH FARRAR

BORN 19TH MARCH 1873,

DIED 19TH MARCH 1882

AGED 9 YEARS

Beneath the inscription for Mary a further inscription had been written:

AND OF OLIVER FARRAR

BORN 4TH FEBRUARY 1848, DIED 1ST APRIL 1882

AGED 34 YEARS

Mary would have been sixteen now. Oliver forty-one. So much time had gone by. Seven years, when at the time Sarah had thought she could not survive another seven hours. But she had managed, somehow. Life had gone on. There had been the children to care for, and somehow the days had been got through.

After Ollie had gone from the cottage that wild March night Sarah and Ernest had searched for him along the lanes and roads leading out of Hallowford. They had found no sign of him. As the days had gone by Sarah had tried to convince herself that he would return. But then three days after his disappearance someone had found on the river bank, a mile or so from the cottage, his jacket and boots. Along with them had been the painting of Mary. His body was discovered later that same day, fetched up at the weir further down river.

Sarah remained there for some moments longer, looking down at the grave, then, turning, she moved away. It was time to go to Hallowford House and bring Blanche home for the day.

As Sarah made her way from the churchyard John Savill stood at the window of Hallowford House looking out over the lawn. From behind him came the voice of his friend, Edward Harrow:

‘You’re quite sure Gentry’s going to be no trouble, John?’

Savill turned from the window. ‘Indeed not. And it’ll be good to have him here.’

The two men, now both aged fifty-nine, had been close friends since boyhood, first meeting as pupils at boarding school, and later attending university together. Over those early years they had found a friendship that was now so well established, so comfortable, that they never now questioned but that it would last for the rest of their lives.

Edward Harrow was a tall man, and broad, his large form filling the armchair in which he sat. He was handsome still, in spite of his age and the grey of his hair. His skin had about it the slight richness of inherited tan that told of Mediterranean blood in his ancestry, his dark eyes adding another sign. He was part Sicilian, his father having married the wealthy daughter of a prominent Sicilian property-owner and soap-manufacturer, and settling in Messina, Sicily, where Edward had been born, later going to England to be educated.

It was while he was at Oxford that he had met Alice Gentry, the daughter of a Berkshire doctor, after their marriage settling in Cornwall where he worked in the management of the tin mine left to him by his father. Both their children had been born there, first a daughter, Joan, and then, much later, when they had both given up hope and expectation of further offspring, a son – named Gentry after his mother’s family.

Now, in 1889, it was a time of change for the Harrows. With their daughter having married and gone to America, and Gentry, now fourteen, away at boarding school in Brighton, Edward and his wife were leaving England.

The tin-mining industry had been in decline for many years now, and Edward had decided to cut his losses, and sell up. Now he and Alice had given up their home in
England and were moving to Sicily where Harrow planned to concentrate on the Sicilian interest, taking over the business from his ageing, now widowed, mother, at the same time investing in it what he had realized from the sale of his tin mine interests.

It was their son Gentry who was the reason behind the Harrows’ present visit to Hallowford House. While his parents went to Sicily together Gentry was to remain in England to continue his studies. Previously the boy had spent all his vacations with his parents. From now on, though, that would not be possible; he would be able to see them only during the summer holidays and, possibly, at Christmas times. Savill, on learning of the problem, had at once insisted that the boy stay at Hallowford House during the shorter school holidays. The Harrows had gratefully accepted the offer and yesterday had arrived to make any necessary arrangements and to say their goodbyes. They would be leaving next Friday.

Savill had met Gentry on a number of occasions over the years, either when visiting the Harrows or when they had brought the boy to Hallowford House. He had last seen him a year ago, a long-legged young man, tall for his age, with the dark eyes and black hair of his paternal grandmother. Now, smiling at his friend, Savill shook his head. ‘The only likely problem,’ he said, ‘is that Gentry will find it all rather dull here. I’m afraid he’s going to find Hallowford a good deal quieter than Brighton.’

Harrow waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’ll do him good to slacken his pace a little. And he needs to be with someone with a keen eye and a restraining hand. If he’s left at school for the holidays I’m afraid he’d only get up to mischief.’

‘Eddie, the boy’s only just fourteen,’ Savill said. ‘What do you expect from someone that age?’

‘That’s true. His mother worries, though. One or two reports from his school have upset her considerably.’ Harrow gave a short laugh. ‘Listen to me! Keep on like this and you’ll change your mind. But it’s not that there’s anything malicious or wicked in him. He’s just a little wild, I suppose. As you say, like most boys his age.’

‘Stop fretting,’ Savill said. ‘He’ll be perfectly all right here. You and Alice can rest assured on that. Believe me, there’s not much mischief he can get up to in a place like Hallowford – and if there is I’d very soon know about it.’

The conversation moved on, and they spoke of the latest gruesome murder in London’s Whitechapel district which had been reported in that morning’s papers. They spoke briefly too of the influenza epidemic that was sweeping Russia, and Harrow read from the newspaper a report of the mounting death toll. After a while the talk turned to the West Country’s wool industry, and Savill spoke of Britain’s urgent need to invest in new machines. If something wasn’t done soon, he said, they were in danger of being overtaken by the European market.

As they talked there came a sound of voices out in the hall and a moment later the door opened and Alice Harrow entered with Marianne and Blanche.

Marianne and Blanche would be nine years old that December. Marianne’s hair, full and heavy and, by dint of the governess’s work, falling in ringlets to her shoulders, was as dark as her mother’s had been. In contrast Blanche’s soft, flax-coloured curls looked even paler. Marianne’s hair was set off by pink ribbons, the same colour echoing in the braid that trimmed her crimson velvet dress. Blanche’s dress was of the same design, but differently coloured, the body dark blue, trimmed with
a pale blue braid, her hair ribbons of the same shade.

Savill smiled now as Marianne came towards him, then bent and kissed her. ‘Did you enjoy your walk with Aunt Alice?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes, Papa,’ Marianne said. ‘We fed the ducks on the pond.’ Then she added, ‘Don’t forget, this afternoon I’m to go and have tea at Blanche’s house.’

Savill nodded. ‘Yes, we know all about that.’

Blanche spoke up then. ‘Ernest says he’ll take us to the woods if we like,’ at which Marianne added, ‘Oh, good, I like it when Ernest takes us out. It’s better than when we go with Miss Baker! When we’re with Miss Baker we always have to keep to the wretched paths.’

The Harrows laughed while Savill said: ‘Well, wherever you go, you just make sure you behave yourself. Otherwise Mrs Farrar won’t invite you again.’

A moment after he had spoken the door opened and Miss Baker was there holding Blanche’s coat and saying that Blanche’s mama had come to take her home. Also, she said, it was time for Miss Marianne to get ready for lunch. With her words she held out her hands to the two girls and they moved across the room to her side.

When the trio had gone from sight Edward Harrow put the paper aside, got to his feet, stretched, and said that he too had better go and get ready for lunch. As the door closed behind him Alice smiled and said, ‘John, your Marianne is such a pretty child. She’s going to turn some heads when she’s older, there’s no doubt.’

Five years younger than her husband, Alice Harrow was an attractive woman, tall and slim, with graceful movements.

Savill smiled at her words and said, ‘And young Blanche too, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, yes, indeed.’ She paused. ‘I must say,’ she went on, ‘that when we arrived I was surprised to see Blanche
still here. I thought she would have returned to her family by now.’

Savill nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and I suppose she would have done but – well, I still feel some responsibility for her. After all, it was partly through me that her father lost all his paintings that time and – and everything went so wrong.’

‘Oh, John,’ Alice said, ‘you can’t blame yourself. No one could foresee what was to happen.’

‘No, but even so …’

‘How’s the family managing now?’

‘As regards money? Well, the two boys are working. And Mrs Farrar is too, of course. And, I think, the eldest girl as well now – Agnes.’

‘The one who sang in church this morning.’

‘That’s right.’

Alice nodded. ‘Such a sweet voice. With a voice like that that girl could have a future.’

‘Yes …’ Savill’s voice was doubtful. ‘Oh, but they haven’t got the money to spend on anything like that. Even with the three children working there can’t be much money going into the house.’ He sighed. ‘I shall always be in Mrs Farrar’s debt for what she did for me – and this – looking after Blanche – is one way I can repay her. She won’t accept any money.’

‘She’s quite proud, is she?’

‘Oh, yes. When it all began I managed to persuade her that I could manage without her rent for the cottage, but that’s as far as it went. Still – it’s not only that – a case of repaying Mrs Farrar …’

‘No?’

‘No, I have my own selfish motives too.’

‘Oh? And what are they?’

He said, ‘Well – it’s just so good for Marianne to have Blanche here. I mean, Blanche
could
have gone back to
her own family ages ago and, of course, Marianne would have got used to her absence after a while. Children are very adaptable. But with Marianne having no mother – well, at least with Blanche here she always has company. I suppose Blanche is like the sister Catherine and I would have chosen for her.’ He smiled at some image in his mind, and Alice said:

‘They get on well, don’t they?’

‘Oh, indeed they do. Blanche is such good company. She’s bright and clever and attractive. She’s a spirited child, too. And that’s good for Marianne as well. Marianne is naturally rather – shy – like Catherine – and inclined to be reserved and even a little – timid. But somehow Blanche has a way of counteracting that. I’ve seen it. In Blanche’s company Marianne becomes a little braver – a little more assertive. Oh, having Blanche here has made all the difference in the world. I hear the voices of the pair of them, laughing and talking away, or I listen to them at their singing lessons or their piano lessons and – well, I’m just – very glad of Blanche’s presence. I know it sounds sentimental, Alice, but this house is a happy place. It really is. When Catherine died I never imagined I’d ever be able to say that again, but it’s true.’

She nodded. ‘I’m sure it is. And also it’s quite obvious that Blanche herself is very happy here.’