Sons and Daughters (3 page)

Buckthorn Farm lay in Fleet Marsh, a flat, fertile land on the edge of the Wash. The nearest small town, Ravensfleet, had a long history, a close-knit community, and was the centre of the surrounding farmland. Though several farms and cottages were some miles from the town, they still came within the parish boundary. Most farmers and their workers made the effort, whatever the weather, to attend church every week travelling on foot, by farm cart or pony and trap. It was a chance to meet their neighbours and the townsfolk – the blacksmith, the wheelwright and all those who were a vital part of their own lives. Most of the farms around the town were part of the Ravensfleet Estate, owned by the acknowledged squire of the district, who lived at the manor. A large, rambling house on the outskirts of the town, its windows overlooked the land belonging to its owner. By tradition, Home Farm was farmed by the squire, whilst the rest of the estate was divided up into tenanted farms. Only Buckthorn Farm had been owned outright by the Crawford family for four generations. The farmhouse, with outbuildings clustered around it, faced towards the coast. To the north was the growing seaside resort of Lynthorpe; to the south, the historic town of Boston.

Mary had been right when she said that all the village children loved their Sunday school teacher and Sunday was Charlotte’s favourite day.

Come rain or shine, she and Mary walked along the straight track westwards through the fields to the church near the railway station in Ravensfleet, whilst Edward drove Osbert Crawford in the pony and trap. They aimed to reach the church gate as Edward drew the conveyance to a halt. Then they’d wait until Osbert had descended and, without a word or even a glance at his daughter, walked up the path between the lines of his farm workers, their wives and families. Again, without a word to anyone, or even a glance, he’d enter the church and make his way to the front pew on the left-hand side whilst the rest trooped in to take up the pews behind him. Charlotte, with Edward and Mary Morgan, sat in the seat directly behind him. No one, not even his own daughter, sat with Osbert.

The squire from Ravensfleet Manor had always occupied the right-hand-side front pew. But on this last Sunday in March the pew was empty. Old Mr Davenport had died some months before without close relatives and his heir – a second cousin once removed – lived abroad and had no intention of taking up occupancy. So, the manor, along with the whole of the Ravensfleet Estate, had been sold and a new family was expected. Indeed, the whispers running amongst the congregation said that the new owner had arrived and taken up residence on Lady Day, three days ago. So now they all waited, craning their necks, to see if anyone would arrive for the service.

As the vicar, Cuthbert Iveson, young, eager and newly ordained and inducted into the parish of Ravensfleet, moved forward to begin the service, there was a disturbance at the back of the church. The door opened and a blast of the cold wind from the sea swept into the church skittering around the ankles of the worshippers, so that they all frowned and turned to see who had caused their discomfort.

A man – tall and broad shouldered, with dark brown hair smoothed back and dressed in a smart three-piece suit – walked down the aisle. He nodded to either side and then gave a little bow towards the vicar as he took up his place in the right-hand side front pew. Three boys followed him. The first – who perhaps by now considered himself a young man – was about sixteen. Tall and thin, with straight fair hair and cold blue eyes, his fine, handsome young face was spoilt by a petulant pout to his mouth. The middle boy – about twelve or so – walked with his head bent, his shy gaze upon the floor. But the youngest of the trio skipped down the aisle, grinning up at the people on either side.

‘Hello,’ he said, his piping voice echoing to the rafters. ‘How do you do? I’m Georgie. I’m six and we’ve come to live at the manor.’

Smothered laughter rippled amongst the congregation and all eyes turned towards the little chap and his round, cherubic face to return his friendly smile. Blond, unruly curls and bright blue inquisitive eyes brought soft ‘Ahs’ from the women.

‘Come along, Georgie,’ his brother murmured, ushering the younger boy with a little push into the pew to sit between himself and the eldest boy.

Whispering broke out until Mr Iveson cleared his throat and his parishioners settled down. But their curiosity had been aroused and, throughout the service, necks craned to catch sight of the new arrivals. Charlotte was entranced. She could hardly concentrate on her hymn book. The little boy in a smart little sailor suit fascinated her. The middle boy, with dark colouring like his father and soft, dark brown eyes, was having difficulty in keeping a straight face himself. But the eldest boy, now he was a different kettle of fish altogether, Charlotte thought. He frowned down at Georgie and once bent to whisper in his ear. The little boy was immediately subdued, but only for a few minutes before he began to twist round in his seat and smile at those sitting behind him. His gaze wandered all around the church and at last came to rest upon the pale face of the vicar in his pulpit. The little boy swung his legs, his heels drumming on the pew until, once again, the eldest brother frowned at him.

Charlotte tore her eyes away and tried to concentrate on what Mr Iveson was saying. As she brought her gaze to the front again, she saw with surprise – indeed, with a sense of shock – that her father, sitting directly in front of her, was not paying attention to the vicar either.

He was watching the man with his family of sons.

As the service ended, the congregation filed out from the back with the occupants of the two front pews leaving last. Just outside the porch, Mr Iveson stood shaking each and every hand, but his flock was in no hurry to depart. Not this morning. They hung about in little groups, spilling out on to the road, pretending to talk to one another, whilst their children chased each other amongst the gravestones. But their glances kept coming back to the church door watching for the newcomers to emerge.

‘That must be our new squire and his family, then.’

‘Where’ve they come from?’

‘Why is there no woman with him? Where’s his wife?’

‘He’s a widower, I’ve heard tell.’

‘Are those three boys his sons, d’you suppose? Aren’t they handsome young fellers?’

‘’Cept that oldest one. He looks a mardy ’un.’

‘Snooty, if you ask me.’

‘But the master looks nice. Not uppity. He was pleasant enough, now, wasn’t he? Nodding and smiling to us all.’

‘And the youngest – what a little cherub he is.’

Charlotte, Mary and Edward walked down the aisle towards the door, where Charlotte paused and glanced back over her shoulder to see her father hovering at the end of his pew and holding out his hand.

‘Osbert Crawford, sir, of Buckthorn Farm. And, by what your young son said, you must be the new owner of the Ravensfleet Estate?’

The dark-haired man smiled. Laughter lines crinkled his eyes. ‘There are no secrets when Georgie is around,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘And yes, we moved into the manor on Lady Day.’ He shook Osbert’s hand and introduced himself. ‘Miles Thornton.’

Osbert inclined his head. ‘And these’ – he waved his hand towards the three boys already walking – or, in Georgie’s case, skipping – down the aisle – ‘are your sons?’

‘Yes, they are.’

There was a slight pause before Osbert, with undeniable envy in his tone, murmured, ‘You are indeed a fortunate fellow.’

There was a fleeting bleakness on the other man’s face as if he carried some secret sorrow. Then he seemed to force a small smile but, to Charlotte’s surprise, he made no comment, no murmur of agreement with her father’s statement.

She smiled at the three boys moving towards her. The eldest, leading the way, looked her up and down with such disdain that Charlotte almost felt the urge to curtsy under his superior glance. He passed her by without a word, put on his hat and marched out of the church. The second son smiled before following his brother, but did not speak. Georgie, however, stopped and beamed up at her.

‘Hello. What’s your name?’

Charlotte smiled, her eyes sparkling behind her spectacles. ‘Miss Charlotte.’

The young boy put his head on one side. ‘
Miss
Charlotte?’ His smooth forehead puckered in a puzzled frown. ‘Who d’you work for?’

Now Charlotte was puzzled. ‘Work for? How – how do you mean?’

‘You’re a maid, aren’t you? So, who d’you work for? The gentleman you were sitting behind?’

Charlotte almost gasped aloud and then she realized. In the young boy’s mind, she had every appearance of a maid. In her dowdy clothes and seated behind her father alongside his household staff, she appeared to be a servant too. For a brief moment, she was hurt, but then her natural sense of humour and the realization of how she must look to anyone who did not know her – and her circumstances – came to her rescue. She chuckled and bent down towards him.

‘The gentleman talking to your father – the one I was sitting behind – is my father.’

Georgie blinked and for a brief moment seemed lost for words. ‘Oh,’ was all he said.

Charlotte straightened up and put her head on one side, regarding the boy with wry amusement. ‘But I suppose you’re right. I do work for someone. I work for my father on his farm and about the house. And I suppose I work for the church, too. I teach at the Sunday school. Would you like to come?’

‘Ooh, yes please. When is it?’

‘Well, right now, after Morning Service, but—’

Georgie held up his hand and, almost without realizing how it had happened, Charlotte found his warm little hand grasping hers. ‘I’ll come now.’

The two men were walking towards them and Charlotte turned anxious eyes to the stranger. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Georgie,’ his father said easily, ‘are you misbehaving?’

The child turned his blue eyes and his beatific smile on his father. ‘No, Papa. This nice lady’s called Miss Charlotte and she’s the Sunday school teacher. And I’m going with her to Sunday school.’ He turned back to Charlotte. ‘What time do we finish, Miss Charlotte, so that Brewster may come back in the motor to fetch me?’

‘Well – I – er – ’ Again she cast an anxious, questioning gaze at the boy’s father. He was watching her with amusement.

‘This, Mr Thornton,’ Osbert said grudgingly, ‘to my eternal disappointment, is my daughter.’ He waved his hand towards her. ‘So now that you see her in all her
glory
– ’ his mouth curled with sarcasm – ‘dithering like some halfwit, perhaps you can understand why I called you “a fortunate fellow”.’

Mr Thornton seemed startled and a small frown deepened the creases in his forehead. Then he gave a courteous little bow towards her and said quietly, ‘I’m happy for Georgie to come with you, Miss Charlotte. Shall I send my man back for him at twelve?’

‘That – that would be fine,’ Charlotte found herself stammering and blushing, not only from embarrassment at her father’s cruel words, but also as, under the soft brown gaze of the stranger, she found the colour rising in her face and her pulse racing.

As she led the little boy to the room at the back of the church where the Sunday school was held, Charlotte heard her father say, ‘I was not blessed with sons like you, sir, and, as you can see for yourself, with her looks, it’s most unlikely she’ll marry and present me with a grandson.’

To Charlotte’s surprise, the little chap walking sedately beside her now, suddenly squeezed her hand, looked up at her and smiled, and her father’s words – true though they undoubtedly were – lost some of their sting.

The children came running from all directions into the schoolroom. Georgie had seated himself in the centre of the front row. He sat on the small chair swinging his legs and smiling up at Charlotte. The others jostled each other to sit beside him. They all wanted to know about the newcomers. Charlotte sighed inwardly. She could see she was going to have a battle this morning to keep order and gain their attention.

She opened the children’s book of Bible stories that formed the basis of her Sunday school teaching and stood in front of them, waiting patiently until the shuffling stopped and silence reigned. She had to wait quite a while, for there was a lot of nudging and whispering.

At last she said, ‘Quiet now, children, please. We must begin. Today, as it’s Palm Sunday, I’m going to read you the story of how Jesus rode on a donkey into Jerusalem.’

For the next half an hour she read the story of Palm Sunday to them and then asked questions, but the children were still inattentive and fidgeting.

Then, in the second row, a hand shot into the air. ‘Please, miss,’ Tommy Warren – with a cheeky grin so like Jackson’s – asked, ‘can we do a play? Like we did last week with the loaves and fishes?’

Charlotte smiled. The children loved to act out whatever story she’d read. They got rather excited and noisy, but Mr Iveson didn’t seem to mind. He encouraged it. Sometimes, if he arrived to visit the class, he joined in and took one of the parts. Not like the previous vicar – old, crusty and certainly of the ‘children should be seen and not heard’ brigade. He’d heartily disapproved of her even reading anything that was not straight out of the Bible itself. He hadn’t liked her reading the simplified stories, but Charlotte knew the children could understand them so much better and that performing them brought the tales to life. They really remembered them.