The Fleethaven Trilogy (12 page)

With the dawn, Matthew set off to fetch Doctor Blair to come to Sam Brumby for the last time.

‘I’ll see the undertaker for you, my dear,’ the kindly doctor told Esther as he left the farm later that morning. ‘Get Matthew to ask Mrs Harris to come and lay him out.’

Esther nodded, not trusting herself to speak for the lump in her throat. She felt suddenly bereft and very much alone again. She had begun to feel secure and had dared to be happy. Sam had given her a home and had shown her a gruff affection.

Now he was gone.

Sadly, she wandered from room to room downstairs, conscious all the time of poor Sam still lying upstairs and that there was nothing more she could do for him. What would happen to all his family possessions now? she thought. Would his things be auctioned off with people prying and poking amongst his treasured memories? She opened the door into the front parlour – a room she had rarely entered and hadn’t even liked to clean properly. She moved around the room touching the furniture, the ornaments and pictures until she came to the family Bible lying on a small round table under the window. Now, with reverent fingers, she opened the book.

Written on the first blank page was a list of the births, deaths and marriages of the Brumby family.

Esther read the entries and learnt that the first Brumby to farm here had been Sam’s grandfather, Joseph. One entry stated that he had been granted the tenancy in 1807. The entry of Joseph’s death was in different handwriting, as if the next generation had taken over the duty of recording the history of the family. There was one entry that particularly intrigued her.

‘William Joseph Brumby married Sarah Willoughby 27th May 1833.’ Her finger moved up and down the page working out the relationships. William and Sarah were Sam’s parents. So, she thought, perhaps Sam was some relation to Tom Willoughby.

The next entry was Sam’s birth – ‘Samuel Joseph Brumby born on 24th August 1833.’

Esther allowed herself a wry smile. There was less than nine months between his parents’ marriage and his birth. She closed the Bible and turned away, feeling a little guilty for prying into Sam’s secrets. But his parents had married and Sam
had
been born in wedlock, even if only just! Not like mine, she thought bitterly.

Esther sighed deeply. No doubt she’d soon have to leave Brumbys’ Farm. But where could she go? No one wanted her.

Tears prickled behind her eyes and the lump in her throat seemed to grow bigger.

M
A
Harris came mid-morning. ‘Now then, lass.’ she said to Esther. ‘’Tis all over with the poor old man, then. Aye well, he’s been poorly for a while, ain’t he?’

‘Do – do you want any – help?’ Esther asked, not without reluctance. Normally she would tackle anything, but the thought of helping to lay out Sam Brumby made her spine shiver.

‘Nay, I’ll manage. He were no ’but skin and bone towards the end. You get on with yar work. I ‘spect you’ve a lot to do with the funeral, an’ all. By, lass, but you’ve kept this place going, I’ve got to hand it to ya . . .’ and still chattering, Ma Harris heaved her stout frame up the narrow stairs. Esther stood at the bottom and watched Mrs Harris turn into Sam’s room and close the door.

So it was late afternoon by the time Esther had finished everything about the farm and had washed under the pump in the yard, changed into her Sunday best frock and pinned up her hair.

When she came down the stairs she found Matthew lingering in the kitchen, warming his hands before the glowing fire in the range. The wood fell and sent a shower of sparks up the flue.

‘Thought you’d gone home,’ she said abruptly.

He turned slowly and grinned cheekily at her. ‘Now – why would I be wanting to do that, Esther?’

‘Well, there’s no need for you to stay any longer – not now.’ Even to her own ears, her tone sounded more brusque than she had intended.

The smile faded from Matthew’s mouth and his eyes glinted in the dancing firelight. ‘Oh – dismissed, am I? Just like that, eh?’

Esther gave a click of exasperation. ‘Oh, don’t be so touchy, Matthew. I’ve been grateful for yar help, ya should know that.’

He turned away from the fire and moved slowly towards her, almost with a touch of menace. ‘No, I dun’t know. Perhaps you’d better show me just how grateful . . .’

She put out her hands, palms outward, to fend him off. ‘Now, dun’t you start that, Matthew Hilton.’

He stopped and regarded her insolently, then said, feigning innocence, ‘Start what, Esther? Whatever can you be meaning?’

Esther turned quickly away from him, exasperated. ‘Oh, really!’ she muttered. Reaching her shawl from the peg, she dragged open the door and was through it and gone before he could say – or do – any more.

The easterly wind whipped across the fields as Esther took the path inland towards the Grange. She stopped to pull her shawl more closely about her as the wind caught at her skirt and tossed her curls. A small smile of satisfaction curved her mouth as she looked around her. Autumn had been gentle and the ploughing was going well, despite her time being taken up with caring for the old man. She smiled ruefully to herself. She did indeed owe Matthew a debt of gratitude, for without him she certainly would not have kept up the farm work so well. Her smile widened. But it wouldn’t do to tell him so, she thought. Matthew Hilton was quite full enough already of his own importance!

The smile faded and she sighed heavily. Everything could be very different from now on. What was going to happen to her now that Sam was gone?

At the Grange, the huge front door was opened smoothly by a tall, thin man dressed in a black suit. His mouth curved downward as if he had a bad smell under his nose. He looked down upon Esther and as she made to enter the house, the man deliberately barred her way. ‘I don’t think you can have business in this establishment, girl.’

Esther squared her shoulders. ‘I am here to see Mr Marshall.’

She waited in vain for any kind of apology from the man, whose expression did not alter. ‘I see, and have you an appointment?’ He enunciated every word with clipped precision – and with an edge of sarcasm as if deriding the country dialect that was always so strong in her tones.

Esther stood her ground, refusing to be intimidated by him. ‘Not exactly,’ she said calmly, meeting his cold eyes steadfastly. ‘I have come to inform the squire of the death of Mr Brumby.’

The manservant had the grace to look ashamed. But when he left her alone in the hall whilst he went in search of his master, some of Esther’s confidence deserted her. She waited nervously, standing first on one foot and then on the other, twisting her fingers together agitatedly as her gaze roamed over the lofty hallway and the elegant sweeping staircase above which hung numerous ancestral pictures of serious-looking men and elegant women. In their company, even in her Sunday best dress, Esther felt like a tramp. The butler emerged from a door to the left of the hallway and beckoned her imperatively. Esther crossed the hall, her boots squeaking on the polished floor. She saw the butlers look of disgust, but the man stood aside for her to enter and as the door closed softly behind her, Esther found herself standing in a book-lined room. In the centre of the room stood a huge mahogany desk, inlaid with a red leather top. The smell of rich tobacco smoke hung in the air. It was undoubtedly a man’s room. For a moment Esther thought she was alone, then from a leather wing chair near the fire, Mr Marshall rose and turned to greet her.

‘Now, my dear, what is it?’

‘I thought I ought to come and tell you, sir. Mr Brumby died this morning.’

‘Oh dear. Oh dear me. I am sorry.’ Mr Marshall sat down again. ‘Come and sit down, my dear girl.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Esther sat tensely on the edge of the chair set on the opposite side of the fireplace to Mr Marshall.

‘You’ll let me know when old Sam’s funeral is to be, won’t you? I shall attend. As I told you, that farm has been in his family for several generations.’

Esther nodded.

‘Is everything all right on the farm? Do you need any help until I can get things sorted out?’

Esther bit her lip. She desperately wanted to ask him what was to happen to the farm – what was to happen to her. Huskily, she said, ‘I’ve kept things going, all the time he’s been ill . . .’

‘I know you have, my dear, you have done remarkably well. I admire the way you’ve coped.’

Esther opened her mouth, trying to form the right words, but Mr Marshall was standing now and she found herself on her feet and being ushered towards the door.

Mr Marshall gave her shoulder a comforting pat and repeated his offer of help should she need it. Before she had time to say any more she was being shown out of the front door by the butler and the moment was lost.

She walked back along the lane towards Brumbys’ Farm, but at the gate she paused and looked up at the shadow of the farmhouse, still and silent in the dusk. Not wanting to go back into the empty house yet, she turned and climbed the bank bordering the lane. Across the marsh, jumping the meandering streams, she climbed the far dunes and came to the beach. She walked out to the very end of the Spit where the sea and the land and the sky all seemed to meet. She sat down on the damp ground, the wind whipping around her. She could taste the salt on her lips. It was lonely and desolate out here, yet she was not afraid. Her eyes scanned the darkening sea and, half turning, her gaze took in the flat land behind her.

She gave a deep sigh of sadness. She felt as if the niche she had deliberately carved for herself in this place had been taken away from her. He had been a strange man, Sam Brumby, yet already she was missing him. She remembered everything that had happened since the morning she had arrived; Sam’s initial rejection of her, then gradually his grudging acceptance and finally his need of her. For the first time in her life she had known real happiness living at Brumbys’ Farm. She hoped she had repaid Sam by caring for him until the end.

Poor Sam, she thought, poor Sam.

‘What happened?’ Matthew demanded, as, back in her working clothes, Esther led the cows out of the byre after evening milking. ‘Did Squire say what was going to happen to the farm?’

‘No,’ Esther snapped. Her moments of reverie out on the Spit were gone. There was work to be done, a funeral to organize. She did not pause in her vigorous sweeping of the cowshed. ‘Tek them cows back to the field, will ya?’

‘Did he say he would come to the funeral?’ Matthew persisted, ignoring her command.

‘Yes.’ She stopped her sweeping and said briskly, ‘Talking of the funeral, I’d best get baking.’ She banged the door of the cowshed shut and walked towards the house.

‘There’ll be a few come, I reckon,’ Matthew said following her. ‘Old Sam Brumby was a funny old boy, but folks respected him. There’ll be Mr Marshall an’ his bailiff for a start . . .’ On his fingers he ticked off the people he thought would attend Sam’s funeral. Esther would be responsible for offering refreshment to them all. It was customary for a spread to be put on at the house following the interment, even if it was over two miles back to the farm from the church. The vicar will probably come; all the folks who live at the Point, Tom Willoughby, of course, and Will, the carrier.’ There was a pause, then Matthew said, ‘What’s up with you, Esther? You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.’

‘Everything will be ready.’ she said, ‘dun’t you worry. You just see to them cows.’

‘Huh, I was only trying to ’elp,’ Matthew muttered and stomped off.

Late that night as she climbed the stairs, her limbs heavy with weariness, she paused outside the closed door of Sam’s bedroom, her hand hovering towards the latch. Then she let it fall. Best not go in, she told herself, I shan’t sleep if I look at him again. The funeral people would be here tomorrow to put him in a coffin in the front room. It wouldn’t be so bad then. But she didn’t like to think of him still lying in his bed, cold and silent – and so close. Holding her breath, she scuttled through the neighbouring room where Matthew had slept, not daring to peer into the dark corners. Only when she was in her own small bedroom and leaning against the closed door behind her, did she breathe easily.

She almost wished she had agreed to Matthew staying another night or two.

Whatever’s the matter with you, Esther Everatt? she asked herself fiercely. You’re not usually so squeamish. But she had not had to deal with death before. It was not so easy to be rational and strong-minded alone in the darkness of the night with Sam’s corpse in the nearby room.

For a long time she lay in her bed listening to every sound; the wind whistling around the farmhouse and the old timbers creaking. She was just on the point of falling asleep when the click of the latch on her bedroom door startled her into wakefulness. She lay there breathing hard, her heart pounding, her scalp prickling with fear. Someone stepped into the room, closed the door behind them and began to move towards the bed.

Esther screamed – a loud, shrill noise piercing the blackness. The intruder fell against the end of her bed and she felt strong hands grasping at her legs kicking under the covers. ‘Esther, Esther – it’s only me.’

She stopped screaming, panting hard. Now she was angry.

‘Matthew! How dare you? What—’

‘Esther – please. I thought I’d stay another night or two – just till after the funeral. You dun’t want to be here on your own, do you?’

‘Well . . .’ she said, a little mollified. The memory of her apprehension was still fresh in her mind. Still, she did not trust his motives. ‘Mebbe not,’ she conceded, ‘but that dun’t mean I want you in me bedroom.’

‘Oh, Esther.’ His voice was a hoarse whisper and she felt him sliding along the bed towards her.

‘That’s quite far enough, Matthew Hilton.’ She snuggled further under the covers, pulling them up tightly under her chin.

‘Esther – stop tormenting me. It’s killing me, sleeping – or not sleeping – knowing you’re lying just the other side of the wall . . .’ His voice deepened with desire. ‘Esther – I want you like I’ve never wanted anyone before. You’ve got me all twisted up like no other girl ever has . . .’