The Fleethaven Trilogy (44 page)

Esther shuddered. She glanced at the empty wooden chair by the range. Her aunt’s crocheted shawl lay across the back, and in front of it was the hassock where she had rested her feet. Esther looked away and followed her uncle into the best parlour.

He held open the door for her and as she stepped into the room, her resolve faltered and she put her hand on the door jamb for support.

The furniture which Hannah had polished lovingly herself every week, allowing no other hand to touch her best possessions, had been pushed back against the wall. In the centre of the room on two trestles lay the coffin with a posy of wild flowers upon it.

Esther drew breath sharply. She had not expected that her aunt would still be lying in the house.

She blinked and dragged her gaze away from the wooden box with its brass handles and glanced towards the family who stood in a semi-circle around the coffin.

Esther experienced another shock. Instead of the seven little faces of her cousins as she remembered them, there were five grown-ups to greet her. Well, almost, for only Ellen at thirteen seemed still a child. Two were missing, but now was not the moment to ask. Surely Will would have told her if . . . Then she remembered. Will had said the eldest were away in service. Surely, she thought, they would have been allowed to come home for their mother’s funeral?

Her uncle’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Here’s your cousin Esther. You remember Esther, dun’t you?’ George was saying. Four heads nodded but the youngest girl merely stared at Esther, her eyes large in a pale, pinched face.

There was an embarrassed silence. No one seemed to know what they were expected to say. They stared at her and suddenly Esther felt shy in her finery. She felt out of place as she noticed Hannah’s own family were dressed in their Sunday best clothes, a black armband the only sign of their mourning.

She felt the flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. She was overdressed, as if she had put on a lavish display of prosperity, when in truth all her wealth – her very little wealth – had come from Sam Brumby or her own hard work. As if to add to her chagrin – though unwittingly trying to compliment her – George said, ‘Doesn’t your cousin look fine? You look real handsome, Esther. Your aunt – ’ he made an almost reverent gesture towards the coffin – ‘would be proud of you, wouldn’t she?’

The poor man, trying to do his best to ease a difficult situation, was turning to his family for support, for their approval of their cousin.

It was not forthcoming.

Rachael, the eldest present, pursed her lips and tossed her head. It was the gesture of disapproval that Esther had so often seen her aunt give. In an instant the years fell away and for a moment she was again the young girl at her aunt’s bidding, the bastard niece in Hannah’s household under sufferance.

She was no longer that child, Esther reminded herself. She was a young woman, a married woman, with a farm of her own, a husband – such as he was – and a child. Esther’s head came higher and her chin jutted forward. She had no need now to cower before their disapproval. She opened her mouth but at that moment, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the pain and sadness on her uncle’s ageing face. She closed her mouth, bit back the sharp rejoinder and smiled tenderly at him.

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ she found herself saying instead, and nodded to her cousins, before sitting down on the chair her uncle held out for her.

Will Benson, following her into the room, came and stood behind her chair. They waited in silence, the awkwardness in the room growing with every minute. No one had anything to say. There was so much they could have said, and yet so little. Hannah, even from her coffin, seemed to dominate the gathering.

It seemed an age that they remained in that small, stuffy room, everyone nervously on edge, awaiting the arrival of the undertakers. A sigh of relief wafted through the parlour when there was a knock at the door and the village carpenter, dressed in his funereal garb, entered the room, and he and George carried the coffin out and on to the cart waiting in the yard.

The family, with Esther and Will bringing up the rear, fell into procession behind the cart. Last as always, Esther thought wryly, and most definitely least in Hannah’s estimation, even at her funeral.

After the service in the village church and the committal in the churchyard, Esther found herself alone for a few moments whilst George shook hands with all the villagers who had attended the funeral. His children stood dutifully in line beside him to receive the condolences of their neighbours, but Esther felt she had no place there now.

She wandered amongst the gravestones, reading the inscriptions, recognizing some of the names of the elderly of the village she remembered from her childhood. Some of the not so elderly too, for death was no respecter of age. Not all were allowed their three score years and ten. Even her mother . . .

Esther’s footsteps had brought her to that part of the churchyard where she knew her mother lay in an unmarked grave.

‘I’ve no money to spare for fancy gravestones, not for the likes of your mother, girl . . .’ Aunt Hannah’s voice echoed from the past.

Esther stopped in surprise. In the place she knew to be her mother’s grave, there was now a small, white marble headstone, simple yet quite beautiful in its simplicity.

She bent closer and read: ‘In loving memory of Constance Everatt who fell asleep 9th June 1893, aged nineteen years. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’

So, Esther wondered, had her aunt relented? If so, it was only in recent years since she herself had left.

She stood up and looked about her. Next to her mother’s grave there was an empty space, the ground flat, the turf unturned. But beyond that there was a mound of recently dug earth, on which lay a fresh bunch of flowers. At the head of the grave was a headstone which matched the one on her mother’s grave. A simple, white marble stone.

‘In loving memory of Rebecca Benson, beloved wife of William Benson, departed this life 30th March 1919, aged 62 years. Her reward is in Heaven.’

Esther stood back and looked at the two identical headstones. First at one and then at the other. A small gasp escaped her lips. Had Will really had the nerve to . . .?

A voice spoke behind her. ‘So you’ve found them then?’

Esther swung round to see him standing there.

They stared at each other. Silently Esther pointed, first at the stone on her mother’s grave then at his wife’s. ‘Will, you didn’t?’

Will Benson grinned, a wicked glint in his eye. ‘Oh, but I did, Esther lass, I did. No one would have put up a stone to yar mam, if I hadn’t. I bought these two plots at the side of yar mother after she was buried.’ His voice dropped. ‘God rest her.’ He paused and then nodded at the empty space between the two graves. ‘That’s my spot when I go, Esther lass.’

He looked at her keenly then. ‘Can I rely on you to see to it, lass? To see I’m put where I want to be . . .?’

‘Will, dun’t talk so, I . . .’

‘Promise me, Esther. I mean it.’ His tone was insistent – and serious.

For a long moment, Esther gazed into his eyes. She knew, beyond doubt now, just what her relationship to this man was, and yet even now he would not say the words she longed to hear.

She sighed. Even so, he was asking her to undertake something which was important to him. It was better than nothing, she supposed.

She nodded. ‘I promise . . .’ she said, biting back the name she so longed to call him but did not dare. It was strange, she thought, here he was almost proclaiming to the world his affection for her mother, and yet still he would not acknowledge his relationship to Connie’s daughter.

What if she, Esther, had been wrong all this time? What if, as her aunt had always implied, her mother had really been that cruel name they had called her and had not known which one of several men had fathered her daughter?

No, no, Esther’s heart cried within her. She wouldn’t believe it – not of her own mother. She glanced down for one last time at the spot where her mother lay. Poor Connie Everatt, whose only sin had been to love too much. And wasn’t she, her daughter Esther, now guilty of that same sin for loving Jonathan Godfrey so passionately? Her mother had paid for her sins with her life, a life cut short. Esther, too, was paying, trapped by duty to her husband.

She turned away and saw that her uncle was beckoning to them to rejoin the family as the villagers drifted away. ‘You’ll come back to the house, Esther – Will, for a bite afore you go?’

‘It’s very kind of you, Uncle,’ Esther began, ‘but we should be getting along . . .’

‘Oh, you must come back, even if only for a moment,’ said her uncle, catching hold of her hand. ‘I have something for you.’

‘Something for – for me?’

He was nodding eagerly. ‘Yes, you must have it. Hannah was always most insistent that she wanted you to have it.’

‘Aunt Hannah? Me?’ Now she could not keep the surprise from her tone. She felt Will’s warning grip on her elbow from behind and said no more, merely nodding agreement.

They walked down the village street back to the cottage, George and Will one either side of Esther, the others a little way behind, whispering together.

‘Come in, come in,’ George fussed. ‘Rachael, make the tea, girl. We can’t let Esther travel all that way back without a cup o’ tea.’

Esther smiled inwardly. When she had left this house the last time, there had been no one to bid her goodbye, to make her a farewell cup of tea. No one had seen her go, or seemed to care about her going.

Her uncle was delving into the far corner of the kitchen, picking up a heavy oblong shape and bringing it to the table.

With a gasp, Esther recognized it. Her gaze met her uncle’s eyes. He nodded, smiling in answer to the unspoken question. ‘Yes, it’s yar aunt’s sewing machine. Her pride and joy. She wanted you to have it.’

‘Oh, Uncle – no! You must be mistaken. Aunt Hannah wouldn’t have wanted
me
to have her sewing machine.’ The words were out of her mouth before she stopped to think. Her uncle did not seem to take offence, instead he merely said, ‘She did, Esther lass, really she did. Ask our Rachael, if you dun’t believe me.’

Esther glanced briefly over his shoulder to look at her cousin. The glowering expression on the girl’s face and the pursed lips were enough to tell Esther that her uncle was indeed speaking the truth.

He was smiling fondly and shaking his head, running his hand over the smooth wood of the lid of the machine. ‘She used to say – after you’d gone, Esther – “She’s to have my sewing machine, George, you hear me?” And I’d nod and say, “I hear you, love, I hear you.” But I never – ’ his voice broke a little but he carried on – ‘never thought she’d go afore me, Esther.’

Now Esther, feeling embarrassed by the generous gift, leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘What about her own daughters, Uncle? Surely . . .?’

Now he was laughing openly. ‘She always said they were all thumbs when it came to sewing. “Esther’s the only one with my gift for needlework and dressmaking,” she used to say. Oh, she meant for you to have it, Esther, and no mistake.’

Esther sighed and stood back, looking down at the machine. With tentative fingers, she too reached out and touched the wooden lid. She looked up again at her uncle. ‘Then, if you’re sure, thank you, Uncle George. I’m real glad to have it.’

As Will’s cart rattled its way back to Fleethaven Point, she heard him chuckling softly to himself.

‘She’s heaping coals on yar head still from the grave, Esther lass,’ Will said.

Even Esther had to smile.

W
HEN
Will Benson pulled his carrier’s cart into the yard and Esther climbed down, she thought at once that the farm seemed unnaturally quiet. No sound of children’s laughter, even though by now Kate should have been home from school. There was no sign of Matthew, nor sounds of the cows being milked in the byre.

Esther clicked her tongue against her teeth in exasperation. She went to the cowshed and swung back the door. The building was empty. Esther frowned. Had Matthew done the milking early and gone down to the Seagull already?

She went to the end of the barn. There in the meadow the cows were clustered near the gate dolefully watching for someone to come and open it and bring them to the farmyard. Even from this distance, Esther could see their unmilked udders bursting for relief. A pitiful lowing reached her ears.

‘Where on earth is he?’ Esther muttered crossly to herself.

‘What is it, lass?’ Will was shouting, lifting down the sewing machine and carrying it into the kitchen. ‘Is owt amiss?’

Esther marched back across the yard and followed him into the house, pulling off her gloves and struggling to unpin her hat as she went.

‘Matthew’s not done the milking. I’ll ’ave to get them cows in, Will, but make ya’sen a cup of tea afore you set off back. And Will . . .’

‘Aye, lass?’

‘Thanks – thanks for everything, for – for taking me and bringing me back – and that . . .’

Will grinned. ‘I could have wished to have taken you on a happier jaunt, lass, but I’m glad you went. For George’s sake and, if it comes to that, for your own. Though you might not think it now, I reckon in years to come, you’ll be glad you went.’

‘Aye well, mebbe . . . I – I must get on, Will.’ With that she hurried upstairs to change into her working clothes.

Opening the door and stepping into her bedroom, Esther stopped, her hand still on the latch, her mouth wide in a shocked gasp, but eyes staring in disbelief. Then a sudden spurt of intense anger flooded through her.

On the patchwork counterpane of the double bed lay the wooden box – Sam’s wooden box – which held the money she had found after his death. His hoard of savings which had then become hers and to which she had added, coin by coin, by scrimping and saving over the years through her own hard work. All the money she had in the world had been in that box.

Now the box lay open on the bed – empty.

She leant forward and grasped the box, flinging it to one side, then she dropped to her knees and scrabbled under the bed.