The Fleethaven Trilogy (8 page)

Sam was staring at her. His eyes misted over as if he were seeing not her but someone else standing before him. Perhaps he was remembering the person to whom this dress had once belonged. For a fleeting moment, Esther felt awkward. Then Sam brushed his hand across his face, sniffed and said gruffly. ‘You look bonny, wench. Come on, we’d best be off.’

The autumn evening was soft and balmy under a clear starlit sky and merry laughter filled the night air as they approached Grange Farm. Lanterns had been festooned all around the edges of the barn which the squire left free for the Harvest Supper. Long trestle tables had been placed down the middle with squares of hay for the revellers to sit on. The tables were piled high with food and when Esther arrived with Sam, people were already helping themselves. There were hams and pickled tongues, pork pies and sausages and for dessert, junkets and cream cheese soufflés. Esther’s mouth watered.

Matthew appeared suddenly at her side. ‘Come on, Esther, let’s get stuck in or it’ll all be gone.’

She took a plate and, following his example, piled it high with food. She reached across the table to pick up a cooked sausage when her fingers touched someone else’s reaching from the opposite side. She looked up to find herself staring into Beth Hanley’s resentful eyes.

‘You with Matthew?’ Beth asked bluntly.

Esther straightened up. ‘Well – sort of. Why?’

There was hurt in Beth’s dark brown eyes. ‘Dun’t you know we’re walking out together?’

‘No – no, I didn’t. I’m sorry – if he’d said then . . .’

Beth snorted. ‘Oh, him, he likes to think he’s fancy free. He’ll flirt with anything in skirts. I knows that.’

‘An’ doesn’t it bother you?’

She didn’t answer directly, but stared Esther straight in the face and said, ‘He’ll come back to me and I’ll be waiting for him. You mark my words, Esther Everatt,
he’ll always come back to me!’

For some inexplicable reason the vehement certainty in Beth’s tone sent a shiver down Esther’s back.

The dark-haired girl turned away and was lost in the throng of people. Esther too turned away from the table and drew breath sharply for she found herself staring into the disapproving faces of Mrs Willoughby and her sister.

‘Well, really!’ was all Flo could muster.

‘And what, may I ask, are
you
doing here?’ demanded Martha Willoughby.

Esther recovered her senses and smiled brightly. ‘Good evening, missus,’ she addressed Martha Willoughby. ‘And, er . . .’ she hesitated and then deliberately her gaze searched the left hand of the thin woman, whom she now knew to be Martha Willoughby’s sister. Seeing her ringless finger, she added with emphasis, ‘And miss.’

Miss Flo gasped. The edge of sarcasm towards her spinster state was not lost on the middle-aged woman.

‘Oh, Martha, come away. I won’t be seen talking to this – this creature!’

‘Quite right, Flo dear. Really, I don’t know what the squire is thinking of.’

They picked up their skirts and with one last glance made as if to turn away in a calculated snub. But in that last glance, Flo had looked Esther up and down properly. She gasped and gripped her sister’s arm.

‘Oh, Martha,’ she squeaked. ‘Do – do you
see
what she’s wearing? Oh, how could he? How could Sam let her wear one of poor, darling Katharine’s gowns?’ Flo fished in the sleeve of her blouse for a delicate lace handkerchief and held it to her lips, her eyes wide and staring above the frothy white lace. Martha was made of sterner stuff. She merely eyed the old-fashioned gown with distaste.

‘It’s absolutely . . .’ But exactly what, Esther was not to hear for at that moment Tom Willoughby came up behind them and put an arm about the shoulders of the two sisters. ‘Now, now, my dears, making friends. That’s the way,’ and he gave a great bellowing laugh so that his stomach wobbled and his whiskers shook.

‘Oh, really, Thomas. Friends, indeed!’ The two women turned away in disgust, but before he followed them, Tom gave Esther a broad grin and an exaggerated wink. ‘They’ll come around, m’dear, don’t you worry.’

Esther stared after the three of them as they walked away. She wasn’t bothered one way or the other whether they ever ‘came around’, but she was intrigued by something Flo had said.

Just who was Katharine?

Thoughtfully, Esther took her plate and sat down in a corner of the barn.

‘There you are,’ Matthew said and sat down beside her. ‘This is good, ain’t it, Esther?’ he said, his mouth stuffed with food.

‘Mmm,’ she murmured.

‘There’s dancing later. Old Joe usually brings his fiddle and plays for us.’

‘Dancing,’ Esther was startled into replying. ‘I can’t dance!’

‘I’ll show you,’ Matthew said loftily. ‘There’s nothing to it.’

He was indeed right. There was nothing to it – at least not the way these happy folk danced, for no one cared that they all just hopped and jigged about in time to the music. There seemed to be no organized dance steps of any kind. But, Esther had to admit, they all certainly enjoyed themselves. Even Beth was dancing and laughing and seemed to have forgotten her rancour for the moment.

‘Oh, stop, Matthew, do stop. I’m puffed. I can’t dance another step,’ Esther gasped. ‘Really, I can’t. Oooh, I’ve got a stitch in me side.’

Matthew laughed. He was by now none too steady on his feet, for he had been partaking liberally of the ale set aside at the far end of the barn. He pulled her away from the other dancers and with his arm about her waist, led her out of the barn and away from the light. Behind them the music and laughter continued but around them now was the black stillness of the night. He pulled her round a corner and towards a straw stack looming in the darkness.

‘Oh, just let me sit down. Me feet are fair aching.’ Esther giggled and fell into the straw. Matthew stumbled and fell on top of her and in a moment they were rolling and shrieking about in the straw. Then suddenly he was on top of her, his mouth finding hers as he kissed her roughly and his hand was tugging at her skirt. Then she felt his hand hot upon her thigh and felt his fingers working frantically upwards, upwards . . .

She struggled. ‘Stop it, Matthew. I won’t—’

‘Aw, come on, Esther. You’d like it. I know you would. You’re ripe as a plum . . .’

‘No!’ she almost shouted, and then she heard an ominous tearing sound near her shoulder as the fragile material of her dress tore.

Her sudden anger giving her extra strength, Esther shoved him off her and tried to scramble up. The straw caught at her skirt and hampered her escape, so that he caught her by the legs and tackled her to the ground once more. Now she was fighting him in earnest, fighting for her purity.

‘Not ’til I’m wed,’ she panted. ‘I
won’t.’

Suddenly he stopped and rolled away from her. ‘Huh, you’re a prude, Esther Everatt. You’ll die an old maid and never know what it was like.’

Finding herself free, she struggled to her feet and moved a little way away from him. Then she turned and with a parting flourish shouted, ‘I’d rather that than bring your bastard into the world, Matthew Hilton!’

She turned and fled back to the safety of the throng of dancers. She found herself a drink and sat in a corner. She was hot and dishevelled, but hoped that everyone was too busy enjoying themselves to notice.

She felt at the back of her shoulder. The tear didn’t seem too bad. She had been thrilled to find the dress and had so looked forward to this evening, but now, what with the contempt of Mrs Willoughby and Miss Flo, Beth’s angry eyes, and now Matthew’s drunken attempt on her virtue – her pleasure was spoilt. She sighed heavily. His behaviour had soured what she had thought had been a friendship. She had liked being with him, quite enjoyed his harmless flirting if she were honest. But no more than that, she vowed to herself, not until I’m married.

Beth Hanley was standing over her. ‘Matthew tried his tricks on you, then?’

Esther looked up. ‘He tried, but he got nowhere,’ she said tartly.

Beth seemed to reflect for a moment as if unable to decide whether or not she believed Esther’s claim. ‘Funny, he’s not one to give up.’

Esther looked up and then slowly rose to her feet to meet Beth’s gaze on a level. ‘You don’t mean you let him . . . ?’

Beth shrugged. ‘Why not? ’Tis natural.’

Esther’s lips curled, and she saw anger spark in Beth’s eyes.

‘Think you’re too good for the rest of us, do you, Esther? Matthew not good enough for you, eh?’

Esther shook her head. ‘That don’t come into it, Beth,’ she said quietly, but with candour. ‘I – I always vowed I’d be a virgin when I married – that’s all.’

For a moment a look of uncertainty crossed Beth’s face as if she were struggling with her conscience. Then her dark head came up defiantly. ‘Well, it’s a mite late for me now to have such high-minded principles. I’ll leave you to your lonely bed, Esther Everatt, and wish ya well on it.’ With that parting shot Beth tossed her long hair back and flounced away.

Esther, determined to have the last word, shouted after her, ‘You’re welcome to him.’

Beth disappeared out of the barn into the darkness to find Matthew.

Later that night, for the first time in her life, Esther lay awake with a strange feeling of restlessness. Matthew could be right, she thought sadly, maybe she’d never know what it was like to be really loved by someone kind and thoughtful. Perhaps no one decent would want to marry a girl with a name; ‘my sister’s bastard’ as Aunt Hannah had constantly reminded her.

All she had ever wanted, Esther told herself fiercely in the lonely darkness of the little attic room, was a place to belong. That was why she had left her aunt’s house and walked through the night. That was why she had forced herself upon the ailing Sam Brumby. He needed her youth and her strength. But Esther was honest enough to acknowledge that her need of Sam and his farm was even greater than the old man’s need of her.

She had no place in her scheme of things for rolling in the hay with the likes of Matthew Hilton!

With harvest time over, now came the preparation of the ground for next year’s crops. The work would continue as the weather allowed throughout the winter months, though Sam told Esther he liked to aim to get the ploughing done by December.

‘Ah dun’t always manage it,’ he told her ruefully, ‘and there’s the threshing to pull in an,’ all.’

‘We’ll manage it, mester,’ Esther told him confidently. ‘Me an’ Matthew between us.’

Sam grunted doubtfully. ‘Reckon you can manage them great horses of Tom Willoughby’s, d’ya, wench?’

Esther grinned at him, her green eyes sparkling. ‘You just watch me, mester.’

So on the first day that Tom brought his pair of heavy horses to Brumbys’ Farm, both he and Sam followed Esther as she led the animals out to the field; stood watching her as deftly she harnessed them to the plough. She marked out a rig and then cut her first furrow, true and straight. Her clear voice rang out across the field, ‘Gee-back, gee-back,’ as she guided the horses on a right turn at the end of the rig and began her way back down the field towards the two men. As she approached, Esther’s concentration never faltered, her hands stayed firmly on the plough, yet she was aware of their critical scrutiny.

Tom’s rumbling voice carried to her ears. ‘By heck, lass, that furrow’s as straight as I could do mesen. What d’you say, Sam?’

Faintly, she heard Sam’s now-familiar sniff. ‘Aye, it’ll do,’ was all he said.

From Sam Brumby that was praise enough.

So day after day Esther took turns with Matthew in following the horses borrowed from Tom Willoughby, guiding the plough as it carved furrow after neat furrow until her legs ached and her ankles were sore from all the miles she had walked on the uneven ground. Her hands were chafed raw from holding the plough handles but doggedly she plodded on through the rain and mud of autumn. The days seemed to grow rapidly shorter and the weather turned colder. Seagulls shrieked above her diving down on to the freshly turned furrow in search of food. Mile after mile she trudged and then, cold and wet, she would return to the farmhouse at night, but only when the horses had been brushed and fed with corn and chaff did she allow herself any respite. In front of the glowing fire in the range she would fall asleep in the wooden chair in the corner by the hearth, often too exhausted even to eat.

Life at Brumbys’ Farm fell into some sort of routine for the three of them – Sam, Esther and Matthew. Matthew did not work full time for Sam, Esther found. He helped out on all the local farms and so several days could go by without Matthew being there. Then suddenly he would appear again, grinning cheekily, winking at her and, given less than half a chance, slapping her buttocks, although he was quick to dodge out of the way of her stinging right hand returning the slap.

With the ploughing, Matthew was needed at Brumbys’ more than usual. On Mondays Esther washed and ironed, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays she helped with the ploughing when Matthew was needed elsewhere, then on Thursdays she baked and cooked enough food to last the week. Fridays and Saturdays she worked outside again, sometimes more ploughing, sometimes with the stock. But on Sundays, she found that Sam was quite happy to do a minimum of work.

‘It’s the Lord’s Day,’ he said gruffly one Sunday morning when he found her black-leading the range. Even the animals were given as little attention as possible.

‘Give ’em a sharpener on the Lord’s Day,’ Sam told her. ‘One feed a day instead of two on the Sabbath – they’ll be all the more ready to come to the trough tomorrow.’

So on a Sunday, Esther found she had time for herself.

Walking down the lane from Brumbys’ Farm towards the Point one Sunday afternoon, when the winter sun lay low in the southern sky, streaking the fields with a golden glow, Esther hummed to herself and every so often she gave a little skip of sheer happiness. She came to the stretch of grass between the cottages and the river bank. Four of Ma Harris’s children were chasing each other in a noisy game of tag. Esther smiled to herself. Sabbath or not, Ma Harris would never manage to keep that brood quiet.

‘Is yar mam at home?’ she asked a boy with a runny nose.