The Lost And Found Girl (13 page)

It did not matter where he went or what he did, Beth was always there to haunt him, to provide a comparison for any woman he met. He could not have her but in the short time he had known her his feelings for her had been strong. He longed to know such love again. But would he ever find another woman to match Beth? Was he to be forever in this purgatory?

If his love for Beth could not be equalled with another he must reconcile himself to less. There was regard, respect and admiration. Surely a man who felt these for his wife would be happy? He must find a dear sweet girl who would be a good wife to him and mother to his children. In return he would make sure he was a devoted husband and father.

But not a lover, for even as he thought of it he knew he would not deceive a woman so. His vows before God would be a sham and this conclusion caused him anguish as he reconciled himself to continuing his life of celibacy and hard work. It was time to move on and he did not wish to dwell on his decision.

‘I have decided to give up my chamber here,’ he said.

‘Oh no, please don’t leave.’ The widow sounded genuinely upset.

‘I have arranged to view a horse today and I shall look for new lodgings at the same time,’ he explained. ‘I shall, of course, pay you one month’s rent in lieu of notice.’

A clean break, he thought. He walked past her and up the stairs where he packed all of his belongings into his new travelling valise and carried it down to the front door. He left it in the porch and placed his key carefully on the hall table. She lingered, watching him with reddened eyes. He was not unmoved by her tears but if he stayed her affections for him might grow and, as he was unable to return them, it would be unfair on her. ‘I’ll send a man for my belongings,’ he said.

She nodded wordlessly.

As he walked into town he felt a huge sense of relief at his decision, as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He booked in at the Crown where the landlord knew better than to enquire into his changed circumstances.
Later, he bought the horse he’d viewed and arranged livery, then ate dinner at the Red Lion where the cooks were better than those at the Crown. By morning he had decided to upgrade his assistant to manager and spend a few months at his office in Barnsley. But a letter later in the week caused another change of plan.

His partner Mr Stacey took ill and died with a few weeks, leaving only his son in charge of their Skipton office. The Dales trade was busy and Abel removed himself to Skipton instead of Barnsley. Mr Stacey’s son was disappointed not to take over from his father but Abel judged he was not ready. So Abel set him up in a small office in Settle for him to learn more about his responsibilities and be nearer to his widowed mother at the same time. Abel stayed in Skipton, visiting Settle from time to time on market day. He had friends and colleagues all over that part of the Dales and renewing his old business acquaintances filled his time adequately. He often thought of High Fell but he did not go there.

‘Come on, girl, get yoursenn outta bed, there’s work to be done.’

Beth kept her eyes closed. Another day to get through, another day of hell on this godforsaken fell. What was the point? She may as well be dead. ‘Where’s my medicine? You’re supposed to give me my medicine.’

‘Not until you get yourself off your back, otherwise I’d get no work from you ever.’

Beth couldn’t get through her day without the medicine. ‘Witch,’ she seethed.

‘Whore.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she snapped. No one visited except the quarterly supply cart that brought their flour, oil, candles and other essentials including her medicine.

‘If you don’t curb that temper of yours you’ll get none of your poppy juice until tonight.’ Mrs Roberts rattled the keys in her hand. She must keep them under her pillow at
night, Beth thought. She had searched everywhere else for them.

Beth was immediately contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Roberts.’

‘That’s better.’

‘When can I have it?’

‘I’ll think about it when you’ve milked the nanny.’

‘Evil witch,’ Beth said under her breath as the older woman left her chamber. Mrs Roberts had become hard of hearing lately, which was a blessing for Beth, who hated her with a vengeance yet fawned on her pathetically for her medicine. She picked up a damp flannel from the washstand and wiped it over her face, peering into the long cheval glass that graced her chamber.

Her drawers, chemise and stockings were wrinkled and crumpled but it was her face that shocked her. Who was that woman, the one with wild knotted hair and sunken shadowy eyes in a ghostly face? Oh, her? She was the mad woman who lived on the fell; the woman whose children had been taken away because she was a whore. She was the woman whose husband had left her; the woman no one wanted.

The hurt would not go away. It travelled through her, all over her body, inflaming every nerve ending. Only her medicine soothed it, lifting her out of her torment and laying her gently on a cloud; calm, free of all hurt and placid. ‘I want my medicine,’ she yelled, and picked up a stray boot to throw at her image. The glass shuddered but did not break and she shivered. She mustn’t upset Mrs Roberts, not until she had her medicine. Everything would be all right then. As long as she did as she was told, Mrs Roberts would unlock the larder and take out the bottle. There were several bottles in there, all neatly labelled ‘Laudanum’ and lined up in the corner, enough to last until the next quarterly delivery.

She’d tried to get past her once and reach for the medicine herself but Mrs Roberts had her orders and had been angry. For an older woman she was surprisingly strong and she had pushed her to the floor and had made her wait a whole nerve-jangling frantic day before letting her have a single drop.

Beth struggled into her stained rank gown and boots, rammed a cap over her hair and staggered down the stairs. Mrs Roberts was tending the fire in the range. Beth knotted a wool shawl about her shoulders, took a clean pail from the scullery and went outside to the nanny. Her hands shook as she placed a milking stool in the stall. She forced a long suppressed growl out of her throat and the nanny shied as she shoved the pail under her teats. Spooked, the goat kicked away the pail and reared, tugging at her halter. The ring tethering her to the wall, already loose, fell out.

Beth grabbed the trailing rope and screamed, ‘You stupid, stupid animal!’ The frightened nanny butted her sending her off-balance and she stumbled against the wooden stall. Her feet tangled in the legs of the upturned stool. Desperately she retrieved the pail and pushed it over the goat’s head, scrambled for the stall door and escaped. She must have her medicine. She couldn’t do anything without her medicine. Why didn’t Mrs Roberts understand that? She must make her understand. She must.

Every nerve-ending screamed as she stumbled through the kitchen door. Mrs Roberts was stirring porridge over the fire. The table was laid with bowls and plates. A half loaf of bread stood on a board, the large kitchen knife beside it, ready to cut.

Beth picked up the knife, brandished it in the air and cried, ‘You give me my medicine now or I’ll kill you!’ She crossed the muddy flags and raised her arm high.

Mrs Roberts turned and saw her approaching. For a fleeting moment Beth glimpsed naked terror in her eyes as she backed away. The older woman’s hands fumbled in her pocket and dragged out her keys. She threw them on the floor. ‘Have it,’ she squealed. ‘Have all of it. It’ll kill you anyway.’

Beth saw the keys lying on the flagstones and let the knife fall from her fingers, clattering to the floor. The keys! They were her salvation. She bent quickly to retrieve them, feverishly sorting through for the one to the larder. Which one?
Which one?
She crossed the kitchen to the larder door, frantically trying each key in turn, forcing it into the lock, straining her fingers to turn it. At last, the door opened! There! There in the corner. Two bottles waiting for her, all for her. Her fingers shook as she removed the stopper from the nearest and tipped it to her lips. The bitterness made her shudder and she gagged, splashing the precious liquid on her skin. The empty bottle slipped from her grasp and smashed on the stone floor. She wiped her grubby fingers over her face, sucking off the bitter fluid. Slowly she sank to the cold hard granite. She heard the kitchen door slam shut. Everything was so much quieter now, so much calmer. Her nerves began to soothe and soon she would be floating on her cloud, her own private cloud …

Mrs Roberts paused only to collect her shawl from behind the scullery door. She had had more than enough of this madwoman and was not staying a moment longer. High Fell Farm had been her home since she had been sent there by the parish as a ten-year-old when old Jacob was alive, but the workhouse was preferable to being murdered in her bed and Mrs high-and-mighty-Collins could like or lump it. Her anger kept her going but by the time she had crossed the stream she was exhausted and had to sit for a while. Fear of the cold
made her push on and she sidetracked to a small farmstead. If they didn’t have a pony and trap, perhaps they had someone who could take a message to Mrs Collins to send for the asylum cart. One thing for sure, she was never going back to the farm again, not while that madwoman lived there.

She left the farmstead the following morning on a crowded cart taking the whole family and a ewe to the market in Settle, having entertained them the night before with lurid stories of goings-on at High Fell Farm. Oh, and did Mrs Roberts have some tales to tell! Only when she arrived in Settle did she begin to worry about where she would sleep that night. Perhaps now was the time to call in a few favours from the tradesmen who had delivered to High Fell Farm in the past.

She knew Mrs Collins had taken rooms in the Golden Lion and ate her dinner there on most days. The inn was crowded by 11 a.m. when most of the stock sales had finished. The farmstead family went off to visit kin in Upper Settle and Mrs Roberts set herself up in a corner by the fire ready to tell anyone a story for pie and a jar of porter. She sent word by way of the landlord that she wished to speak with his distinguished resident. The landlord returned to show Mrs Roberts to Mrs Collins’s rooms.

‘If it’s more money you want I’m sure that can be arranged. My son sends money every quarter.’

‘I wouldn’t go back while that madwoman is there for all the tea in China. She took a kitchen knife and tried to murder me. She needs locking up.’

‘Yes, I am sure you are right. I shall write to my son immediately. He will know where to send her.’

‘What about me? That farm was my home. Where do I go in the meantime?’

‘Find lodgings in Settle.’

‘Who will pay for them, madam?’

‘My son will, of course. Tell whoever you lodge with that my son will take care of your bill. Everyone in town knows that he is heir to a fortune.’

‘Aye, and that his wife is mad.’

‘Well, if they didn’t, they most certainly will now. Did you have to be so lurid and public in your complaints?’

‘She tried to murder me, madam,’ Mrs Roberts repeated. ‘Folk need to know just how loony she is.’

‘Very well.’ Mrs Collins undid a small purse and drew out a coin. ‘You acted in my son’s best interests. Take this for your trouble. But no more tale-telling, do you hear?’

‘Ma’am.’ Mrs Roberts’s fingers closed over the gold coin, she bobbed a curtsey and retreated to the fireside downstairs. The dining room and saloon were even more crowded and she pushed her way to the door until a heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

‘A moment of your time, Mrs Roberts.’

She twisted her head. ‘Oh, it’s you. I’d heard you were back. Doing very well for yourself, they say, now you’re a fancy stock dealer.’ She turned round to get a good look at him. ‘Aye, it looks like you’ve found a bit of prosperity.’

Abel Shipton glowered at her. ‘Are these stories about Edgar’s wife true?’

‘Depends what you’ve heard.’

‘I’ll give you a guinea for the truth. But it has to be the truth, mind. I’ll find you if it isn’t.’

Her head dipped slightly as she considered the offer. ‘Aye, then. You know the history.’

‘Not here. I have an office in the Shambles.’

‘Is there a fire?’

He nodded. ‘And some good brandy.’

She disappeared out of the door with Abel close on her heels. She was impressed by his office. He had certainly made a shilling or two and already employed a clerk who knew the Dales as well as he did, one of the drover’s lads if she wasn’t mistaken. Abel sent the clerk away for his dinner and threw a log on the fire. Mrs Roberts sipped her brandy and told him what had happened since he had been forced to leave.

‘Are you telling me she has never left the farm since she went there as a bride?’

‘Well, there’s no farm to speak of now. Mrs Collins let the land go and moved down here.’

‘Is that what she told you?’

‘It’s the truth, isn’t it? She needed the money for her son’s hobnobbing with the gentry. But she held on to the farmhouse and yard. The girl had to have somewhere to live.’

Abel gave a harsh laugh. ‘The girl? The
girl’s
son will be heir to a fortune one day.’

His tone made Mrs Roberts glance at his face. He was angry. She blinked. There was suppressed rage in his troubled eyes. Well, he had been sent away in disgrace as the father of the bastard child. Perhaps he had really been fond of the mad whore. He seemed to notice her staring at him and relaxed his features.

‘Who is with her now?’ he asked.

‘With her? Nobody. Nobody in their right mind would stay.’

‘But she must have someone to look after her!’

‘She can take care of herself. She was a housekeeper before she wed and she has the keys to the stores …’

‘You have left her there alone?’

‘She came at me with a knife! I wouldn’t be much use to her dead, would I? At least she’ll be dealt with now.’

‘Dealt with? How do you mean?’

‘Mrs Collins says her son’ll send her to the asylum. Best place for her if you ask me.’

Abel threw his hands up in despair. ‘But you have just told me they took
both
her children away from her and then fed her laudanum to keep her quiet. Whose mind would not be turned in those circumstances?’