The Straw Halter (2 page)

Back in the kitchen Daniel said, ‘I promised we would read from the Bible this evening. But first we will eat. I usually have bread, cheese and pickle at this time. Tomorrow you can take over this aspect of our life. I will give you a list of food I enjoy, and if you wish to add to this we can discuss the matter.’ She nodded, grateful that she did not have to prepare a meal while he was hovering. Tomorrow while he was working outside she could look around and plan her routine.

‘I will also give you some money for housekeeping and I shall
expect you to account for how it is spent, at least at first,’ he said. ‘We are not rich, but with careful management we can get by comfortably.’

They sat at the scrubbed wooden table to eat and she discovered to her surprise that she was very hungry. Afterwards she washed the plates and mugs in the bucket of water standing outside the back door before they went into the sitting-room, ‘because there are two comfortable chairs in there and only one in here,’ he said. ‘On my own I prefer the kitchen.’

He went to a bookcase in the corner and returned with a Bible. Without consulting her he read from St Matthew, ‘Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine and doeth them I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock.…’

As Daniel closed the Bible he smiled across the space between them. ‘I understand you read; perhaps you would like to do so one evening. Meanwhile tell me more about yourself. All I know is that you are eighteen years old and breathtakingly beautiful. I want to know much more.’

‘I’m the youngest of eight children. My father died when I was a baby and I don’t remember him at all.’

She paused and Daniel said gently, ‘Your mother – is she still alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you must introduce us later. She will want to know you are well cared for.’

‘I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing so for years.’

He looked at her sharply, ‘Have you quarrelled with her?’

‘That is my affair. You may have bought a wife, but you haven’t bought her soul as well as her body.’

She glanced across to where the straw halter now hung on a nail behind the door, then looked quickly away. His expression changed and in an instant the atmosphere became charged with tension. He clenched his hands until the knuckles looked brutal, then suddenly he said, ‘That’s fair comment, I suppose. However, if we are to live together in some sort of harmony, and I hope we are, then you must learn as I must learn. You are far too quick to jump. I have no wish for you to be too subservient but I expect a certain–’

At that moment there was a terrific hammering on the door. Daniel looked startled, but was up and out of the room faster than she would have thought possible. She heard anxious voices, both men’s, one of them her new husband’s. After what seemed a long time to her, sitting apprehensively in the armchair, Daniel returned.

‘I have to go out, trouble at Denmeads, Martin there, is our nearest neighbour,’ he told her. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back, so if you are tired get yourself to bed and I’ll be along later.’ He hesitated for a second and she thought he was going to kiss her, then he grimaced and said, ‘Tonight of all nights, but maybe I won’t be long. You’ll be all right, the back door is locked and I’ll take my key. Don’t push the bolts though.’ Then he was gone and she heard him talking to whoever it was in the hallway, imagined him pulling on his boots to go and help with whatever catastrophe had befallen his neighbour.

Alone in the farmhouse Betsy wasn’t sure what she wanted to do. It was only half past eight, far too early for bed. Nevertheless she went upstairs to their bedroom and unpacked her clothes, placing them neatly in the drawers and wardrobe space that Daniel had indicated would be hers. She drew the curtains, leaving a two-inch gap so the room would catch the
first light of dawn, then she went downstairs and looked at the books on the shelf from which Daniel had taken the Bible earlier. Several were farming manuals but there was some fiction. She took one of these, returned to the armchair and began to read. It was a story about a servant-girl and when the lady of the house was mentioned Betsy closed her eyes,
remembering
her own days with the lady of the house where she had been sent to work when she was ten years old.

Mrs Wallasey had been kind to her from the beginning, asking about her brothers and sisters, sending little treats home with her on the few occasions when she was able to go. These were usually on Mothering Sunday and Christmas Day if she was lucky, although she actually found it better to be at the big house on Christmas Day rather than with her own family. This did sometimes make her feel guilty.

She had started work in the kitchen at Wren Court and for three months had not seen anything of the rest of the house, except the back stairs leading to the bedroom that she shared with two other girls. They were both older than she was; one was twelve and one fourteen, and they resented having such a young girl with them. At night Betsy was so tired she simply wanted to sleep, but they talked and giggled, mostly about the butcher’s boy who delivered the meat for the house every day.

Jane, the older one, tripped her deliberately on more than one occasion, both in the kitchen and upstairs in their tiny attic bedroom. She thought about that room now and realized that she had never had a space to herself. Before she went into service she slept with her siblings, girls at the top and boys at the bottom of the bed. Then she shared with the two other girls at Wren Court. Jane, the fourteen-year-old, was bossy and spiteful and never tripped her when anyone else could see what
she was doing. It was always done slyly and Betsy quickly learned to watch out for this.

Most times she managed to stay on her feet and no real damage was achieved, but one day, when she had a pile of dinner-plates in her hands, taking them from the cupboard over to the stove, she didn’t see Jane’s foot come out and she went sprawling across the floor, while the plates clattered around her.

Cook, standing by the stove and with her back to what was going on in other parts of the kitchen, turned quickly. Hauling Betsy to her feet she said, ‘You are getting so clumsy, child, this is the third time this week you’ve skidded across here like that. How many of those plates are broken? Because it will have to come out of your wages at the end of the year.’

Betsy set about picking up the plates. Miraculously only one had broken, although another was chipped. ‘They weren’t the best set, Mrs Bates,’ Betsy said, while out of the corner of her eye she saw Jane watching her. The older girl quickly turned away and busied herself chopping onions on the long wooden table, while Annie, who always followed where Jane led, kept her eyes on the mixture she was stirring at the other end of the table.

‘Tut, tut, girl, get a move on,’ cook said sharply, ‘and make sure you pick every piece up. Then wash them all and check for cracks or chips.’

Betsy swallowed the words she almost said, for cook would never believe Jane had tripped her up on purpose, and Annie would stick up for her friend, then she herself would be in more trouble for telling tales.

Both girls kept out of her way for the rest of the morning, not even looking in her direction, and her temper rose by the hour. Why were they nasty to her? Because she was young and they
thought they could get away with it? Well, she’d show them. She would trip Jane up and deny it when the girl tried to blame her, as she knew she would. The thought of revenge for all the nastiness she had endured in the last few weeks at Jane’s hands made her glow with excitement.

Cook harried her for the rest of the day, but she managed to keep her temper, remembering her mother’s words when she had started here:
Watch that tongue of yours girl, because if you lose your place you can’t come back here, I’ve enough mouths to feed as it is.

That was another strange thing, she’d always been the skivvy at home, none of the others seemed to do as much as she did. Out of five brothers and two sisters she was the only one who had had to leave home so early to earn a living. Her two sisters were grown up, they were the eldest of the family, yet Betsy always had the feeling that even when they were young
children
they never had the sort of treatment she received, but of course she couldn’t know for sure. As for the boys, they were expected to bring in wood for the fire, but very little else.

She closed the book on her lap and let her memories flood her mind. Betsy wondered what her own life would have been like if
her
lady of the house hadn’t died when she had. She had been sent to see her after the plate-crashing incident and she wasn’t nearly as terrifying as cook had led her to believe. She had a gentle voice for a start, and her questioning was not harsh.

‘Cook tells me you tripped with a pile of plates in your hand and broke some,’ she said. ‘Well, these things do happen from time to time. Perhaps you were carrying more than you could properly manage. Was that it?’

Betsy hesitated, then, ‘No, ma’am,’ she said. Mrs Wallasey was silent for a moment and Betsy thought she was going to
lose her job. Instead her lady said softly, ‘Cook also tells me this is not the first time. That you often skid across the kitchen floor. Perhaps you should try to make two journeys instead of one and maybe even be a little slower, Betsy.’

Now, all these years later, Betsy thought it was the use of her name that had triggered the tears then, for even her mother scarcely used it, and cook referred to her as
girl
or
you girl.
Whatever the reason she could not stop her eyes from filling and the tears overflowing and running down her cheeks. Mrs Wallasey came closer and touched her hand. ‘It’s all right, Betsy, nothing is going to happen to you. Just be more careful in future, there’s a good girl.’

A week after that encounter Mrs Wallasey sent for her again. ‘How are you getting on here, Betsy?’ she said.

It wasn’t in Betsy’s nature to pretend, and after a moment’s hesitation she answered truthfully, ‘I do my best, ma’am. I don’t seem to please.’

Gently Mrs Wallasey had lifted Betsy’s hands from her side and examined them. They were red and tender, raw with continually washing the kitchen floor, peeling great bowls of potatoes, and generally doing all the tasks the other two no longer did. She remembered how ashamed of them she had been, and as she tried to wriggle them out of Mrs Wallasey’s firm grip her employer said quietly, ‘Do Jane and Annie share the heavier and dirtier tasks with you, Betsy?’

She remembered, even now, how she could not look her special lady in the eyes and not tell the truth. Instead she had concentrated her gaze towards the floor and said, ‘We all do as cook tells us, ma’am.’

She had felt a very soft finger beneath her chin, gently easing her face upwards. ‘I’m glad to hear that. You may go now, Betsy,
You’re a good girl.’ She was out of the room before the tears fell and had wiped them away well before she was down the back stairs and in the kitchen.

‘Well,’ cook said, ‘what did Mrs Wallasey want with you?’

‘To – ask how I was getting on with the work, Mrs Bates.’

‘And what did you tell her?’ Cook’s huge body loomed over her.

‘All right,’ she lied.

‘Good. Come on now, you’ve wasted enough time when you should have been working, so get and help Annie with those vegetables. I hope milady isn’t going to make a habit of asking the scullery-maids how they’re getting on. Hmmph.’ She bustled over to the kitchen range.

A week later cook told her that Mrs Wallasey was short of a maid upstairs and that Betsy was being sent up for the time being. She was ten and a half and had worked at Wren Court for three months.

The same noise that she had heard earlier quickly brought her back to the present and this time she stood up, the book still in her hand, to check what it was. For a couple of seconds all was quiet, and then it came again, a scratching noise by the window. Nervously Betsy walked across the room. The brown curtains were drawn and yet someone was out there – there it was again, a rattle against the window as though someone was trying to open it. She put her hand on the curtain. Should she pull it and see? Whoever it was couldn’t get in that way and Daniel had warned her that the doors were all locked. She wished he was there with her now.

Deciding to ignore the noise she returned to the fire and picked up the heavy poker from the hearth. If whoever it was
did manage to get in she would at least have something to defend herself with. The silence as she sat in the chair again was eerie. She knew she could not concentrate on the book, and she didn’t want to wander around the place. The candles gave out a soft glow, but enough for whoever was out there to know the room was occupied. Maybe they had seen Daniel go off and knew she was here alone. The noise began again; it wasn’t a tap, nor yet a knock, more of a scraping sound. Suddenly she knew she had to see who was there. They were, after all, on the other side of the glass at present.

Armed with the poker she returned to the window and although her free hand was trembling she pulled the curtain back with a flourish. She didn’t know who was the more surprised, she or the large black cat balancing on the wide sill and hammering to be let in. She unlatched the window and stood aside as the animal jumped through. It walked across to the fireplace and began to wash itself.

‘My goodness, puss, you gave me a fright,’ she said. The cat ignored her and continued its ablutions. Bending to stroke it she said, ‘You obviously live here, so I hope we’ll be friends. I’m Betsy by the way. Reckon Daniel will tell me your name when he gets back.’ As she straightened up she caught sight of the straw halter hanging on a hook near the door and a grim feeling came over her.

‘I’d best leave it for now, puss, but it’s got to go,’ she murmured, ‘I can’t have it staring at me every time I look over there.’

It was tempting to take it down, destroy it now, but
something
warned her she shouldn’t. Yet Daniel had taken it off once they had been clear of the market, even if he had hung it there as a symbol.