White Water (6 page)

One of the dogs had startled a rat and the two dogs now streaked across the lawn, whining in their eagerness for a kill, but it eluded them and they returned to Maria’s side, disappointed.

‘You must be quicker,’ she told them. ‘You eat too well and grow fat and lazy!’

It grew late and the moon shone. By its light she saw apples and pears rotting on the ground below the trees where they had fallen. She ground her teeth in vexation. They should have been picked, wrapped and stored for the winter. Such terrible waste appalled her. But could she get rid of the gardener also? There would be no one left! Briefly she smiled at the prospect, but it was no laughing matter. The gardener must stay but she would speak to him severely and he must mend his ways. Maybe a period of trial — six weeks would be fair. Yes, she would see to it. He must understand that if the garden was not greatly improved within six weeks he could look elsewhere for employment, and without a reference that would prove impossible. But Wynne remained her biggest problem. Wynne and the lack of money. She sat down on a small stone seat, pulled her cloak more closely round her and stared unseeing across the moonlit garden. The air was chill but she would not allow herself to go back into the house until she had found a solution to the problems. She shivered and was glad when the dogs settled themselves beside her, one leaning against her legs, one sprawled across her feet. She sat there for nearly an hour and then suddenly she had an idea. It was so simple, so perfect! She considered it from every angle and then nodded in a satisfied way and stood up. The dogs sprang up, eager to go back to the warmth of the hearth. Maria patted them fondly and set off towards the house. Next day was Wednesday and she would set her new-made plan in motion.

*

James Moore was the local magistrate and he listened keenly to what Maria had to tell him about Wynne.

‘Hmm,’ he said when she was finished. ‘A fine looker gone to the bad, I fear. I did hear rumours about his daughter, poor little lass. We had the constable out looking for her but she was never found. ’Tis a wicked world, my dear Maria. A wicked old world.’ He smiled and the faded brown eyes glinted at her over the rim of his goblet. ‘As to helping you, why, there’s no question but I’ll do all I can. Don’t be too hard on yourself. I, too, meant to call more often than I did. I promised Harold and then there was always some more urgent task to attend to. The weeks slip by. We’re all guilty of the sin of procrastination. A cook — now let me think … I dare say my wife will be more help on that subject. We’ll talk to her later.’

Maria looked at the weather-beaten face under its thick white hair and saw the firm way his gnarled hands closed round the stem of his goblet. ‘
You
have changed very little,’ she told him truthfully and he looked pleased at the compliment.

‘Ah, I’ve plenty of life in me yet,’ he assured her. ‘I can still sit a horse and enjoy the thrill of the hunt. I can outride any of the young men — and my sight’s as good as ever. Hawkeyes, my wife calls me. But I digress. Some more wine — that’s the way — and back to business.’

‘The looker,’ Maria prompted.

‘Ah, yes. You’ve made a wise decision. The wretch will have to go but you’re letting him off lightly. He should lose a hand. Stealing’s a serious offence and we must make an example — ’

‘But I’ve no proof,’ said Maria hurriedly. ‘I’ve only my own suspicions. The loss of a hand is too severe.’

He shrugged. ‘He’s your man.’

‘Aye. And the rest of the plan?’

He laughed grimly. ‘I’d give a sovereign to see his face! Aye, ’tis the best you can do in the circumstances. I’ll take a hundred myself at the current price and the rest’ll go. I’ll send my man, Merritt, over to round them up. Your two lads’ll never do it without a dog. You say Tutherington will take some?’ She nodded. ‘Then we’ll fetch mine. The rest will go by cart. You’ll need four or five. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do. Ah — ’

He looked round, hearing his wife approach. She kissed Maria warmly and they exchanged pleasantries. It was ten years since they had last met and Alice Moore had aged considerably. But her mind was as alert as ever and she promised to find a new cook for Romney House as quickly as possible. Then she spoke at length about her grandchildren and Maria told them about her own family and life at Heron. Finally, it grew so late, they persuaded Maria to stay to dinner and it was three o’clock before she finally left to ride home. She was pleased with her efforts so far, but she had not quite finished.

*

When Mark Wynne first woke it was barely light. Something had disturbed his sleep but he was too befuddled to consider what it might be. Too thick headed, in fact, to realize the need to consider what had interrupted his sleep. He realized only that his head ached as usual and his belly rumbled protestingly over last night’s intake of cheap ale, followed by the remainder of a flagon of wine stolen from the cellar up at the house. They never did mix, ale and wine. He knew it — everyone knew it — but still he tried the impossible. At the time it had seemed a reasonable experiment. Now the griping pains told him the attempt had failed. He felt ill and sorry for himself. Below him he thought he heard voices, whispering, and the champing of horses. There was a clatter, quickly muffled, and then silence. He told himself he’d imagined it. No one would be rousing before daylight. Clumsily he turned over, groaning and cursed roundly as the change of position increased the pains in his belly. But it was too much effort to change back again. He lay on the straw on his right side, still fully clothed, his face turned to the roof which sloped past him. He scratched at a flea bite but even that was too much effort and he closed his eyes and drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

When he awoke for the second time, his head felt clearer but his body was sluggish as he struggled into a sitting position. Blearily he regarded the motes of dust which danced in the slivers of sunlight that found their way through chinks in the thatched roof. Hell’s blood! The sun was well up. The day well advanced. He might be seen sneaking back to the fields where he should have spent the night ‘looking’. He was a short, stocky man with broad shoulders. His small head looked bigger because of the burly dark beard and wild mane of curly hair, but his bushy eyebrows made his small eyes look meaner than they were. He had a scar across his cheek where a savage dog had once bitten him. He had fought it bare-handed after it killed his own dog. Then, he had been one of the most respected lookers on the marsh and Harold Cummins had been proud of his man. But that was all in the past. All that had gone. Everything had gone. Wife, family, a reason for living. He had become a cheat, a drunkard, a bully. And he had developed a dangerous temper. He did not know how it had all come about and he no longer cared.

Breathing heavily, he pulled himself to the edge of the ladder, turned and began the slow, precarious descent.

At the bottom, he steadied himself and saw with some surprise that both horses were missing and there was no sign of Jem. Outside in the yard he shaded his eyes from the bright November sun and stared round him. No sign of Matt, either. It was strangely quiet but he was too hungry to give it much thought. Unsteadily, he made his way to the kitchen door and found it locked. He stared at it in disbelief and banged on it with his fist. That Felicity would give him a bite to eat — too scared to refuse him. He banged again and waited, leaning against the door jamb. She was a scrawny little thing but she was only half grown, he reflected. Not quite as old as his Judy. His lip curled spitefully as he thought of his daughter. Wayward little bitch! He’d find her one day. He was a patient man and could wait for his revenge. He banged again, surprised that no one hurried to open it. He moved along to the window and looked in. The kitchen was empty but a sound above him made him look up and he saw Felicity looking down on him from the upstairs window.

‘Go away,’ she said somewhat shakily. ‘You’ll get no breakfast today.’

Before he could answer, she withdrew leaving him staring upwards, open-mouthed at her insolence. God’s teeth! She’d grown bold all of a sudden. He felt the first stirrings of disquiet. On an impulse, he ran round the house to the front door. That, too, was locked and he cursed angrily and stood for a moment trying to understand what was happening. Something was very wrong. He felt vulnerable. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He would go out to the flock and think it over. Slowly, he made his way back to the stables and crossed to the gate at the far end. He lurched along the lane, his head down, his brow furrowed in thought. An empty cart passed him and he flung himself into the hedge to avoid it, and saw as it passed him that Matt Cartright was driving. He heard Matt break into loud boisterous laughter and wondered sourly what the idiot had found so amusing. At last he reached the field where the flock had been left to their own devices — and found it empty. He stared slowly round, stupefied. For a moment he doubted his own senses, then he doubted his memory. Was this the field? But the neighbouring fields were also empty. Leaning heavily on the gate, he covered his face with his hands and tried to puzzle it out.

Minutes passed and he was no wiser. Three hundred sheep could not be spirited into thin air. But where were they?

The sound of hoofbeats brought his head up once more, like an animal scenting danger. He was suddenly afraid. Three riders came into sight, round the bend in the lane. One was Jem, one was Mistress Kendal — and one was the magistrate! He began to run but Jem rode after him and, flinging himself from his horse, brought him heavily to the ground. There was a short, sharp scuffle but Jem was fortunate. Mark Wynne was far from his peak physical condition or he might have proved a dangerous adversary. As it was, he was quickly taken and, hands bound behind his back, was led to where Maria and the magistrate waited for him. The former looked down at him coldly.

‘You are discharged from my employ, Mark Wynne, without notice and without a reference,’ she said. ‘You have scandalously neglected your duties and I believe you cheated me. You have behaved in an improper manner to members of my household and you can count yourself fortunate I have neither time nor energies to investigate further into your activities over the past year. I’m committing you into custody and you will be punished accordingly. Have you anything to say to me?’

He looked stunned by the speed of his downfall. ‘The sheep,’ he muttered. ‘Where are they?’

‘Sold,’ said Maria. ‘The entire flock. The lands will be rented out until my own son is of an age to take over the management.’

‘You whore!’ he shouted, but a blow from Jem knocked him down. ‘You bitch! You think you can do this to me!’

‘I’ve done it,’ Maria told him and her voice was steady. With a brief nod to the magistrate, she rode back to Romney House.

Wynne was lodged in the gaol and later flogged half naked from one end of the village to the other at the cart’s tail. He was followed by a small jeering crowd who watched the whip descend thirty times until the broad shoulders ran with blood. No one at Romney House was there to witness the spectacle or hear his threats of revenge. At the end of his ordeal a bucketful of water was dashed over him and he was deposited outside the town limits and forbidden to return on pain of death. As far as the inhabitants of Romney House were concerned, the matter was at an end.

By the time Maria rode back to Heron, two weeks later, the household had been reorganized. The money from the sale of the flock would supplement what little remained of Harold’s fortune. Meg Forbes, a small cheerful woman of indeterminate age, had been engaged as cook. The gardener had been given a chance to redeem himself and he would move into Mark Wynne’s cottage as soon as the repairs were completed. Matt was to stay on for another month and would then report back to Maria. It had also been arranged that the physician should call regularly once a week to attend Ruth — and Felicity was the proud owner of two new gowns — a pale blue brocade and a grey wool trimmed with yellow braid.

Maria rode back to Devon feeling well content with the result of her efforts. She had made amends and was at last free from the uncomfortable prickings of her conscience.

CHAPTER FOUR

In early December Minnie left Ladyford and rejoined the Heron household as cook. Maggie left the bakery and moved into Ladyford where Melissa greatly enjoyed her company as well as her cooking. Oliver was still at sea and Thomas divided his time between Heron and the mine. Maggie, prudently, had decided not to sell the shop but to put in a man to run it for her. She chose a certain Samuel Tegg, who had once worked for her as ‘a lad’ and with whom she had enjoyed a relationship that was more than platonic. He had wanted to marry her but she had refused him as kindly as she could and he left her employ to nurse his rejection elsewhere. He later married a young widow and they had seven surviving children. Maggie reasoned that fact alone would make him a hard worker and she trusted him to deal honestly with her. She was not disappointed in either respect.

At Heron preparations for Christmas went ahead almost immediately, but in the event it was not quite as cheerful a celebration as in previous years. Everyone made an effort for the children’s sake, but an unspoken concern for Allan affected the adults and robbed their merrymaking of some of its usual enthusiasm. He had borne up well after the funeral and for several weeks following, but he then sank into a depression from which no one could rouse him. He rarely spoke and then only when spoken to and his face wore a haunted look. He lost all interest in food and often went for days without a proper meal. Maria scolded him cheerfully and tried to coax him to eat and to please her he would take a few mouthfuls, but as her ‘nagging’ continued he grew irritable and was often absent from the table altogether. The physician recommended bleeding but Allan refused that, also, denying that he was sick. He sat through the Christmas festivities and smiled dutifully, but his manner was both sad and distracted. Instead of lifting him out of his despair, the excitement around him seemed only to increase his solitary brooding and their concern for him grew daily.

The new year announced itself with a heavy fall of snow and Heron and Ladyford were separated by deep and treacherous drifts. Piers and Lorna made the most of the opportunity and spent as much time outside as they were allowed. For nearly three weeks the kitchen was draped with damp clothes and boots stood steaming in the hearth. Beth would have found it a great nuisance but Minnie, recently installed in her place, was so delighted to be back at Heron (where she firmly believed ‘everything happens’) that she made no protest and the children’s joy continued. It was halted in the last week of January by an abrupt change in the temperature. Heavy rain, which washed away the snow, continued for nearly a week with disastrous effect. The ground was still frozen and unable to absorb the combination of rain and melting snow, and the surplus water found its way into the rivers, which rose alarmingly. Piers woke one morning to find that the rain had stopped and the sun was shining. He scrambled out of bed and ran to the window whooping with delight. Then he gasped in amazement.

‘Lorna! Come quick. Come and see,’ he urged. ‘Do wake up, you ninny, and look. I won’t tell you again, you must see for yourself.’

He jumped up and down impatiently until she struggled to her senses and, somewhat crossly, ran to join him. She, too, stared in amazement at the sight which met her eyes. Large areas of the surrounding moorland had disappeared under a vast sheet of water which sparkled in the sunlight. From it the tips of shrubs emerged and startled birds swooped above it uttering shrill cries of alarm. The higher ground was unaffected and a few stray animals had found their way to it — a small group of ponies who grazed unconcernedly and several sheep.

Lorna looked at her brother, her young face suddenly grave. ‘All the animals!’ she said. ‘The rabbits and foxes — will they all be drowned?’

‘I doubt it,’ replied Piers, who was none too sure. ‘But make haste and dress and we’ll ask Papa if we can ride out.’

She needed no second bidding and before long they were hurrying down to the kitchen where Minnie was already at work. The fire blazed and the porage was bubbling.

‘We can ride out to see the flood,’ Piers told her breathlessly, ‘Papa said so.’

‘But first we must eat a good, warm breakfast — Mama said that.’ Lorna grinned and they sat down at the table while Minnie ladled out two helpings of porage and added a spoonful of honey to each dish.

‘You go careful,’ she warned them. ‘We don’t want you falling in.’

‘We won’t,’ said Lorna. ‘Papa has told us not to leave the horses. We are to stay mounted. And we must not go too far. We promised.’

‘Well, see that you do as your pa says. There’s neither of you can swim yet and water’s very wet stuff!’

The two children giggled, scooping the thick, sweet porage into their mouths in their haste to be off.

Once outside, they raced to the stable and were soon mounted. Jack watched them go, hands on hips. ‘And you mind what your pa told you and keep on the horses,’ he yelled, but they merely waved in reply, too intent on their adventure to waste words on an answer.

They rode out of the stable yard, skirted the house and went down the hill on the far side until they stood at the water’s edge. The river banks were hidden under the swirling brown water and the original course of the river was no longer visible. A solitary dabchick paddled furiously against the current, making no headway.

‘I wonder what the fish think of it,’ said Lorna, gazing down and trying to pierce the murky depths. ‘The eels and the roach and the mullet … they’ll all get lost.’

‘Fish don’t get lost,’ said Piers. ‘I’ll wager our lower garden is flooded. The steps, too, most likely. We’ll have a look later. Ah, there’s a kingfisher! Did you see it?’ Lorna shook her head. She was watching something further out. ‘It’s a tree,’ she cried, pointing excitedly. ‘See, Piers, a whole tree floating along with its roots and branches.’

‘Aye, I see it. The current must be very strong. And look to the right — the stone bridge is half hidden. The arches are out of sight.’

They looked at each other soberly.

‘Will it come higher?’ asked Lorna anxiously. ‘Will it reach Heron?’

He tried to picture it happening, screwing up his face in concentration. ‘It might,’ he said at last, ‘but we would climb upstairs if it did.’

‘And if it came up the stairs?’

‘We’d climb out onto the roof.’

‘Oh.’

A sudden thought struck her. ‘Nat Gully!’ she cried. ‘I wonder if he is flooded. Should we go and see? Is Nat Gully’s too far?’

‘I think not,’ said Piers, so they turned their horses and rode alongside the water. When they drew opposite to his hut they saw that it was above the water line — but only just. There were three or four yards between the doorstep and the encroaching water. Of Nat there was no sign. They shouted but there was no reply.

‘Brin’s not there either,’ said Piers. ‘He would have barked.’

‘He would have been pleased to see us.’

‘Aye.’

‘I wonder how far is
too
far?’ said Piers. ‘I wonder if the old wooden bridge is too far. ’Tis built higher than the stone one. We might be able to cross it and then we could look for Nat on the other side.’

They looked back the way they had come. Heron was still in sight, its thatch just visible through the hawthorn trees. While they were deliberating, the sound of barking came faintly to their ears.

‘’Tis Brin!’ cried Piers. ‘They must be up ahead. We’ll surprise them.’

They urged the ponies to a trot and rode on a few hundred yards then stopped and listened again. The barking continued, but now it was quite obvious it came from the far side of the swollen river. They reached the wooden bridge and were dismayed to see that it, too, was almost submerged. The wooden supports were out of sight and the water flowed over each end of the bridge to a depth of a few inches. Only the centre was free of the water where the curve of the bridge reached its highest point. The barking was nearer now and Lorna opened her mouth to call to Nat but Piers put a finger to his lips to silence her.

‘We’ll go and find them,’ he told her. ‘We can cross the bridge.’

Lorna glanced down at the dark water which swirled around the wooden beams.

‘We daresn’t,’ she protested. ‘We must stay on the horses.’

‘We will! We’ll ride over the bridge. ’Tis strong enough. Cattle cross it.’

It was true. An excited gleam shone in her eyes.

‘Then let’s make haste,’ she said eagerly, and headed her pony towards the water’s edge.

‘Can horses swim?’ she asked as they splashed through the shallow water.

‘Aye,’ said Piers, who did not know whether they could or not. ‘But I should lead the way. ’Twas my idea.’

His protest went unheeded for already his sister’s horse was splashing on to the wooden bridge, his eyes rolling nervously.

‘Go on!’ cried Lorna crossly, digging him with her heels. ‘You stupid old thing, go on!’

The sound of Brin’s barking drew nearer and they heard Nat laugh.

The old pony was jerking his head from side to side, unaccustomed to the gleaming expanse of water which surrounded them. ‘Hold him steady!’ cried Piers, trying to persuade his own mount to follow Lorna’s on to the bridge.

Suddenly, Brin dashed from the cover of the trees and ran towards them and Lorna’s pony took fright and reared up. Somehow Lorna clung on but by now Piers’ pony had moved onto the bridge.

‘Take him forward!’ cried Piers, but Lorna had lost control and the pony, backing away from the excited terrier, collided with Pier’s mount and sprang forward with a shrill whinny of fear. As Lorna tugged at the reins, the horse swung sideways and the bridge rail creaked ominously. Brin had reached the bridge and dashed on to it, straight under the hoofs of the terrified animal which made a frantic leap. Lorna lost her hold and was flung sideways. With a despairing cry, she clutched at the rail as she fell, but her hands could find no purchase on the smooth wood.

Piers screamed, ‘Lorna!’ and then Nat appeared running towards them.

Piers was struggling with his own pony and trying to avoid Lorna’s. ‘Lorna!’ gasped Piers. ‘She’s in the water!’

Nat took in the situation at a glance. Lorna’s head surfaced for a moment and she screamed, too far now to try and take hold of the bridge supports for already the current was carrying her downstream.

‘I’m coming! Stay with the horses!’ cried Nat, as he dived into the water and swam after the little girl.

Sometimes he saw her head or an arm as she struggled in the fast-moving water. Sometimes she sank from sight and Nat’s heart sank with her. It seemed impossible that he could catch up with her before she sank for the last time, but suddenly she was carried up against the torn bough of a tree which slowed her progress momentarily and gave Nat the vital time he needed to reach her.

They were both chilled from the icy water and Lorna was scarcely breathing. Nat prayed that he could drag her to the bank in time. Piers had managed to get both ponies back on to the bank and now he galloped after Nat and Lorna, his face white and shocked. He raced ahead of them and then forced his pony into the water in an attempt to head them off. The horse obeyed him reluctantly and with only seconds to spare they were in position as Nat and Lorna were driven towards them. As they swept past, Nat reached out and caught at the horse’s leg and Piers swung himself down to clasp his wrist. Slowly, he backed the horse into shallower water and at last they were all on dry land.

‘Make haste!’ cried Nat, through chattering teeth. ‘Help me turn her.’

Together they lifted Lorna’s unprotesting body and held her upside down until a rush of water emptied her lungs and she swung choking and spluttering — but mercifully still alive. Piers gulped back tears of relief as she burst into loud, uncontrolled sobbing and Nat, shivering and exhausted, tried to comfort her. When she was calmer they rode back to Heron. Nat rode Lorna’s horse, with Lorna on the saddle in front of him. He sat with one arm round her, trying to warm the frail, trembling body as she leaned against him, half fainting with cold and shock. Their arrival at Heron sent the household into a near-panic. Lorna was carried into the house and straight up to bed. Clean dry clothes and three hot bricks brought the colour back to her pale face. Minnie heated milk and added a spoonful of brandy to warm and soothe her stomach. Later there would be plenty of explaining to do, but in the meantime Nat Gully was the hero of the hour.

*

After the snows and heavy rains of the first two months of the year the high winds of March were welcomed by one and all. They dried out the low-lying pastures and the sheep returned to their grazing grounds. Once more men moved freely about their business and journeys that had been delayed were embarked upon. Ploughing was started and the ground prepared for early corn. Hunting was resumed and the population waited eagerly for the first signs of approaching spring, when tight buds would open and the children would scurry forth to search the trees and hedges for birds’ eggs. The sun shone but there was little warmth in its rays.

Hugo sat by the fire in the Hall, a letter in his hand. Beside him Piers worked at the table, busy with a piece of writing which wholly absorbed his attention. Lorna, at his side, practised plaiting with three leather thongs and waited patiently for him to finish. He leaned over his work and the tip of his tongue protruded.