Winter’s Children (17 page)

Joss felt his spirit lift at this unexpected news. There was no hope for him if Susannah was not in his world. In York he was in danger of losing her, but now there must be no delay. If she returned nothing would prevent him from making her his bride.

Into the dark damp recesses of the foss, he gazed down at the tumbling spray, willing himself to have one of those funny turns that sometimes gave him a slip second into the best way forward, but nothing came. He sat there until it grew dark, praying she would return home. There must be hope, and to this end he must continue his good works, set about his rebuilding with renewed vigour. It would have to sustain him for many a month more.

The news of the Carrs’ ruin was all over the village, carried from Bankwell House servants to all who would hear. The house must be sold and Miss Susannah must go as governess to some household to earn her keep.

‘The squire’s a broken man and quite weakened by these sufferings,’ whispered the parson. ‘I fear the family’ll be much changed by sorrow and needs to be left to recover when the girl returns among us. I don’t want to hear of you pestering her. Be patient, young man. Time is a great healer.’

How could he be patient when she would soon be living only a few miles down the valley? How he longed to comfort her and see her beautiful face once more, but first he must write a letter of condolence in his best copperplate handwriting, hoping against hope for a reply this time. Now was the time to make the final assault on the farmhouse renovations.

The parson restrained every sign of Joss’s eagerness to make contact with the family, saying he must make no demands but prepare the ground for his proposal only after many months had passed and it was seemly. The Scarperton bank, in which the squire was a partner, had overstretched itself in some foreign venture and closed its doors. The
Gazette
was full of the terrible news and many a good man lost all his capital from this collapse. As a man of honour Edward Carr must pay off his debts by selling off land and assets, or be shunned. Suddenly the tables were turned and Joss knew that the moment had arrived to make his bid for happiness.

He chose a fine summer morning to ride his finest horse, in his best apparel, to the front entrance of Bankwell House and this time he would not be denied access. The squire welcomed him, if a little hesitantly, into the drawing room. Suffering, disappointment and the effects of strong wine had etched lines on his once handsome face. His reception was cautious but civil.

Joss sat, trying not to be overawed by the sumptuous draperies and dark panelling, the portraits hanging on the walls, the fine porcelain in cabinets making his own efforts at decoration seem shabby. His longed-for dream was coming true but he must be patient. He gave his condolences as best he could. His courtesies were accepted with a brief nod.

Then it was time to assault the squire’s ear with all he had achieved over the past year and how the plans for a new wing to Wintergill were almost complete. He talked about his breeding stock and the mineral deposits mined from his moorland. How his calamine ore had been bought by a Bond Street firm for brass making, taken by canal from Gargrave to Leeds and down to London. Supply was keeping pace with demand.

‘It is no secret in this district that I have long since held Miss Susannah Carr in high estimation,’ he continued in his best Yorkshire accent, adding how, for many years, he’d wished to make his humble affection known. ‘Until now I have felt unable to pursue my suit but I hope in the past years I’ve bridged the gap between our stations in life by honest endeavour and enterprise.’

‘And now you want to kick a dog when it’s down?’ snapped the old man.

‘Certainly not,’ Joss argued. ‘This is no fly-by-night affectation but a genuine desire to make Miss Susannah my wife and give her the honour she deserves. I will wed no other,’ he said with all the conviction he could muster, but wondering if he’d gone too far in his enthusiasm, expecting to be shown the door any moment.

‘I like a fellow who knows what he wants, young man. Susannah is not to be fooled with. She’s all that’s left now. I have no fancy dowry, if that’s what you are looking for?’ Edward Carr pulled the bell, summoning his beloved to the room. Joss’s heart was thumping in his chest like a hammer, knowing there must be hope in this gesture.

She came, sitting down quietly, listening again to his condolences, not saying a word. Susannah was much altered by suffering, thinner but still a thing of beauty in his eyes.

She heard his stuttering offer without a word. He asked her to take a turn around the walled garden. Susannah nodded and rose, embarrassed, striding in front of him. It was high summer and the roses were dripping over the walls in pink profusion, in cascades of blooms with a delicious scent.

‘This is all very unexpected. I can’t make a hasty decision. I fear you may make a poor bargain … I am no farmer’s girl. I know nothing of hard work.’

‘I’m not asking you to be a servant.’

‘I will have to think about this … but you will get your answer by the end of the month.’

The days dragged into weeks and still there was no word. Joss began to believe all his hard work was in vain; that his embellishments were wasted, fruitless, an extravagant gesture to his own vanity.

Sometimes when he was struggling with his accounts, trying to balance the mounting expenses, he laid down his pen and sighed that his beloved was not keen to wed beneath her. Then he chastised himself for being so unfeeling. Had she not been bereaved of her rightful future? It was too early to expect some brightness in her spirit. He took comfort from the parson’s words: time was a great healer. It was only natural that she was hesitating now. If she consented she must have everything in the way of fabrics and furnishing, no matter what they cost. Even her bed and its furniture would be transported from Bankwell to Wintergill, everything replicated so she would feel it was just as it always had been.

As he worked tirelessly to this end, he prayed that everything he had striven for might come to fruition, but still she didn’t come. The month dragged on until one dark afternoon, she came alone on horseback, dressed in plain grey wool with a veil over her riding hat.

Joss was busy in the yard, his gaiters covered in cow muck. He looked up in shame at the sight of himself, hardly daring to believe she was here.

‘I’ve come to visit with your mother,’ Susannah announced as if this was a regular occurrence.

‘Oh, aye,’ he croaked, knowing they were unprepared for this honour.

She looked up at the building with surprise. ‘I scarce recognise the farm. It is so enlarged.’ Joss pulled off his hat and grinned. ‘Come on round the front and see what we’ve done to it. Of course, it lacks a lady’s touch yet … Mother, Miss Susannah has paid you a visit …’

His mother was unperturbed. ‘Come in, lass, and sit thee down. To what do we owe this honour? Are thee well? ‘Tis been a sad do these past months.’

Susannah bowed her head. ‘I am here to reply to a request. If I am to contemplate being a farmer’s wife, I must needs learn how to use a kitchen and dairy,’ she smiled, blushing, looking up at him, and Joss’s heart burst with love, sensing the courage it must have taken to take such a downward step.

They were married at Christmas as soon as the banns were read, and Joss was bursting with pride as his new bride crossed the threshold of her new home. On Christmas Day he found a parcel wrapped on the new mahogany table in the grand hallway. Surrounded by guests, he opened the gift in high excitement.

‘How did you come by this?’ asked Parson Simey with interest at the framed picture. ‘It’s in the style of Mr Turner … the most sought-after artist in the country.’

Joss peered closer, his pink cheeks blushing with surprise.

It was Susannah who recounted the London painter’s visit all those years ago, emphasising that this was in fact a sketch drawn from somewhere on Snowden land. Everyone was impressed that such an illustrious artist once graced the area with his patronage, presuming the picture was a gift, and Joss knew better than to disillusion them. What the eye does not see … And most of her story was true. No one would ever suspect the true origin of the sketch.

It took pride of place in the upstairs parlour for all to comment upon. It added a stamp of authority to Wintergill; that such a famous man should paint a scene so close to them. It was right that his wife should have fine things around her. Her price was above rubies, she gave him sons and graced his table with silence and good manners.

If sometimes he found her shop purchases extravagant and a little showy, he said nothing. She repaid him many a time by pious acts of charity and thoughtfulness among the poor, and she was a good housekeeper. She supervised her maids in all things so that the dairy was spotless and the kitchen a hive of industry and good baking.

Sometimes he found himself staring up at the sketch with awe. It spoke of the grandeur of the Lord’s creation, of Yorkshire’s beauty, of Joss’s prosperity and a sixty-guinea theft. On the Day of Judgement he would have to account for this deceit, but not yet, not yet …

Susannah couldn’t settle through this never-ending Advent sermon endured in the draughty chapel. She ought to be at home, her stomach was churning with fear, and she wished she’d stayed home with her sick boy. William was not responding to the apothecary’s bottle or the leeching this time.

Her firstborn son was born nine months after their marriage. He’d made their happiness complete, even if he had grown weak, easily puffed, and only when her other sons followed quickly did she see how weak and undernourished he was and it was all her fault.

If only she’d not gone riding that winter morning in her delicate condition, but to sit astride her horse gave her such freedom, out on the hilltops in the fresh air. She was not bred for confinement, even if she had adapted to her new circumstances and Joss was everything she could wish for as a master.

Her home was full of light and pretty things. There were others to do the rough work but she took pride in her fine cheeses and butter pats, which were sold at market. She supervised the dairy maids with a keen eye. If only she’d not gone riding in the mist and fog, losing her way, but she’d been curious to see for herself what one of the dairy maids was talking about.

One of her girls was fetching water from the covered well sunk deep into the rock when she’d seen a figure waving as if in distress. In her haste she’d lost her balance and almost tipped into the chasm. Only the arrival of one of the stable boys had saved her from the deep. There were other sightings of a beggar woman lost on the hills and always talk of a local white barghest, the hound of the hills let loose on the rocks. Stuff and nonsense it was, but she was curious. Someone was playing tricks on them and she was determined to squash their superstitious talk.

Mercury was old now, gentle and steady afoot, growing fat and in need of exercise. They were plodding forward when suddenly he reared up in fright, ears pricked, nostrils flaring, and Susannah was thrown onto the rock.

‘Who’s there?’ she yelled pulling herself up, feeling shocked and dizzy. The mist swirled round her, cutting her off from all sounds, but she thought she caught a glimpse of a grey cloak with a fur hood. There was a chill in the air and such a sickly smell but then it was gone. Mercury stood, ears pricked, unsure and suddenly Susannah was afraid for both of them. ‘Home,’ she commanded, gathering the reins to guide him back down the rocky outcrop of limestone, trusting his sense of direction to bring them to safety.

It was a downhill trek, and her back ached from the bruising and her stomach tightened under her loosened stays into a knot of pain. By the time she staggered back to Wintergill, the pains were gripping her and she knew she must make ready for her lying-in.

William was born early, so small they feared he’d never breathe at all, but nursed by the warmth of the hearth in a cradle packed with lamb’s wool, he struggled into life.

She hid the fall and what she had seen even from Joss. William survived but was never strong, and she would always blame herself that she’d caused him to be born too soon.

Now she sat with three fine sons who worshipped with her: Samuel, Jacob and John Charles. All but one of her boys were now strapping lads, sturdy oaks, built to last the century out.

Will, the eldest, was always her favoured child, but she sensed he was only borrowed for a season. She’d felt him hovering between life and death each winter. The greedy ones were out there ready to snatch him from her but she’d kept him safe for seven years now. His heart was never strong but she’d gleaned such knowledge from the apothecary and the conjuror’s herbals as to keep him by her side. Despite all her efforts he was growing pale, listless, until he could only watch the others at play.

How her heart ached to see the boys outstrip him in size and vigour. She sensed the firelight in his eyes waning dim but he stayed because she willed him. ‘I could sleep for a month, Mam,’ he’d smile.

‘Tis nearly Christmas, hang on. What larks there’ll be when your father lets the season in,’ she pleaded, but his eyes were growing glassy and his breathing laboured.

She woke from her daydreaming, looking around the congregation feeling sick. What was she doing here when Will needed her? She jumped up and ran out of the church, sensing something was wrong.

Lucy Snowden, her old mother-in-law, was wringing her hands when Susannah arrived back. ‘Thank the Lord you’ve come in time. I’ve sent for the doctor in Settle but I don’t hold much hope …’

William fell asleep in his mother’s arms that very night. There was no Christmas that year and she mourned his loss for the rest of her life.

There was such a ferocity in this mourning that it kept folk from her side, an anger in her voice, the choking haltering bitterness that all but consumed her for a while. Joss found it hard to reach her broken spirit and withdrew his company, unsure what to say.

‘You never rear all your children,’ the parson said as if to comfort them. ‘The hand of God has been heavy on you of late, but ‘tis His way of testing yer mettle. William’s in a far better place.’