A Mother's Sacrifice (12 page)

‘They could be footpads or anything.’

‘They would have stolen from us by now if they were.’

‘Well, there’s nothing to steal here and the sergeant is weak. He’s just resting up to gather his strength to move on.Tell them to leave, Mother. I’ll feel safer when they’ve gone.’

‘I feel safer with them here.’

‘Mother?’

‘That ruffian in town was dressed up like a gentleman, but he was a real bad lot, Quinta. If the furnaces and manufactories in town are attracting that sort we need some protection. What if he had followed us home? There’s no constable out here.’

Quinta agreed. ‘I wish Father were here,’ she said.

Laura reached out for her hand. ‘But he isn’t, dear. The sergeant is no deterrent to any roving vagrants, but the sight of Mr Ross about the place might be.’

They stared at each other in silence until Laura said, ‘Was Farmer Bilton pleased to get his rent?’

Quinta was relieved to be talking of something else, but it was not cheering news for her mother. ‘Not really. He says he’s putting it up next quarter day. I think he means it. I’ll have to find work, or he’ll turn us out.’

Her mother heaved a sigh.

‘He said I should talk to you about his offer.’

‘For you? Never!’

Quinta now agreed wholeheartedly with her mother about this and shivered. She could no more wed that dreadful old man than she could paint her face like a young woman she saw in the marketplace.

‘Don’t fret, Mother.The Hall will take me on for the harvest.’ I might even find a sweetheart, she thought. How wonderful, if she were courted by a respectable young man from the village! If Mother approved she could meet his family at church and walk out with him on Sunday afternoon. Mother would make tea and scones for when he visited . . .

She stopped dreaming. The men who came to work on the harvest were itinerant labourers like those at Farmer Bilton’s table earlier that evening. She took her mother’s hands and pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on. It’s time for bed. Will you take a little of your new medicine tonight?’

Refreshed and clean, they went upstairs. Although Quinta was tired out, she lay awake thinking of the future. Going out to work might be an answer. But she would not be able to keep the garden going, and the farm would deteriorate further. Even if she could pay him at Michaelmas, Farmer Bilton would have a sound reason to evict them and any countryman would agree. With the price of food rising, it was their duty to get the best out of their land.

Quinta was sure her mother was right to refuse Farmer Bilton’s offer. She was not so sure as her mother about their lodgers in the cowshed. The sergeant was affable enough but his son, by his own admission, was cunning and this made her wary. He was withdrawn and aloof, communicated only when asked and gave the minimum of information.

It was as though he had no feelings. The only time she had seen a spark of real anger was when faced with Farmer Bilton’s uncouth behaviour. Now she knew about his birthright and his childhood she wondered if that was the reason. She did not know what it was like to be treated so cruelly. If he were to be believed, the poor orphans in the workhouse had a better life than the one endured by Mr Ross when he was a child. There was something unknown about him that, Quinta acknowledged to herself again, made her cautious; something dark and dangerous that frightened her.

However, there was no doubt that he could farm and he had some education . . . She stared at the blackness, irritated by the way he intruded into her thoughts.

Chapter 9

When Patrick joined his father in the cowshed, he was sitting on the ground, leaning against a wooden stall. A candle stuck on a log was burning low.

‘Not asleep yet?’

His father held a spirit flask in his hand. ‘I need this to dull the pain first. Come and sit awhile. I want to talk to you.’

Patrick sat on the log and unlaced his boots. ‘One of your serious talks, is this?’

‘It is. Did you sell the pearls?’

He reached under his jacket for a leather pouch of coins. ‘Feel the weight of this. Jewels were easier to carry around.’

‘Aye, that’s why I bought them in the first place.’

‘Well, this amount of gold is heavy.’

‘I’m going to need it, son. This leg of mine is bad. What did they say at the Dispensary?’

‘The town is well provided with medical men. It has a physician and a surgeon. The surgeon will be able to help you. He was an officer in one of the King’s regiments.’

‘Oh? Which one?’

‘The apothecary told me he was with the Sixty-fifth. He saw service in India and Arabia. But his wife died and he came home. He resigned his commission and settled in the Riding to continue his calling.’

‘This is good news. He will know what to do.’

‘The apothecary expected me to bring him to see you.’

‘Not here. I’ll go into town as I planned.’

‘It’s a long way but there’s a carrier cart from the village.’

‘I’ll keep the laudanum for that journey.’

Patrick frowned. ‘He said you shouldn’t delay. You haven’t been honest with me about how bad it is. Is that why you were so keen to rest here?’

‘I’d like to have reached town.’

‘I’ll get you there, Father, even if I have to carry you on my back.’

‘It won’t come to that. And Top Field has much to offer.’

‘They’re decent folk, I grant you. But this place is slowly dying.’

‘You can turn it round for them, son.’

‘There’s no future for them in that. They won’t be able to keep it going when we move on.’

‘Well, I won’t be moving on from the South Riding. That’s what I want to talk to you about. This travelling life is too much for me now.’

‘The surgeon said he could help you! It’ll take time to heal but—’

‘Listen to me, son. We’ve had the best of times together since I found you and I am proud of the man you have become. But I have to stop now. You can go on, though, if you want to.’

‘I’m not leaving you. If your roots are in the South Riding then mine are, too. I’ll find work in these parts.’

‘You could stay here.’

‘They can’t afford a hired man. Anyway, the landlord wants them out.’

‘Aye. Mrs Haig was telling me. I can see why. They’re not making the best of it.’

‘Well, be fair, Father. The girl is strong enough but the widow is too old to work the land.’

‘I reckon her bloom had already gone when she bore the child.’

‘She carries herself well, though.’

‘Aye, she does.’

Patrick wondered just how interested his father was in Mrs Haig. ‘She’s sick, Father. That cough of hers ...’

‘Aye, I know, and she only has the one daughter to care for her. A pretty young thing, though, don’t you think?’

Patrick glanced at his father. He agreed but didn’t say so. The short time he’d been in the Riding had shown him that many country girls of her age had a freshness and vitality that attracted him. Not so in the town, he thought. They were worn down by the smoke and the dirt and disease that were prevalent there.

‘Isn’t she?’ his father pressed.

Patrick made a positive sound in his throat and nodded.

‘I - I’ve seen the way you look at her, son.’

He detected a questioning tone in his father’s voice that he took to be a warning. His father always behaved respectfully towards any woman they met on the road, and he expected his son to do the same. ‘She’s safe with me,’ he responded quickly. ‘Miss Quinta is still a maid and a decent, hard-working lass. She’s not like Mary-Ann was when we were on the canals, flaunting herself before me all the time.’

‘Aye, well, Mary-Ann did all the chasing for you. And she should have told you she was already wed.’

‘Yes, she should,’ Patrick muttered bitterly. He had had a narrow escape. Her husband would have killed him when he got back from the coast. ‘I won’t touch Miss Quinta, I promise you.’

‘She has that same look about her as Mary-Ann. Dark hair and fresh-faced. Pretty, too and, well, very womanly for a young lass.’

Patrick gave a low laugh. ‘You don’t have to tell me that. I have eyes.’

‘And a lust for her, I’ll wager.’

‘I’ve told you. I shall not approach her.’

‘But do you want to? The blood in your veins is as red as mine was at your age.’

Patrick considered how well his father knew him and replied, ‘We’re leaving soon. There’ll be distractions enough for me in town.’ But as he said it, he realised he didn’t want to go anywhere near the girls in town, with their rouged cheeks and matted hair.

‘That’s not what I’m thinking of, son.’

‘Well, what are you getting at?’

‘Do you think that you could wed her?’

‘What?’ he spluttered. ‘Me? Wed Miss Quinta? How much of that spirit have you drunk?’

‘You could work this farm and hire yourself out as a gamekeeper’s lad as well.You’d have a home for when I’m finished.’

‘What do you mean, “when you’re finished”?’ His father did not reply and he added, ‘What are you not telling me about your leg?’

‘My knee won’t mend now. It’s the end of the road for me.’

‘We’ll settle here, then, in the South Riding, where you were born. It’s as good as anywhere to put down roots.’

‘Top Field would suit you well, son.’

‘Suit me? This is about you, not me, and we are far from town.’

‘It would be a decent home for both of us.’

‘So you want me to wed to give us a home? Getting wed is more than just settling somewhere,’ Patrick retaliated sharply.

‘Aye, it is, and I wouldn’t want you to wed if you don’t want to.’

‘Well, I don’t want to. Not yet awhile anyway.’

‘Then we’ll move on into the town and find lodgings there.’

But Patrick knew his father felt the same about town-living as he did. ‘You’d prefer to stay out here though, wouldn’t you?’

‘Aye, I would. A bracing wind and a snug byre beat the smoke and smells of manufactories any day.’

Patrick agreed. Although, even if they stayed, they would be out by Michaelmas.The rent would be too much for the widow unless she put the land to better use. He wondered where they would go. Perhaps they had kin to take them in.Winter months were always hard for them, too, especially his father. That’s when his leg troubled him most. And it was getting worse, so they’d better move nearer to town while the roads were easy to travel. He said, ‘The surgeon advised you not to delay in going to see him.’

‘This rest is taking down the swelling. It’s only five or six weeks to the harvesting and you’ll easily get work then.There’s bound to be a Lammas Day hiring fair somewhere.’

‘You really want to stay?’

‘If the widow has no objection.’

‘But why?’

‘I’ve told you. The maid.’

‘Oh no, Father.’ He shook his head wearily.

‘You’re not understanding me, son. I know what’s wrong with my knee. There’s poison in it. My only chance will be for the surgeon to cut it open and take out the pus.’

Patrick’s face contorted in despair and he groaned.

‘At least the pain will be easier afterwards. But it’ll take most of our gold, especially with the looking-after that I’ll need.’

‘Well, it’s a good use of our money, I’d say.’

‘There won’t be much left for you.’

‘I don’t need it, I can work. Anyway, I’ll take care of you.’

His father shook his head. ‘You’ve got to think about your own future now. I don’t want you staying on the road.’

‘I like this life.’

‘With the two of us, aye. But you won’t like it when you’re on your own.’

It was not something Patrick wanted to think about. But when he recalled the labourers he’d seen at Farmer Bilton’s table he wondered if he might end up like those wretches: worked like animals and treated worse by their masters.The memories of his ill treatment as a child had not faded and he knew how cruel both men and women could be to those they despised.

‘There are coal mines and ironworks round here if you’ve a fancy for them,’ his father suggested.

‘They’re not for me. I need the open sky and the wind in my face.’

‘You’re my lad, all right. Not that I ever doubted it as soon as I saw you. But what you need to look to now, son, is respectability. If you’re to settle in the Riding, you must be accepted and trusted by folk that live here. You don’t want to be an outsider.’

‘I can deal with it.’

‘But I don’t want that for you, not for the rest of your life. You’ll soon be one and twenty, my lad, and able to control your own life. I want to see you set up for the future and you could do it here. You could have this farm in healthy profit within a five-year, if you’re blessed by the seasons.’

‘I know that.’ He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands.

‘Do you know, also, how hard it is to get your name on a tenancy like this one? It’s the chance of a lifetime and it’s fallen into your lap.’

‘Not quite.You can’t be certain the landlord will approve of me.’

‘Or that the widow would either, unless . . .’

‘. . . the daughter will wed me. You really want that, don’t you?’

His father took a swig from his spirit flask. ‘She’s a bonny lass. I thought you might have welcomed such an attachment.’

‘Any red-blooded man would. But to wed her, Father, on such a brief acquaintance? A wife is for life.You taught me that yourself. You’re asking too much of me.’

‘Aye, maybe I am. I am thinking of myself, and of ending my days here.’

Patrick gazed at his father.‘You’ve come to the South Riding to - to
die
?’

He half laughed. ‘Not yet awhile, son.’ Then he became serious. ‘I dreamed of these gentle hills, you know. In the war, in the mountains of Portugal and Spain when the sun baked the rocks hot enough to fry eggs, I dreamed of the soft rain on my face in summer and the wind whipping across the moor in winter.’ He took another swig of his spirit.