A Mother's Sacrifice (38 page)

‘Davey wouldn’t give you up, anyway. He thinks you’re Sally.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ she responded irritably. ‘I’m Quinta.’

‘Quinta? Fifth child?’

‘No, it’s where I was born, I - oh, never mind. Don’t you understand? I have to leave this place. My child is in danger.’

‘Well, we couldn’t stay here anyway if you came to me.’ Amos continued to watch little Patrick suckle at her breast. ‘I’ll help you get away, if you like.’

Her heart lifted and she looked up at him quickly.‘Will you?’

‘Aye. I’ll come away with you, as well.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve nothing to stay for without my own flock. But I’m a good shepherd and I can do better.’

‘You would leave here?’

‘Miss Banks will find another shepherd.We can go together.’

Quinta closed her eyes. He was offering her a way out, but at what price? She said, ‘I will journey with you, Amos, and work to pay you back. But I cannot wed you.’

He gave a shrug. ‘We’ll see.’

Quinta ignored this remark and tried to quell her elation. ‘When can we leave?’

‘Not until Miss Banks pays me at Midsummer.’

‘But that’s two months away!’

‘Me and Davey’ll be busy shearing in a few weeks. When we have all the fleeces I pack the horses and carry them down to market. I’ll take you with me and we won’t come back.’

Quinta wondered how they could do it without Miss Banks or Davey coming after them. But she didn’t care. Once they reached Crosswell she would be away from here for good. It was her only chance and she had to take it.

‘Very well. We’ll wait until then. Will you promise to keep Davey away from the farmhouse?’

‘The flock grazes higher on the moor in summer. I’ll send him up there. We have a peat stove in my hut to cook on.’

‘He looks after the horses, doesn’t he?’

‘I’ll do that and when we bring the sheep in for shearing I’ll keep him in the barn. With him, it’s out of sight, out of mind. If he doesn’t see you, he’ll forget you, just as he did Sally until Miss Banks reminded him. I’ll make sure you and the babe are safe until Midsummer.’

‘Will Miss Banks suspect anything?’

‘You’ll have to deal with her. She’ll want to see her Davey at some time.’

‘I’ll bake pies for her to take up to your hut for him. It’ll be too far for me to walk with little Patrick.’

‘What about when he comes down for the shearing?’

‘I’ll think of something to keep him out of the house.’

Amos nodded. He seemed satisfied with their scheme and she was grateful for his help. He had delivered her baby safely and was offering to take her away from here. But she felt nothing more than friendship towards him. She could never be a wife to him and she had to make him understand that. He was not a bully like Noah. He was a passive man, as patient with Davey as he was with his sheep. But he had not travelled beyond Crosswell and knew little of the world outside the Peaks. She could repay his kindness with her knowledge of the next county.

Quinta hadn’t thought beyond giving birth until now and she felt an excitement rising in her breast. Home to the South Riding! She lifted little Patrick to kiss his face and he gurgled at her as she laid him over her shoulder and patted his back gently. He burped wetly on her calico shawl. She would take him back to the South Riding, where there was work for women in mines and mills. She realised it was a path that many from the High Peak had trodden before her. And she understood why.

When the excitement of her planned escape had faded, she realised that returning to her home meant returning to where Noah had influence. He had made his hatred of her clear by selling her in Crosswell and she feared what he might do when she returned. She wondered how he had explained her continued absence to the vicar. He had cast her out of his home and village. Had he told everyone how she had deceived him and tricked him into marriage? Would she and her child be shunned for ever by the only people who might be her friends?

Chapter 24

The officer inspected his ranks as Patrick stood by to attention. A blistering sun had turned the drill square to a dust bowl. Since the rebellion and loss of his sergeant Patrick had gained a stripe. His discipline was strict for it was his responsibility if the men did not pass muster. Regulations were tighter after the fighting and there was a rumour that reinforcements were on their way across the ocean.

His captain dismissed the men and he prepared to follow them to the coolness of the cellars to strip off his jacket and loosen his braces.

‘Follow me, Ross. The colonel wants you.’

Patrick fell into step behind the officer. The windows and doors of the colonel’s quarters stood open, catching a fresh breeze to cool his sweating brow. He always longed for rain until it came. Then the steaming humidity felt like a wet fleece over his face that drained his vitality. He remembered his father speaking of how he had missed the gentle climate of home when he had been fighting in Spain and Portugal. How he longed to return to the South Riding and - and Quinta. But it was a lost hope now, a shattered dream. He was a soldier now and his life was ordered by the King’s officers.

The colonel was reading documents spread out on the desk in front of him. ‘Ross? Yes, I recall. You did well during the riots and organised the men when we lost the sergeant. Good shot, too. Yes. A very good shot. D’ye like it here, Ross?’

‘I expected to do more fighting, sir.’

‘You think a few natives are not enough for you, eh? You’ll do more after a posting back in England.’

‘You’re sending me home, sir?’

‘I’ve more soldiers due in with the supply ship and a company will return with its payload. I want you in charge of them. You’ll have an extra stripe for the voyage. Acting corporal only. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir. Why am I going back?’

‘You’ve been chosen for transfer to the Ninety-fifth Rifles. Like your father before you. That means more training.’

He was surprised. He knew about the Ninety-fifth: they were an elite regiment. ‘But I joined as a convict, sir.’

‘So did half of the Duke of Wellington’s army and they saw off Bonaparte.’ The colonel went on inspecting his documents. ‘You don’t spend much of your pay. And there’s the girl to think of as well. The Creole.’

‘Faith, sir. Her name is Faith.’

The officer looked up sharply. ‘My wife says she is content working in my household, but you can’t leave her there.’

‘Her father wanted her in England.’

‘Well, he’s not here now and she’ll do as she’s told. You are of age and she is your legal ward.You must decide what to do with her.’

Patrick was silent as he thought about this. He wondered if anyone had asked Faith what she wanted. He hardly ever had a chance to see her, let alone speak to her.

Before he could answer his colonel continued: ‘Do you have a wife back home in England, Ross?’

If only! If only he had wed Quinta before - before - Lord, it was too late for regrets now. She hadn’t answered his letter and with a sick mother to care for she would have had to marry someone. His mouth curled down at the memory of that bullying landlord. She must have wed him. He had wanted her and she would not have had a choice.

‘Don’t like the idea of a wife, eh? Can’t say I’m surprised. A soldier never goes short of a wench.’

‘No, sir.’

‘You have this girl, though. So, seeing as you’re not wed you’ll be free to marry her. I’ve discussed it with my wife and it’s the best solution for all concerned. She’s a pretty one to be sure and she has a trust left by her father. It’s not much but it’ll keep her in gowns and bonnets.’ The colonel met his eye in a frank stare. ‘It also makes her prey to any roving blade in the garrison. She’s your responsibility, so take my advice and marry her, m’boy.’

‘I - I - that is, I hadn’t considered it, sir,’ Patrick stammered.

‘Not keen, eh, because of her breeding? I understand that, but she’s only a quarter Negro, y’know, and once she’s in England she’ll pass for a Spanish. My wife has given leave for you to visit her in the servants’ parlour; when her cook is present, of course. Take the girl flowers.’ The colonel waved his arm in a dismissive manner. ‘Do the right thing, Ross. We’ll have the ceremony in the chapel before you sail.’

‘She might not want to marry me, sir.’

‘She’s a fool if she doesn’t. Now get back to your duties.’

‘Sir.’ Patrick marched out smartly, his head spinning with the colonel’s news and - and his orders about Faith.

She hadn’t been a burden to him since her father had been shot. She received a wage for her work in the colonel’s household and only once had he been asked to sign a docket to release money for a new gown and shoes. He acknowledged that when he had noticed her, fairly recently in the chapel, she looked quite beautiful, stunning even, in a new bonnet. But she was always surrounded by other servants.

Their communication had been limited to a formal bow on his part, a curtsey on hers and a few words exchanged about their respective wellbeing. He had often wondered what he was going to do with her, but never, ever, that he would marry her. His colonel seemed very taken by the idea and he decided to arrange a visit and talk to her about it.

The following Sunday afternoon, he had a posy of flowers and a small parcel of red ribbon - the colour suited her glossy black hair - waiting on his locker as he brushed his uniform. The servants’ parlour was a low stone building behind the colonel’s residence, ruled by a fierce Creole who was in charge of the colonel’s kitchen. She took him inside and had the sense to leave them alone. He and Faith sat at opposite ends of a couch with their backs to the arms. He acknowledged that she was - what was the word? - yes, exotic; unusually beautiful, neatly attired in her new gown and a very pretty bonnet.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said as she took the gifts. She seemed especially pleased with her ribbons.

‘Are you well?’

‘Yes, sir. And you?’

Patrick kept up this stiff exchange of pleasantries for as long as he was able. She knew about her trust, his guardianship and his return to England. After an extended, awkward silence he asked, ‘Faith, what do you want to do?’

‘The colonel’s wife says I must marry you.’

Lord, he did not even have to propose to her! ‘Would you like to travel to England?’

For the first time, her saw her eyes light up. ‘Oh yes, sir. My mother told me I would go there one day and she would have a lodging house by the sea and I could—’ She stopped.

‘Could what, Faith?’

She looked down at the ribbons. ‘Trim bonnets.’

Trim bonnets. He supposed it would occupy her while he was soldiering and it was a charming wish. ‘Very well. If that is what you want, I shall take you with me to England.’ He stood up to leave.

She was smiling, happy even, and said, ‘When shall we sail?’

 

As the weather improved in the High Peak Amos moved the flock higher on the open moor and took Davey with him. They stayed away from the farmhouse. Miss Banks accepted this, believing rightly that Davey was happy with his new distractions. Although the farm was not prosperous there was always enough to eat and tea to drink, if not luxuries like sugar or butter. But they had honey, and cheese from goat’s milk, which was especially nourishing for Quinta.

Miss Banks never ventured far and when she climbed to the hut insisted that mother and child came part of the way. She did not like to let Quinta out of her sight, though she seemed frightened to approach or even touch little Patrick, much to Quinta’s relief. In fact, her status as a mother enabled her to make requests of Miss Banks that made life more comfortable: A cured lamb-skin for the crib, feather pillows for her couch in the kitchen and old linen to make more wrappings for little Patrick.

The Easter weather had been brisk and breezy and May had come in like a lion. But June was balmy and bright. Patrick thrived and Quinta became excited by the approach of Midsummer. However, before that came the shearing when the flock - and Davey - journeyed down from the high moor to the farm.

‘I don’t want the men in the house when they’re shearing,’ Quinta said. ‘They’ll bring fleas and ticks from the fleeces on to my baby.’

Miss Banks looked alarmed.

‘They’ll have to eat and sleep in the barn,’ she added.

‘Aye,’ Miss Banks replied. ‘Davey’ll like doing that anyroad. I’ll take them ale and food.’

But when Davey was shearing in the barn, Quinta was always ready to retreat to the scullery with little Patrick and out of the back door in case he started crying. He was heavy in her arms now, growing fast and eating oatmeal porridge as well as her milk.

When the shearing was finished and Midsummer approached, Amos loaded the fleeces on to Miss Banks’s heavy horses and covered them with sacking. He gave Davey a good deal of ale to drink and Quinta made Miss Banks a strong sweetened toddy as a nightcap, giving little Patrick a lick of it from her finger to give him warmth through the night.

As soon as the two of them were sound asleep, Amos came to the back door of the scullery and took Quinta’s box over to the barn. She followed with her child tightly wrapped in a shawl.The horses were already harnessed and linked. Amos took Patrick from her as she clambered up beside her box. It was a similar seating arrangement to when she had arrived.

The moon was bright and she smiled at Amos, taking the warm bundle from him. He smiled back, took up the reins of the lead horse and climbed astride his broad back. Then he whistled softly for his dog and they began their slow descent down the bumpy track. Dawn broke early and it was daylight well before they were in the valley and approaching Crosswell. Quinta looked behind constantly for signs of Miss Banks or Davey.

Amos noticed.‘They won’t follow us down here. Not without a beast to ride.’