A Mother's Sacrifice (7 page)

‘Aye, we might do that. I don’t want to live in the town, though. It makes me cough so much.’

Quinta privately thought that anything and everything made her mother cough these days. Perhaps when she was at the Dispensary she could ask for some stronger medicine than her usual mixture.

‘Maybe there’ll be a gentleman in town looking for a housekeeper? ’ Quinta added brightly. She actually thought that even if there were, he’d have plenty to choose from in town and not be interested in a poorly widow, but she added with a smile, ‘The cook at the Hall will vouch for you.’

 

A week later, Patrick Ross and his father were still living in the cowshed. The roof was sound and their stock of wood for the fire was rising every day. Quinta did not meet him at the stream again; he went earlier and she did not see him. Only when she worked in the garden and he was sawing or chopping wood did he acknowledge her, with a formal bow of his head. She hardly knew he was there until he wheeled the mended cart out one sunny morning.

‘He’s finished it, Mother.’

‘What’s that, dear?’

‘Our cart. It’s mended. Come and see.’

The two women stood side by side at the window. ‘Shall we go outside?’ Laura suggested.

‘Where’s the sergeant? I can’t see him anywhere.’

‘He rests inside the cowshed for most of his time. I think we can trust them now.’

‘I’m not so sure, Mother,’ Quinta cautioned.

‘Well, they would have been off by now if they were going to steal from us.’

Quinta lifted the wooden bar from across their front door and turned the heavy key in its lock. She took her mother’s hand and together they stepped outside. Patrick Ross was wheeling the cart around and checking its wheels.

‘Good morning, ma’am. Miss.’ He nodded briefly in their direction. ‘Your cart is as good as new. It was well made in the first place.’

‘Indeed it was,’ Laura replied. ‘My late husband learned his carpentry from a master.’

He swivelled the shafts around. ‘Miss Haig? Can you push it?’

Quinta took hold of the shafts. It was heavy and unwieldy but she soon got used to it. However, she wondered how much extra weight she could manage.

‘How is your father?’ Laura asked.

‘He is much improved, thank you, ma’am.The rest has helped him.’

‘Will he take refreshment with us?’

‘Mother, no!’ Quinta tugged at her mother’s hand.

‘Fetch a jug of ale and mugs from the scullery, dear.’

When Sergeant Ross came out of the cowshed, they saw he had shaved and his boots and coat were brushed so that he looked clean and tidy, though Quinta was surprised at how pale he was. His face showed the strain of continuous pain and he kept closing his eyes as he moved carefully with the aid of his crutch.

‘Sit down, Father.’ Mr Ross moved the wooden tray from where Quinta had placed it on a mounting stone outside the cowshed.

‘Over here.’ Quinta pointed to an upturned half-barrel that served as a table. She was aware that Mr Ross was watching her as she poured the ale and handed him the largest of their stoneware mugs. He nodded his thanks wordlessly and his serious features sent a shiver of uneasiness down her spine. He had not shaved and his dark growth of beard gave him an unkempt, hostile appearance. She was not as sure as her mother that either of them could be trusted. He carried the ale to his father who swallowed it easily and with relish.

‘I should like to stay longer, Mrs Haig,’ his father said. ‘Until my leg has recovered enough to make the journey into town. My son can work on your farm to pay rent for your cowshed. If I may say so, ma’am, there is much to be done here.’

‘We do our best,’ Quinta answered quickly.

‘Indeed you do, miss. Forgive me, my comment is not meant as criticism to your good selves. I merely observe that this is fertile land that is underused.’

As though we do not know that, Quinta thought impatiently.

The sergeant continued, ‘With my son’s help you can grow more to fill your barrow for market, and for your own winter larder.’

‘A full barrow is of little use without a donkey,’ Quinta responded irritably. ‘I shall not be able to push it.’

‘I can.’ It was the first words Patrick Ross had spoken about the venture.

‘We have to sell as much as we can before quarter day,’ Laura said thoughtfully.

Quinta noticed father and son exchange glances and realised that they had discussed her and Mother and made an accurate assessment of their circumstances. She felt humiliated that her mother had made it more obvious to these strangers that they were failing. ‘I’ve told you, Mother, I can find work at the Hall,’ she chided.

‘There’s a big market in town on Midsummer’s Eve, dear,’ Laura responded.

In time to pay our rent, Quinta thought.

‘It is not many weeks until then, ma’am,’ the sergeant added. ‘Already my leg is less swollen and I should like to rest here longer, if I may.’

His son stood by silently, his face expressionless as though the decision did not involve him. Yet he would be doing the work. Quinta tugged at her mother’s hand and said, ‘They are strangers. I don’t think we should.’

Then Mr Ross spoke again. ‘I told you, Father, we are not wanted here.’

‘But you are,’ Laura responded hastily, ‘if you can farm as well as you mend things.’

‘My son was raised on a farm.’

The sergeant was a farmer then, Quinta thought, and said, ‘You told us you were a soldier.’

‘And that is true, miss. How do you think I got a French musket ball in my leg? They took it out on the battlefield and nearly killed me in the process.’ He grimaced as he spoke and then added, ‘But I lived, although this knee has not been right since. My son has farmed his way across England through all seasons as I hope you will discover. Now, can we stay or not, Mrs Haig?’

‘Until Midsummer,’ Laura answered.

 

Quinta marvelled at the improvement in her mother’s appetite and strength. She tended the fire, cooked and baked more, leaving Quinta to work in the garden full time. Patrick Ross worked from early morning at the far side of their land near to the moorland, where the pasture was overgrown with bramble and scrub. He sharpened tools, cleared ditches and tamed hedges until dusk and she saw little of him. His father became more mobile and came out frequently with his rifle to shoot rabbit, partridge and wood pigeon that dared to approach their vegetables. Laura returned the sergeant’s frequent gifts of meat with fresh oat biscuits and pots of nourishing broth that Quinta left on the mounting stone. Mr Ross seemed to avoid her, but one warm afternoon, his father came over to her garden and stood watching her at work.

‘Are you walking out with anyone?’ he asked.

Surprised, Quinta blinked and didn’t reply straightaway.

He explained, as though she did not understand: ‘You must have a sweetheart hidden away somewhere.’

‘No, I haven’t!’ she replied indignantly. ‘And why must I?’

‘You are very pretty.’

‘Oh!’

‘Hasn’t anyone offered for you yet?’

‘As a matter of fact someone has,’ she replied loftily. ‘My mother said no to him.’

‘Did she?’ he replied. ‘Have you said no to him as well?’

‘I - I . . .’ Quinta realised that she might have implied the opposite to Farmer Bilton when she had fetched milk for Mother. And he continued to ride their boundaries, keeping his eye on them. He must have seen Sergeant Ross and his son by now.

‘Did you wish to wed him?’

‘I don’t think that is anything to do with you.’

‘Indeed it is not. But I should like to know all the same. Here, I’ve made this for you.’ He handed her a wooden dibber, fashioned from a solid piece of wood and perfect for sowing her beans and seed potatoes. It was smooth and comfortable to hold.

‘Thank you. This must have taken you a long time to make.’

‘I have little else to fill my days. Would your mother care for a wooden bowl to grace her table?’

‘I’m sure she would.’

As she continued her weeding Quinta couldn’t decide whether the sergeant wanted anything in return for his gifts. She wanted to think not but wasn’t sure. By teatime she was thirsty and her mother brought out barley water to drink. The sergeant called loudly for his son to join them and he did, without pulling on his shirt, and his back and chest glistened with the sweat of his labour. He didn’t sit on the grass with the rest of them but scanned the track down the valley as he drank and said, ‘There’s a rider coming up.’

They had few visitors to Top Field and Quinta stood up beside him to look until the thumping of hooves on sun-baked earth grew closer and she recognised the horse. ‘It’s Farmer Bilton,’ she said.

‘Who’s he?’ Mr Ross asked.

‘Our landlord.’

The horse slowed in a cloud of dust, whinnied and snorted as Farmer Bilton pulled on his reins. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.

Quinta and her mother exchanged glances, but, surprisingly, Mr Ross spoke first. ‘Farming, sir.’

‘And who might you be?’

Quinta thought it was no business of his but she did not want to anger him further. Neither did her mother, who replied, ‘Visitors, sir.’

‘More likely poachers, if you ask me.’

Patrick took a step nearer to the horse. ‘We are not, sir. And we stay by invitation of Mrs Haig.’

Farmer Bilton ignored him and turned to Laura. ‘Travellers, then, and vagrants, invited on to my land by you, madam. Folk in the village are talking already and when Sir William hears about this he’ll back me to get you out.’

‘But we are working the farm!’ Quinta retaliated.

‘That remains to be seen. A bit of hedging and ditching won’t make any difference. I made you an offer and I advise you to take it. I want you out of here by quarter day. All of you.’ He tugged at the reins, turned the horse around and dug his spurs into its flanks. The creature, already foaming at the mouth, flared its nostrils and galloped away.

No one said anything as they watched him leave in a dusty cloud. Quinta glanced at her mother and the sergeant who were both frowning. But it was the look on Mr Ross’s face that startled her. He was furious. His eyes were stormy and his lips set in a contemptuous grimace.

Quinta, too, was angry at Farmer Bilton’s boorish and bullying behaviour and, after he had disappeared down the track, she said, ‘We’ll get him his rent, Mother, even if I do have to scrub floors at the Hall.’

‘It’s not just the money, dear. He’s right. I’ve looked at the agreement and it says I must practise good husbandry, as your father did.’

‘You hold the tenancy, Mrs Haig?’ the sergeant queried.

‘It was transferred to me when my husband died.’

‘Well, the land here is in good heart,’ Mr Ross commented.

‘My son knows more about farming than I do,’ the sergeant explained.

‘It will take a year or two to bring it back to profit,’ his son added.

‘We haven’t got a year or two,’ Quinta responded.

‘Then I’d best get on,’ Mr Ross said briskly and set off back to his work.

 

Farmer Bilton did not call again to speak to them but Quinta saw him frequently from her garden, riding his black hunter around the edge of their land. She knew he meant what he said about turning them out and he had influential people to support him. But they had a chance for reprieve with Mr Ross’s help and as Midsummer approached she became excited by the prospect of going to town. Her young crops had thrived and she worked from dawn until dusk harvesting and preparing them for market.

They set off shortly after daybreak. Laura inhaled the morning air and said, ‘Quinta, lock the door for me, dear, and take the key round to the woodshed. Mr Ross is ready to leave.’

‘I see he has brushed his jacket and found a clean neckerchief for his throat,’ Quinta observed as she obeyed.

‘He’s shaved his beard, too.’ Laura put her head on one side. When Quinta came back she added,‘He has handsome features, don’t you think? The same strong jaw as his father, but his lips are more defined.’

‘Lower your voice, Mother. He will hear you.’

‘Nonsense, dear, he is already moving away with the cart. His face is less rugged than the sergeant’s and his skin has a finer texture.’

‘From his mother, I expect. I wonder who she was.’ Quinta was reminded how little she knew about Mr Ross and his father. ‘Mother, do you think this is wise to leave the sergeant here alone?’

‘You have secured the cottage, dear, and he cannot journey with us. What else can we do?’

Sergeant Ross was able to walk with them as far as the track to Bilton Farm, about halfway down the steep descent to the village. As they set off down the hill Mr Ross had to put all his weight in front of the cart to prevent it rolling away. Laura followed behind with the sergeant.

As they approached the track for Bilton Farm, Quinta saw a familiar rider approaching. She had been looking forward to a break from her labours in the garden, but now she groaned, ‘Oh no.’

Farmer Bilton dismounted and walked his black hunter towards them. ‘So, Mrs Haig, you’ve decided to leave after all?’ His eyes strayed towards Quinta.

She answered, ‘No sir. We are going to market.’

‘What’s in the cart?’ he demanded.

‘Our garden produce and kindling for market.You will have your rent on our return, sir.’

‘We’ll see about that. Bring it to me at the farmhouse.’

Quinta didn’t want her mother to trudge all that way and intervened, ‘Will you not meet us here? You can see our approach.’

‘I said bring it to the house. And I want all of it before nightfall.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Farmer Bilton led his horse away.

‘He’s a harsh landlord,’ Mr Ross commented. ‘I remember his sort from when I was a boy.’

Quinta waited for him to say more, but he didn’t, so she simply said, ‘He wants us out.’