Abbeyford Remembered (15 page)

“Lloyd, don't talk …”

“I must – tell you. Go back to – to – Trent.” As if he had only lived to see her once more, to speak to her again, to tell her what she must do, he fell back, his eyes staring blankly towards the sky.

“Lloyd!
Lloyd
!” she cried and shook him.

“ 'Tis no use, ma'am. He's gone. The stuff must have choked his lungs. I don't know how he lasted that long in there,” Mr Thompson said in wonderment.

Slowly Carrie lifted her face. She said nothing but silently she thought – you don't know the strength of this man. And now his strength was gone. His protection was gone. She was alone in a strange, hostile country at the mercy of Jeremy Richmond.

The dead were buried with little ceremony at the side of the railway. As Carrie stood above the grave marked by a simple, rough cross made out of railway builder's tools, she felt real grief for her husband. If only I could have loved him, she thought with remorse. Although she could not forgive many of the things he had done, she had to admit that his treatment of her had always been loving and thoughtful. Knowing she loved another man, he had married her, lavished gifts on her, protected her and tried to make her a lady. Her life with him had been one of comfort and luxury such as she had never before known. As she turned away she knew that, though her love would always belong to Jamie Trent and to no other, Lloyd Foster had earned her tender affection.

Carrie stepped down from the train at Abbeyford Halt. The train pulled away from her, thundering up the line, past Abbeyford Manor and out of the valley. She looked about her in wonder. How altered everything was. The railway line ran exactly where her father and Lloyd Foster had planned it, between the Manor and the stream, the common and farmland cut in two by the embankment supporting the track.

The Manor! Her heart missed a beat. Was he there? Was Jamie Trent still living there?

She walked along the small wooden platform, through the white-painted gate that marked the boundary of the railway property and began to walk towards the village. Now the cottages were stained black with the constant smoke from the steam engines. She neared the line of cottages where her grandmother, Sarah Smithson lived. A little nervously, she approached the door, but as she lifted her hand to knock she felt a sense of desolation sweep over her and knew there was no longer anyone living in this cottage, even before she wiped away the grime from the window and peered in. Then she tried the door and found it opened, scraping on the stone floor. She stepped into the dismal, damp cottage. The place was derelict. Odd items of furniture still littered the dirty floor, a broken chair, broken cups, old clothes and dust – dust everywhere. The cottage had been empty for some time.

Carrie felt the sadness sweep over her. Her grandmother was dead – she sensed it, knew it. And probably Henry Smithson too. There was nothing for her here. She left the cottage reluctantly, closing the door behind her as if closing the door on her memories of the little old woman who had lived there. She wished she had known her better, wished she could have known the truth of her grandmother's love affair with Guy Trent.

Carrie looked up and down the village street and then her gaze was pulled once more across the village green and up, up towards Abbeyford Manor. Her heart began to beat a little faster. She had to know whether or not Jamie still lived there – if he was marriediwith a family of his own – or If he still remembered her.

She walked up the lane, over the tiny bridge near the ford and then over the new railway bridge – a slim young woman in a wine-coloured skirt and jacket of fine velvet material, edged with self-coloured braid. Her black hair was smooth and neat, coiled up on the top of her head, upon which perched a pretty bonnet.

It was autumn of 1853 and the golden leaves were falling from the hedgerows, and the air was clear and sharp.

Carrie breathed in the country air, savouring its freshness which even the presence of the railway and all its smoke could not spoil completely. It was so invigorating after the heat and humidity of India. It was so quiet, so peaceful – almost too quiet. She glanced back thoughtfully towards the village. There were one or two people moving about, but many of the cottages seemed deserted now. Perhaps, with the ruination of the farming land by the railway, many families had been forced to move elsewhere to find work.

So much had happened during the years she had been away, so much had changed and yet now she was back here again, the years between seemed to have gone so quickly.

Would Jamie have changed? Would he look the same? Would he
feel
the same about her?

“Go home,” had been Lloyd's dying words to her. “Get away from here – go back to Trent!”

She had been lucky to escape from India in the way that she had done. After Lloyd had been buried she had returned briefly to Captain Richmond's house. Luckily, he was not there. She learnt he had been sent at short notice with a detachment of soldiers up-country. Silently thanking Providence, she had swiftly packed as much as she could carry. Taking her jewel box she had found her way to the markets in the streets of Calcutta and, after much haggling, had sold her jewels for enough money to buy her a passage home. Her only fear was that there would be no ship in Calcutta harbour bound for England. But once again she was fortunate. Threading her way through the busy dockside, she had heard the English voice of a First Mate shouting at his idle crew as they loaded cargo on to the ship.

Minutes later when she faced the Captain of the ship and requested passage, she knew a moment's fear as he said gruffly, “This ain't no passenger ship, lady. You'd best be waitin' till next week …”

“Captain, I cannot wait till next week. I must leave India at once. My husband has been killed in a railway building accident, and I …”

“Building the railway, was he?” Interest had sparked in the man's eyes. “Ah, well now, there's a man after me own heart. Me brother's a Hingineer on a railway back home in England. Now, I'd be right glad to help you, ma'am, but the cabin'll be a bit rough. An' I can only take you to France, ma'am.”

“I don't mind one bit, Captain,” Carrie had smiled and silently had blessed the Captain's ‘ hingineer' brother. “I can find something else from there, I'm sure.”

The passage home had taken over three months. Three months in which she had been able to rest and recover her composure after Lloyd's death and her hurried departure from Captain Jeremy Richmond's clutches.

Now finally – after several more weeks – she was back in Abbeyford and the years between seemed to slip away.

As she stood at the gate leading into the stableyard of the Manor, Carrie hesitated, irresolute. If he were still here, how could she just burst in upon him? What if he had a wife and children? Would it not be wrong of her to disturb the peace he had perhaps found for himself? And yet, her own heart ached for sight of him. She knew, deep down, that whatever his situation now, his love for her had been so deep that even the passage of these last twelve years could not have dimmed that love.

She walked through the deserted yard, everywhere was neglected and overgrown. The stables were tumble-down, the weeds growing through the cobbled yard. Jamie cannot live here now, she thought with sudden disappointment. He would never allow it to become like this – unless, unless he had lost all heart, all ambition with her going.

She knocked on the back door, but there was no reply so she walked round to the front of the house and pulled on the stiff bell-rope there. She waited for what seemed a long time until she heard shuffling footsteps approach the door.

It opened slowly and Carrie found herself staring at a stranger – a woman of about her own age. She wore a low-cut silk dress which once must have been a fine ball gown, but now it was rumpled and stained. Her hair was piled up untidily on to her head, tendrils hanging down around her face.

“What d'you want?” Her voice was rough and her manner coarse.

Carrie's mouth felt suddenly dry. “Does – Mr Trent live here?”

There was a moment's silence as the woman eyed Carrie. “And if he does, what do you want wi' him?”

Carrie almost gasped in astonishment. Surely, surely not
Jamie
?

She squared her shoulders meeting the woman's hostile eyes calmly. “ I'd like a word with him, if you please?”

“Oh, ‘I'd like a word with him, if you please',” the woman mimicked mockingly. “ What'd he want wi' the likes o' you?”

I might well ask the same question of you, Carrie thought but aloud she repeated, “I would like to see him, please,” with far more confidence in her tone than she felt.

Oh Jamie, Jamie, her heart cried out. Not this!

“You'd best come in then,” the woman turned, leaving the door open for Carrie to enter and follow. She flung open the door of what had once been Squire Guy Trent's study and stood aside for Carrie to enter the room.

“There he is – but I doubt you'll get much sense out of him jus' now. Been drunk for two days, 'ee has.”

The smell of drink hit her forcibly as Carrie stepped into the small room. She blinked and as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness of the room, she saw the figure of a man sprawled across the desk, an empty whisky bottle on its side. His head was resting on one arm, a few inches from his limp hand. She almost spoke the name aloud – Squire Trent – for this is how she had last seen him. Then she checked herself. No, no, he was dead, by his own hand. Jamie had told her. Then who …?

She walked round the desk until she could see his face and when she did she drew breath sharply in surprise. “Pa!”

It was indeed her father. At the sound of her voice Evan stirred and raised bleary, bloodshot eyes to squint up at her. Carrie's heart missed a beat. It was as if she were seeing a ghost, for now her father was the image of the defenceless, pathetic old man she remembered as Squire Guy Trent – Evan's own father!

“Oh, Pa, what are you doing here?”

The woman, who had stood in the doorway watching, now moved into the room. “ Is 'ee your Pa, then? Well, I niver!”

Carrie looked up at the woman. “ Calls himself Trent, does he?”

The woman looked surprised. “ Yea. Why, ain't that 'is name, then?”

Carrie smiled sadly. “ It used to be ‘Smithson'.”

The sound of her voice, or the use of his former name, roused Evan. “Me name's Trent. I've a right to the name of Trent – it's my birthright!”

Carrie leaned closer. “ Pa, it's Carrie.”

The blurred eyes squinted at her. “ Carrie? Ha – told you I'd live here one day, didn't I?”

“Much good it seems to have done you,” she said candidly.

“I got a right to be here.” He banged the desk with his clenched fist and swept the empty bottle to the floor. The sound of shattering glass made the two women jump.

“You ' is daughter, then?” the woman asked Carrie. “Well I never knew 'ee was even married!”

“Where is my mother?” Carrie asked.

“Lord knows,” the woman shrugged. “ Taken me in proper, 'ee 'as.” Her glance rested balefully on the sprawling form.

“Does anyone else live here?”

“No, only us two.”

“Pa,” she shook his shoulder. “Pa – where's Ma and the boys?”

“Gone, all gone.”

“Where – where've they gone?”

“Dead – all dead,” he moaned and slumped forward again.

Carrie caught her breath and she and the woman gazed at each other.

“Ee, love, I'm right sorry to hear that.” For the first time there was friendliness in the woman's tone. “ You bin away then? Didn't you know?”

Carrie shook her head. “I've been away for almost twelve years.” She paused then asked. “Do you know who lived here before Mr – Trent?” Referring to her father by that name did not come easily, but it was the only name by which this woman knew him.

“No,” she shook her head. “ 'Ee was here when I came. I met him in Manchester, an' he brought me back 'ere.”

Carrie sighed and looked down with sadness at her father. He'd achieved his bitter ambition – to ruin the Trents and to live in the Manor House himself. But it had not brought him any happiness. In so doing he had ruined himself also.

“There's nothing for me here,” she turned away and walked slowly from the room, past the woman and out of the house.

“Come an' see 'im again – when he's sober,” the woman called after her, but Carrie only smiled faintly and nodded. She passed through the silent stableyard, averting her eyes from the buildings – that was where poor Guy Trent had ended his useless, tragic life. Once in the lane she turned to the left and climbed towards the wooded brow of the hill. Sadly she wandered through the shadows, hardly knowing where her footsteps led her. So many memories came crowding back. Memories of those wonderful days of summer. Memories of the handsome young man she had loved and still loved to this day.

She paused at the edge of the wood to look at the abbey ruins and then was drawn towards them.

The ruins had changed little. The ground within the crumbling walls was still littered with rubble, and the little room was still intact. If she had been more of a fanciful nature she might have imagined she heard the echoing laughter of the happy, ghostly lovers. Herself and Jamie? Or Guy Trent and his Sarah?

She shuddered and turned away down the hill towards the village. The bright day seemed to mock her sadness. She was no nearer, now, of finding Jamie again than she had been when she had left India. If anything she was even farther away, for then she had pictured him still living here.

Fondly – romantically – she had imagined him still living in Abbeyford Manor. Her heart had woven the fantasy of a joyful, poignant reunion. Her arrival at the Manor, Jamie's strong arms about her, the haven of love she sought.