The Fleethaven Trilogy (10 page)

Rubbing her hands down the side of her skirt, Esther stepped out into the yard. ‘’Morning, Squire.’

‘Good morning, my dear.’ Mr Marshall climbed down from the gig and looked about him. ‘Sam Brumby – is he – er – about?’

‘He’s in the house, sir. Would you like me to . . . ?’

Mr Marshall put out his hand, palm outward. ‘No, no, my dear girl. Don’t trouble. It was – er . . .’ He cleared his throat as if in embarrassment. ‘I heard Sam Brumby was – er – not well.’ Now he looked keenly at Esther. ‘Is that right?’

Esther licked her lips. ‘Well, he dun’t seem quite his usual self, sir. But he says ’tis only the cold; that he’ll be all right come the warmer weather.’

‘I’ll go in and see him.’ Without waiting for an invitation, Mr Marshall turned and walked towards the house. Sam would be sitting huddled in front of the range, she knew, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looked thin and old now, but he refused to see a doctor.

Esther stayed about the yard pretending to be busy, but in truth waiting for Mr Marshall to reappear. She didn’t have long to wait. Ten minutes later, the squire came out of the house closing the door quietly behind him. He seemed lost in thought and didn’t notice Esther until he was almost up to her. ‘Ah, there you are. Er – well now – I don’t like the look of Sam at all, not at all. I’ve tried to persuade him to let the doctor have a look at him but . . .’

He caught sight of Esther’s half-smile. ‘Ah, I see you’ve tried already.’ He was silent for a moment, then, stroking his chin thoughtfully, he said, ‘Well now, what’s going to happen to the farm while Sam’s ill, mm?’

‘I’ll manage,’ she said curtly, adopting her usual stance when her ability was questioned – feet apart, hands on hips.

‘Well, my dear. I hope you can. I’m not a hard man. I’m not about to turn a tenant out just because he’s ill, especially when his family have held this tenancy for generations . . .’

‘Tenant? Mr Brumby is a
tenant
of this farm? He – he dun’t own it?’

‘Oh no, my dear. Didn’t you know? I own all the land around here. I have three tenant farmers in all – Willoughby at Rookery Farm, Souter and Sam Brumby. Sam’s family have farmed here the longest. So, as I say, I’m not going to turn him out because he hits a bad patch, particularly if you can keep things going till he gets better.’

Esther’s head was whirling. Then she remembered Matthew’s words when he’d been explaining about the folk who lived at the Point. ‘They all work the land round here – they all work for Mester Marshall,’ Matthew had said, but she hadn’t understood fully what he had meant then. ‘He’s the squire – he owns all the land hereabouts.’

Now she understood. Sam Brumby was only a tenant farmer. He didn’t own the farm, so what would happen if anything happened to Sam, if he should be ill for a long time, or even die? After all, he was an old man, though Esther had no idea just how old he was. What would happen to her, Esther, then?

She squared her shoulders and looked Mr Marshall in the eyes. She had to make amends for her curtness of a few minutes ago. She knew it was important that she should make a good impression upon Mr Marshall, the real owner of the farm.

‘Well, sir, I can manage the farm all right.’

His clear gaze was upon her. ‘Can you? Can you really?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. Matthew – Matthew Hilton – you know he helps out here quite a lot?’

‘Yes, yes, I did know.’

‘We’ve managed everything between us. Nothing’s been let slip.’

She went on to tell him about what she intended to plant and in which fields, and which she intended to leave fallow. ‘I’ve tried to talk it over with Mester Brumby, but he dun’t seem to have the strength to be interested even.’

The squire nodded. ‘Well, you seem to know what you’re about – your plans seem eminently sensible.’ Mr Marshall glanced about him. ‘And, I must say, the place looks every bit as good as when Sam
is
around, I’ll grant you that.’

Esther smiled at him. ‘I’ll cope, sir. I’ll keep things right.’

‘Well, my dear, I admire your spirit. I can see for myself you’re a worker.’ He nodded at her as if in approval. ‘But don’t be afraid to come to see me if you have any problems. I’ll be only too glad to help.’

‘Thank you, Squire. I’ll remember that,’ she answered him politely, but inwardly she resolved to prove that she could manage things alone – and manage them well.

Even with the spring, Sam made no improvement, in fact, he seemed weaker.

‘You ought to call the doctor in, lass,’ Will Benson told Esther. ‘Ne’er mind what ’ee says, you get the doc in. It’d look bad on you if owt happens to Sam, an you hadn’t done anything.’

‘Would you call on your way back through the town at Doctor Blair’s house, Mr Benson, and ask him to call as soon as he can?’

‘Aye, righto, lass. I don’t mind doing that. I don’t like to see old Sam so bad. He’s shrivelled away to nothing. All skin and bone he is, now.’ Will shook his head. ‘No, I don’t like the look of him at all.’

As the carrier’s cart trundled out of the yard, Esther went to find Matthew. ‘Will Benson’s going to call and ask the doctor to come out to see Sam.’

‘Not afore time neither,’ Matthew said brusquely. ‘He’s poorly, you know. But he’s such a stubborn old goat!’

They looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. Just what was going to become of the farm – and of them – if anything dreadful were to happen to Sam Brumby?

T
HE
doctor came to find Esther feeding the pigs. Above the noise of the scuffling and grunting, Esther heard a loud rapping on the sty door and looked up to see a stranger in a tweed suit.

‘I’m sorry, sir. They make such a row at feeding time,’ Esther said, hurrying outside and closing the door after her.

Fastidiously, the doctor stepped backwards. ‘Quite so, quite so.’ There was a pause whilst Esther waited. Then he went on, ‘You live here with Mr Brumby, I understand?’

‘That’s right, sir. I’ve been here nearly a year now.’ Esther felt the doctor looking her up and down.

‘Well, my dear.’ The doctor’s voice had a kindly, concerned note now. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Brumby is a sick man. I fear he has not many weeks to live. I’m very sorry, but there’s nothing I can do to help him.’

Esther stared at the doctor. ‘I – I should have called you sooner. I – should . . .’

Doctor Blair laid his hand upon Esther’s shoulder. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference, my dear. Don’t reproach yourself. He’s a tired old man who’s worked this land all his life. He’s worn out – that’s the truth of it. There’s nothing I could have done for him, not even if I had come earlier.’

‘Is he in any pain?’ Esther wanted to know.

The doctor shook his head. ‘Not that I can find out. But his breathing’s bad – very bad – and will get worse, my dear, before the end.’ He met Esther’s steady gaze. ‘But you let me know, and I’ll do what I can to help him.’

Esther nodded and said hoarsely, ‘Thank you, sir.’

Doctor Blair gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze. ‘Your being here makes his passing a lot easier, my dear. A lot easier than if he were still living on his own. Just remember that.’

‘Why?’ she asked candidly. ‘I seem to be able to do so little.’

‘You being here means he can die in his own home, on the land he has always loved. Otherwise . . .’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I would have had to take him away.’

Esther’s eyes widened and her lips parted in a gasp. Grim tales of being sent to the workhouse had been hurled at her by her aunt so often as a threat that she understood at once what the doctor meant. She wasn’t sure that it was still a reality that unwanted children, the destitute, the old and the sick actually ended up in the workhouse, but the fear itself was enough.

‘I’ll look after him, mester – I mean, doctor,’ she said in a voice that was none too steady.

‘Yes, my dear, I believe you will,’ he said, with a final pat of encouragement and understanding.

As the doctor turned to leave, she was surprised to feel a lump in her throat and a prickle of unaccustomed tears. She realized suddenly just how fond she had become of the grumpy old man.

With the news that Sam Brumby was so very ill, and mindful of her promise to care for him until the end, Esther decided to move out of the attic boxroom above the kitchen for it had no direct access to the upper floor of the house. She needed to be nearer Sam.

Stepping into the room on the opposite side of the small landing to Sam’s room, Esther found what appeared to have once been a nursery. Pushed into the corner was an assortment of children’s toys – a battered rocking horse, a dolls house, a high chair, a doll with a china face and cloth body and in another corner a full-sized baby’s cot.

Esther wondered if all these things had belonged to the sweet-faced girl in the faded picture in Sam’s bedroom. Perhaps he could not bear to throw anything away; maybe a lot of the old man’s memories of happier days were stored away in this room with these toys. Esther could almost see the little girl with her long hair flowing as she rocked to and fro on the wooden horse; could almost hear her childish laughter . . .

Esther shook herself; her worry over Sam was making her fanciful and morbid. She must concentrate on practical matters, she told herself firmly.

Another door led into a long narrow room with a sloping ceiling, beneath which there was just enough room for the iron bedstead to stand. At one end of the room there was a small chest of drawers and a basin and jug stood on a wash-stand. Although the whole place needed scrubbing out and the bedlinen washing, the room was luxurious compared with the attic boxroom. This room had obviously been the nurserymaid’s, but Esther chose it in preference to the larger nursery for it seemed warmer. If she left the two intervening doors open, she would still be able to hear if Sam needed help in the night.

Three nights later, when the room was clean, the bedlinen freshly laundered and the dust banged from the mattress with a carpet beater, Esther moved in. For the first time in her life, she was sleeping in a real bedroom and on a proper bed.

Yet, as she lay awake listening to the rasping, laboured sound of Sam’s breathing, she wished she was back in the quiet solitude of the cramped boxroom.

Sam Brumby lived to know that another harvest had been gathered but he had not been well enough to take any active part in the work. Just once, when she was returning from the fields, she saw that he had dragged himself to the kitchen window to watch the final wagon load brought home, but this year it was Esther who had to put the last sheaf on top of the stack. As she did so she turned to see Sam watching her from the window and saw him give her a little nod before he turned and went back to his place by the range.

The following morning when Esther came in from the milking, she found Sam seated in his chair. He was leaning forward, his breathing a rasping, tearing sound.

‘Why didn’t you wait till I could help you down the stairs?’ she said hurrying towards him.

He was seized by a spasm of coughing and waved his hand feebly at her. Helplessly she had to stand and watch as the coughing racked his thin frame. He sat hunched in the chair, growing weaker with every passing day.

‘Mester . . .’ she began again, but he lifted his hand as if to silence her.

‘Lass, get Mester Thompson . . .’ He could hardly get the words out, and then only in a wheezing whisper.

Esther bent closer. ‘Who’s Mr Thompson?’

‘I – I want to see him.’ He lay back in the chair and closed his eyes. The effort of dressing, coming downstairs and speaking even those few words had exhausted him.

Esther bit her lip. She must find this man, but she didn’t know who he was. At that moment she heard the familiar whistle heralding the arrival of Will Benson’s carrier’s cart in the yard and she flew out of the house and towards him, her skirt held high, her curls flying. All formality forgotten in her agitation, she called the carrier the name by which she always thought of him in her own mind.

‘Will, Will – oh, thank goodness you’ve come . . .’

‘Steady, lass, steady. What’s wrong? Is it Sam?’

She nodded. ‘He’s much worse, Will. And he’s asking for a Mester Thompson. I don’t know who he is, do you?’

Will Benson nodded. His face was grim. ‘He’s the lawyer in town.’

They stared at each other.

‘Why should he – want a lawyer?’ Esther asked innocently.

‘Dun’t you know, lass?’

Esther could only shake her head for suddenly there was a funny lump in her throat and she could not trust herself to speak.

‘I reckon he wants to make a will, lass.’

‘A will? But folks like him dun’t make wills . . .’

The carter nodded his head. ‘They do if they think they haven’t long to go, lass.’

Esther groaned. ‘Oh no,’ she whispered. ‘You reckon he – he knows?’

Will nodded. ‘Aye, lass, he knows. He knows all right.’

They stood for a moment in silence. Then Will patted her shoulder in a kindly gesture. ‘Go and get yar shawl, or whatever, an’ I’ll take you back into town and drop you off outside his office.’

‘Will, couldn’t you . . . ?’

Will was shaking his head. ‘Nay, lass, Sam’s asked you to go, an’ you should do as he’s bid. I’ll go and have a word with him whilst you get ready.’

She would have enjoyed the ride on Will’s cart into town if she had not been so worried about Sam and nervous of presenting herself at a lawyer’s office.

‘What’ll I say, Will?’

Will almost smiled despite the cloud that hung over both of them. He had never seen Esther so irresolute. It was totally unlike her.

‘Just go into the office and ask to see Mester Thompson. If he’s not available then leave a clear message with – well – with whoever is there. Just tell ’em that Sam Brumby is a very sick man and that he’s asked you to fetch a lawyer out to see him. And could he come as quick as possible.’

‘Will he take notice of someone like me?’ she asked diffidently.

Now Will did smile. ‘Esther lass, just go in there and be yourself. They’ll tek notice all right!’