The Gentle Wind's Caress (3 page)

‘Miss Gibson.’ He held out his wide hand, looking uncomfortable in his suit too small for him, but his shy smile calmed her a little.

‘Good day, Mr Farrell.’ She barely touched his fingers before she withdrew her hand to hide it behind her back. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’

‘I heard yer were in the need for a husband.’ His unblinking stare wasn’t unsympathetic.

‘Yes. I am. I need a home for my brother and me.’ She smiled, trying desperately to still her anxiety. ‘You…you require a wife to help you run your farm?’

‘Aye.’ He glanced at Mr Beale and then at Matron.

As if taking her cue, Matron bustled forward. ‘Miss Gibson is a hard worker indeed, Mr Farrell. You’ll not go wrong in having her for a wife.’

Isabelle frowned in surprise at Matron’s sunny nature. She’d never had a good word to say about her before. Turning her attention back to Mr Farrell she focused on his answer.

‘Being a farmer’s wife is no easy life.’ He peered at her as though sizing up her worth. ‘Yer sure yer up to it?’

‘Of course!’ She straightened; alarmed that he’d think her weak. She’d have no one say she couldn’t pull her weight. She wasn’t frightened of hard work. ‘I’m healthy and strong.’

He nodded. ‘Yer’ll need to be.’

She raised her chin. ‘Hard work doesn’t deter me, Mr Farrell.’

‘You’d be no use to me if it did.’ He snorted. ‘They’ll be many chores that are yours alone. The farm’s been without a woman since me mam died some years back. I haven’t time to do everything now.’

‘Of course. You can depend on me. I promise you.’

‘Right. Good.’

‘Mr Beale tells me your farm is on the moors beyond Heptonstall.’

‘Aye.’

‘When I was small I remember my father taking me onto the moors near Sowerby. We walked forever that day. It was like being on top of the world and-’ Isabelle stopped, embarrassed at the other’s silence.

Farrell shifted uneasily, a flush staining his cheeks. ‘Well, I don’t know about that, but it’s not bad in’t summer. Winter can be a bloody nuisance.’

‘Indeed, Mr Farrell!’ Matron eyed him severely for his language. ‘I’m certain Isabelle will enjoy all the delights a moorland farm can offer.’

‘Right, yes.’ Farrell fiddled with the hat in his hands.

‘Well, what do you think, Isabelle?’ Matron beamed. ‘Doesn’t it all sound romantic?’

Romantic?
Isabelle stared at her. Who was the new woman? She much preferred the old matron, at least then she knew what to expect. Matron’s extraordinary behaviour confused her already jumbled thoughts, but before she could speak, Farrell strode to the chair near the door and picked up a small posy of wildflowers.

He thrust them at her without meeting her eyes. ‘There aren’t many flowers left now. These were all I could find about the place.’

She took the squashed bunch of flowers. The unexpected gesture astonished her. If he could bring her flowers then he couldn’t be that bad, surely? ‘Thank you. Do they grow near your home?’

‘Aye. Near the stream.’ His tone became distant and, scowling, he looked away as if disappointed by something.

Isabelle sniffed their faded fragrance and was filled with sense of outdoors. She longed to be up on the moors, to experience the vastness of them where there were no walls to keep her in or that hid the world from her view. She felt she couldn’t breathe here anymore.

***

Later that afternoon, Isabelle and Hughie, huddling in their thin coats, sat in a secluded corner of the yard playing cards. They put up with the cold because it was better than the other option – staying inside and being at Matron’s beck and call.

‘So, this Mr Farrell seems nice?’ Hughie asked, shuffling the cards.

‘Yes, he seemed to be.’ Isabelle shrugged, not really knowing one way or the other. ‘He didn’t stay long otherwise I would have sent for you to meet him, too.’

‘Will he like me, do you think?’

‘Of course he will.’ She winked. ‘Why would he not?’

‘It might be good to live on a farm and care for animals.’

She snorted. ‘Anywhere is better than here.’

‘I know. Matron slapped me around the ear this morning for eating too fast, but I’m always hungry.’

‘Just think of what they must eat at the farm. Fresh eggs, milk, hams and cheese.’

Hughie groaned and rubbed his stomach. ‘Remember how grandfather used to have two eggs every morning after prayers? We’re lucky to get one egg a week!’

Warm memories flowed as she remembered the pleasant times of living with their grandfather; his gentle voice reading to them at night in front of the fire, the long walks on Saturday afternoons, and the Christmas festivities he enjoyed so much.

He took them in when Aaron Gibson, her father, abandoned them. Life had been good at the vicarage until a sudden seizure took their darling grandfather from them. With no home or income of their own they had no option but to take the charity of Peacock’s Private Workhouse.

In good faith, her mother gave Matron all her jewellery to help towards their keep. But once their mother died, the Matron’s true nature emerged and her false benevolence turned to coldness. Since then, only Sally’s sweet nature kept up the pretence of civility.

‘Does Mr Farrell have family?’

Isabelle frowned. ‘Not sure. He mentioned his mother died a few years ago. That’s all I know. I imagine he has workers. A farm needs men to run it.’

She paused and gazed at the elderly men toiling in the vegetable gardens. By the far wall two women, old before their time, sat on stools knitting or sewing surrounded by numerous children. Everything and everyone was colourless, dreary, desperate and sad. This wasn’t her fate, to be left existing behind a high, stone wall, shut away from the world, of that she was certain. She hated each moment she spent here.

‘Will you marry him then?’

She looked at Hughie and reached for his hand. ‘I think I might. I haven’t decided. I wanted to speak to you about it first.’

‘Have there been any other men you’d might want to marry instead?’

‘No. None. I guess I could ask Mr Thwaite, the grocer in Nelson Street. He always smiled at me whenever Sally and I used to pass by. He’s widowed.’

‘And old, too.’ Hughie laughed. ‘His daughter was as old as Mother.’

Isabelle sighed, too anxious to share in the jest. Something had to be done. A chance must be taken. She wouldn’t be trapped here with the years stretching out before her in a never-ending drudge of work and evading Neville. Her youth would be gone, stolen by Matron’s harsh demands and Neville’s malicious attacks.

Hughie peeked up from under his lashes. ‘Matron said I’m to go down the pit.’

‘You aren’t! I promised mother.’ Isabelle pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. The pressure built within and she couldn’t control it, couldn’t escape it. Too many decisions. Too many uncertainties. But what choices did she have? What should she do?

‘Can’t we just run away? Now Sally has gone, we can do it. Just you and me. I’m old enough, nearly thirteen!’

She shook her head slowly, sadly. ‘I can’t risk it. If something was to happen to you, I’d never forgive myself. And if something happened to me, you’d be alone.’

‘Anything is better than rotting in here.’

‘Dying by the side of the road isn’t.’

He nodded but Mildred, another workhouse inmate, took their attention as she ran towards them. ‘Isabelle! This just arrived for you.’ She held out a brown box.

‘For me?’ Surprised, Isabelle stood and took the box from her.

‘Let me know what’s in it later. I must get back. Matron is doing her inspections.’ Mildred ran off towards the kitchens before Isabelle could thank her.

Intrigued, Hughie jumped up to stand beside her. ‘What is it, Belle?’

‘It must be from Mr Farrell. How lovely.’ Opening the box, Isabelle pulled back the brown paper inside and gasped. Several withered pink roses dipped in black ink lay at the bottom of the box.

Hughie stepped back in disgust. ‘Eww, that’s awful! If that Farrell sent you this as a gift I’d not marry him, Belle.’

Isabelle swallowed and found it difficult to speak. How could anyone send such a thing to her? A card lay underneath one rose but she didn’t pick it up. Forcing a smile, she turned to Hughie. ‘It must be someone’s joke. They aren’t from Mr Farrell. It’s nothing to worry about. Why don’t you go in and see if you can charm of cup of tea from Cook, while I throw this away.’

Once Hughie had left, she carefully tugged the card from beneath the disfigured flowers and read it.

You will never marry anyone but me…N

She dropped the box in horror. Spilt like a bottle of ink, the flowers tumbled out at her feet.

Chapter Three

Isabelle’s stomach lurched as wildly as the cart did every time its wheels rolled into a rut. She hid her shaking hands by folding them tightly in her lap. Her new husband, Len Farrell, slapped the reins hard on the poor, skinny beast between the shafts.

Isabelle took a trembling breath. Spirit fumes emanated from Len as though he had bathed in gin. His coat, although not new, looked decent that morning when she first saw him in church, but now dark tell tale signs of spilt food and drink mottled it. She had vague memories of the ceremony and the small tea party afterwards. Their conversation, albeit somewhat stilted and under the watchful gaze of Matron and Mr Beale, remained on safe ground with him telling her about the moors and wildlife near his farm.

She allowed her gaze to shift up to his face and she bit her lip in alarm. This man was her husband. How had it happened so quickly? Four weeks after burying Sally she had married a stranger.

Despite her apprehension and, if she was honest, fear, of what she had just committed to, she couldn’t but help to feel relieved at escaping the Peacock’s Workhouse. The last four weeks had been nothing but torture. Neville managed to torment and harass her at every opportunity until she felt too ill to care anymore. All that kept her going was the thought that soon she would be married and away from him. Neville hated the thought of her marrying anyone but him. However, it was his violence that drove her into the hasty marriage with Farrell. If he’d left her alone, she could’ve taken her time, been more selective.

She sighed. Oh well, what’s done is done.

The cartwheel fell into a hole, jerking her back to the present. She forced herself to relax. Yes, she had married a stranger, but what had been the alternative? Living on the streets would have been much worse and she had to think of Hughie’s future too.

Isabelle raised her chin and concentrated on her surroundings. They’d left Halifax immediately after the wedding tea and driven straight to Hebden Bridge, where Len stopped to purchase goods, which for some reason, he grumbled about. Now, they drove up the steep, winding Heptonstall Road and her new husband had barely spoken to them. She couldn’t blame him really. Obviously, the situation wasn’t easy for him either. She expected that men become equally nervous as women when they married.

Craning to look past Hughie, Isabelle marvelled at the magnificent scenery of the valley below. The grey stone terrace houses of Hebden Bridge hugged the slopes as though they had been hewn from the valley sides. The silver ribbon of the River Calder coiled through the town like a lazy snake. Beside it, caught in glimpses between trees and buildings, lay the Rochdale Canal.

Familiar names in a new and unfamiliar life.

The muted noise of the small village of Heptonstall greeted them like a soft caress on the wind. The narrow, quiet streets reflected the lateness of the day; many would be inside enjoying their tea. Isabelle took eager interest in the Old Church and Weaver’s Square, and counted seven public houses, but all too soon they left the stone thoroughfare of Towngate and headed northwest on Smithwell Lane and out of the village. She would have to investigate the village properly at a later date.

Isabelle stifled a yawn, she had been awake since before dawn. The day’s toll flagged her strength. She still couldn’t believe she was now married. Opening her eyes wide to keep alert, she surveyed the countryside as it opened up on both sides of the road. The higher they rose, the cooler the weather became and the bleaker their environment. This was moor country. The crisp autumn air awoke her senses. Her gaze lingered on the hues of the heather covered moor.
How beautiful it is
. Maybe being married and living in the country would be an enjoyable experience. Surely, nothing could be worse than living by Matron’s rules and spending her time hiding from Neville?

Len slapped the reigns against the horse’s rump and grunted. One-handed he pulled out a small hipflask and unscrewed the top. He made gurgling sounds as the liquid went down his throat, as though he couldn’t take it in fast enough.

Isabelle shivered. Drink was new to her. His loud belch made her jump, and she looked at him in rebuke. He clearly wasn’t used to being in a woman’s company, but she could teach him.

Sighing, she lifted her chin and decided to learn more about this husband of hers. ‘So, Mr Farrell, have you always lived at your farm? I mean has your family always been there?’