The Gentle Wind's Caress (4 page)

‘Aye.’

‘Do you have many relatives living nearby?’

‘No.’

This news saddened her. She had been looking forward to the company of female family members. Since losing her darling mother and sister, she had missed the closeness they shared. It would’ve been nice to share recipes and gossip with another woman.

Hughie leant forward to address his new brother-in-law. ‘How many animals do you have, Mr Farrell.’

‘The both of yer can stop calling me Mr Farrell. Me name’s Len or just Farrell.’ He took another swig from his flask.

Hughie grinned at Isabelle, excited to be on an adventure. ‘Well, Len, how many have you got?’

‘Enough to keep yer busy.’

‘What kind?’

‘Sheep.’

The one-word answers soon quelled Hughie’s interest, and he leant back in his seat in a huff.

Isabelle watched the passing scenery and tried to ignore the uneasiness that plagued her. She had asked to be married. This was what she wanted, so she’d better make the best of it. There was much she had to learn, Hughie too. There’d be adjustments on both sides. Farrell had never been married before, so sharing his house with strangers was bound to make him tetchy.

All would be well though, in the end. They’d have a home, food and each other to care for. She was to be mistress of a house and farm. She’d have respect. Suddenly a thought entered her head. Did she have servants? Turning to Len she tried to keep the eagerness out of her voice. ‘Are there servants at your farm?’

He stared at her for a half a minute, then, laughed so hard it made him cough. After he finished spluttering he gave her a quick look. ‘What do yer think I am? Gentry?’

‘Well no, not gentry.’ She frowned, not liking his ridicule. ‘So there is no one?’

‘Of course there isn’t. I ain’t medd of money.’

‘Is your farm not very big then?’

‘It’s big enough for your needs, madam. Now stop with the questions, me head’s fair thumping.’

She looked at Hughie and managed a tight smile. Such an important day, and a very long day, made them all tired.

The journey passed by in silence until Len cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. He turned the horse into Draper’s lane and they headed north. The landscape sloped downhill gently. He pointed to a depression in the land on his right that broke the pattern of undulating moors. ‘See that over there? That’s me farm. Meadow Farm it’s called. Further on this lane goes down to Hebden Water.’

Isabelle gazed at the cluster of farm buildings hidden amongst a clump of trees a mile or so away. Meadow Farm was situated on a flat plateau inside the depression. Though they were high up, hills in the west rose again even higher. Down to their left, the land fell away at a gentle angle towards another valley some miles off. Sheep dotted the landscape.

‘Meadow Farm…What a lovely name.’ Isabelle nudged Hughie, where he rested against her side, dosing. ‘Look Hughie, over to the right, that is Meadow farm, our new home.’

Being high in the cart seat, she could see over the stone walls and hawthorn hedges that grew in number the closer they got to the farm. The moor gave way to patches of farmland as men tamed the land from nature. Excited, Isabelle scanned the surrounding fields. Some lay fallow, others neatly ploughed. As they drove down the slope, the natural indentation of the landscape offered them some protection from the wind. Nearing the farm, the road widened. A cart full of milk cans rattled towards them.

Isabelle smiled at the passing driver. ‘Is there another farm close by, Len?’

‘Aye.’ He pointed further along the road. ‘This lane leads to Lee Wood Road and to Bracken Hall where the bastard landlord lives. He owns all the fields we just passed and plenty more besides.’

She peered over her shoulder at the well-tended fields. ‘I thought they were yours?’

‘Nope. The bastard from Bracken Hall took ‘em off me when I went to sign up for a new lease.’ Len spat over the side of the cart. ‘He left me with just ten acres. Not enough to make money with, barely enough for me to live on. I had to sell half my flock. Bastard.’ He spat again. ‘He’ll get what’s coming to him one day and I hope to God I play a part in it.’

Isabelle swallowed back her comment on spitting and any further questions as an angry red stain flushed Len’s neck and cheeks. A feud. That was the last thing she expected. Her husband hated his landlord.

The large chestnut trees encircling the farm loomed closer. Without their summer leaves they exposed the features of the farm. She spied the brick farmhouse and a few outer buildings, before a tall hawthorn hedge blocked their view.

Ducks and geese squawked and honked as Len drove the horse and cart through the rotten timbered gates that lay drunkenly against the hedge. A deep pothole in the drive caused the cart to nearly tilt them out. Isabelle and Hughie were thrown against each other. Len swore and reined in the horse. He threw the reins onto the seat and climbed down.

Straightening up, Isabelle adjusted her hat, then stopped and stared. Disbelief shattered her excitement. Stench from an unseen source made her cover her nose.

The filth of the yard amazed her. Thick mud from previous rain lay inches deep and coated brickwork where it had splashed up. The whole yard seemed to be of one colour, a dirty dark grey. Age discoloured the farmhouse and only under the eaves did the true pale grey brick reveal itself. Doors hung off the outer buildings and missing slates left gaps in the roofs like a toothless mouth. Smaller farm buildings had peeling paintwork around glassless windows. Oozing straw, piled high, filled one corner of the yard and, in another corner, lay a broken wagon upon which sat a few scrawny hens.

A cat hissed from a fence post before disappearing into the wild scrubland behind the house. Almost afraid to, Isabelle turned her attention to the house and shuddered. The same decay and neglect of the yard attached itself to the house. Thick grime covered the attic’s window matching the dirt and cobwebs on the downstairs mullioned windows. Despite the ravages of disregard awarded to the house, its structure hinted at a long ago dignity. Weed infested gardens hugged the house walls and an overgrown climbing rose was so monstrous in size that its weight had made it peel back away from the house wall and hang in a massive cascade of thorny tangles.

‘Are yer getting down or what?’ Len shouted, taking the bags out of the back of the cart.

Hughie jumped down and landed in a mud puddle. Squelching with each movement, he turned and helped her down. She refused to meet his eyes.

Len thrust their bags at them and then collected the boxes of provisions. He placed the boxes on the ground in the mud. ‘Go away inside, I’ve got things to do in Hepstonstall. I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Isabelle gaped at him.

‘That’s what I said.’ He pulled himself up into the cart and then looked at Hughie. ‘See to the animals. Yer’ve got to earn yer keep or yer out!’

‘Wait!’ Isabelle struggled to gather her skirts of her best and only dress with one hand and hugged her bag to her with the other hand. ‘Can your business not wait until later? We’ve only just arrived-’

Len leaned down as far as he could and sneered in her face. ‘Don’t be thinking yer can tell me what to do just because I gave yer me name. I’m me own man and I’ll do as I please. Got it?’ He straightened up and whipped the horse forward.

Isabelle and Hughie watched him turn the horse and cart around in the confines of the yard and then trundle back out through the gates.

‘Oh Belle,’ Hughie whispered, looking at her with wide frightened eyes.

She had to be strong. She mustn’t let him see her weaken with fear. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and tossed her head. ‘Come, Hughie. Let us look inside our new home.’

He baulked. ‘You mean we are staying?’

‘Of course we are staying.’

He didn’t move when she stepped towards the house. ‘But Belle, look at this place.’

Concentrating on treading around lumps of manure and the worst of the mud, she didn’t look back at him. ‘Yes, it is not what we expected, but we’ll just have to make do for now. My husband obviously needs more help.’

Hughie muttered under his breath and trudged after her. They found the front door locked and she experienced a moment of panic of being locked out all night before deciding to go around to the back.

Their first glimpse of this part of the yard did not raise their hopes as it was in the same terrible state as the front and side yards, only difference being that the open fields beyond softened the view somewhat. A stone path partially covered by weeds led to one of the two back doors through what once must have been a kitchen garden. A clump of nettles guarded the other door, so she assumed the black painted door in front of her was the main one used by Len.

She gripped the handle and turned it. Surprisingly, it opened easily and she sagged with relief. However, her heart plummeted as she stood on the step facing a dim and grubby kitchen. It reeked of dampness. A large table littered with all sorts of tins, jars, stale food, ale bottles and utensils occupied the middle of the room.

Isabelle dumped her bag on the dusty stone-flagged floor and stepped to the range along the far wall. Cold seeped into her bones. She grimaced at the mound of ashes in the grate. Sighing, she turned and viewed the large dresser. It held little of any interest. Walking around the table, she went to the window and, using her elbow, scrubbed away a circle of grime to let in more light. It did nothing to improve the room.

‘Let us look in here.’ She indicated the room behind Hughie and he turned and followed her into the scullery. In here was the copper pot for washing, the larder and a door leading down into the black cellar. The other back door led into this room from outside.

In the kitchen once more, Isabelle hesitated. She looked through the doorway into the dark, narrow hallway. Quietness shrouded the house like a dense fog. She felt like an intruder. Biting her lip, she inched down the hallway and opened the door to the front room. After peering into its bleak coldness, Isabelle quickly closed the door. She would have a proper look later.

‘We aren’t going up there are we?’ Hughie pointed upstairs.

Isabelle took his hand, fighting off her own trepidation. ‘It’s where we are to sleep. So, I suppose we should.’ She led him up the narrow, uncarpeted staircase to the small landing above. Two doors led off the landing. Each door opened into a bedroom. One bedroom was empty; the other held a double bed, a washstand and a chest of drawers. Nothing in the room indicated that it was Len’s room. There were no personal touches, but Isabelle guessed he slept there because it held the only bed.

In the corner of the landing, a rickety ladder went up into a hole in the ceiling. Hughie climbed it first and poked his head through. ‘It’s just got some boxes and crates in it. There’s a chest in the corner and baby’s cradle.’

‘Come back down. We’ll go and light a fire. I’m fair frozen.’

In the kitchen, Isabelle took off her coat and then used the iron poker to clear the ashes to one side of the grate. ‘Find me some paper and kindling, Hughie.’

He went into the scullery and soon returned with what she needed. At first, the fire refused to blaze and smoked so badly it made her cough.

Hughie watched with a pained expression. ‘What do you want me to do, Belle?’

‘Go outside and bring those boxes in. I’ll make us a cup of tea if I can ever get this fire going.’

Once Hughie had placed the two boxes on the table, Isabelle unpacked them. The pound weight bags of sugar, tea and salt, plus small sacks of flour and oats she took and placed in the empty larder while Hughie stacked the bottles of ale.

Isabelle took the empty bucket from the scullery and went outside. The pump was near the large clump of nettles and she wondered how often Len drew water, for the path was not well used.

‘I think the chimney isn’t drawing.’ Hughie told her as she entered the kitchen with the full bucket. ‘It needs to be swept, but that’s hardly surprising is it? I doubt Mr Farrell does little around here.’

‘Shh, Hughie, we don’t know his circumstances. Best not to judge just yet.’ She filled the kettle with water and then swung it over the flames.

‘Why did you marry him, Belle? Couldn’t you have waited for someone better?’

She turned from searching in the cupboards for teacups and looked at him. On no account did she want to worry him about the extent Neville went to in frightening her. ‘Who do you think would have married me? Gentry?’

‘I’m sure it could have been someone better than Farrell. A tradesman maybe.’

‘I could have turned old and grey waiting, Hughie. I didn’t want to take the risk. I couldn’t have stayed at Matron’s much longer. She wanted me out.’

‘Mrs Peacock’s establishment wasn’t so bad was it?’

‘For me, yes it was. Neville made things difficult… Besides, you know how much the Matron and I argued.’

‘That was because you were always telling her what she needed to do to make the place run better.’

‘Well someone had to!’

‘Mother always said you were too…’ he searched for the right word, ‘ opinionated.’

‘I tried not to be.’ Isabelle shrugged. ‘Sally was the buffer between me and Matron, but once she left us… Well, never mind that now. I made my choice and I must live with it.’ Isabelle stomped into the scullery and in the large stone sink found dirty plates, cups and an iron pot. She took two chipped cups and dunked them into the water bucket and rubbed them clean. It wasn’t ideal, but quenching her thirst was more important. They’d had nothing to eat or drink since their short wedding breakfast that morning and here it was nearly sundown.