June 1887
June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hands with posies.
Thursday, June 2nd
Tizzie pothered and dithered. Difficult to keep her courage when Maggie were watching, coming after her, silent as a barn owl on the wing, turning up underfoot, in shippon and cow yard, dairy or cheese room, even in Tizzie’s own room. She’d be poking her nose round the dairy door any moment. For why? Tizzie reckoned Maggie meant to harry and distress her, to fluster her into revealing any plan she might have for St. Columba’s cake.
Tizzie nibbled her finger thoughtfully. It hurt to be dishonest, but Agnes had been done out of that Saint’s thruppence by foul means every year. She had to make a tray tip, that needed a crowd of people moving, and food being offered to ‘em all. How many people were coming to the St Columba's Eve celebration? Maggie kept close her plans, though Jack had grumbled about giving up one of the best hams. If their pride meant Maggie and Jack must offer a farmhouse tea to the vicar, his lady wife, and her professor relatives, Tizzie might get that coin on Agnes’s plate, but Maggie’d said nowt.
The cream slopped in the churn on the first turn. Tizzie swung the handle and listed off the problems. The right silver thruppence, it had to be a new shiny one, minted that year. That were fine. She’d found one last market day. She didn’t see how Maggie could tag the thruppence she used, or label it in any way. That were the first problem sorted.
The second were to see that Agnes got the money from the sale of the lambs. Maggie and Jack would try to stop it somehow. Oh, they wouldn't do it openly, no flat out refusals or loud arguments, not in front of the vicar and all those professors. Maggie’d laugh and Jack’d say, “Yes, she had the thruppence, she were lucky at last.” But Tizzie knew that that were where it would end. Getting the lass to discover the coin in public, in front of people Jack and Maggie wouldn't want thinking badly of them, that were only half the trick. The lambs had to fatten, the money from their sale had to go to Agnes where Agnes could use it. Not like Tizzie’s market money, stuck in the bank and the bank book tight in Jack’s hands. And yes, she must ask for her bank book again. Jack couldn’t keep saying he’d lost it amongst the documents in his desk and he’d find it later.
The cream thunking in the churn changed its sound. Tizzie increased the thrust of her wrist as the butter came, listening for the buttermilk to slosh. She kept her ear cocked, waiting. Two hard turns and the butter lumped, thumping the side of the tub. The remaining liquid slapped and sloshed. Mechanically Tizzie went about the lifting, squeezing out, washing and light salting. Brains and wit, that were what she needed. How she wished it were cleverness she was famous for, not butter, curds and Yorkshire cheese cake. She didn't think much of her plan, but it might work. Any road that's all she'd come up with so it'd have to do. Still she quaked, all of a tremble, imagining trying to get the coin into Agnes' slice of cake. She feared she'd do something daft, drop the coin or the plate. Even worse, how could she meet Maggie's eye without giving the game away? What she needed was the vicar's wife to ask questions and write down the answers, and the professors to overawe Jack, taking his attention. But that would be difficult because Maggie's pride were at stake. She'd want everything just so, her eyes would be everywhere, checking. Tizzie sighed again. The more she reckoned and planned the more it seemed an impossible task, but she’d do it and pray. For her lass, for Agnes.
Maggie peered in, remained standing on the threshold. “How’s the butter coming? Good. You can put that load in one of our barrels, Tizzie. Have you more to churn?”
“Nay, I’m packing curds into the cheese presses next.” Tizzie managed to meet
Maggie’s eye. “Do we need extra butter? There’s barely room to store it for I’ve filled our usual number of barrels.”
“I say we do. I’ve a mind to do more baking for the market. With Agnes finishing school we can run another market stall, send her by train to Hawes market and sell twice as much.”
Tizzie moaned inwardly, but nodded. Best not annoy Maggie now. “Do you want my Nan’s cheesecakes for St Columba’s tea?”
Silence for reply.
Tizzie stopped shaping the butter, rested the plain wooden butter hands on the lump, looked up. “Maggie, I must go out with Agnes tonight to Night School, to help finish the Jubilee costumes. If tha’s planning a grand tea for all these visitors I need to know if I’m to bake as well as put up cheeses and butter.” There it were said and said rightly. Maggie shouldn’t suspect more than that Tizzie felt tired and overworked.
Maggie’s expression flitted from anger, through annoyance, to a kind of gloating. “I’m planning a farmhouse tea for our guests. Yes, you can bake individual cheesecakes. Aggie will help you.”
Tizzie sighed, picked up the wooden butter hands, and when she looked up, Maggie had removed herself. She felt shamed of her fear, even her knees knocked. ‘Twas pure relief that Maggie’d left. A stomach full of knots and snarls had been her lot for days, and she couldn't see it getting better until Agnes had that coin.
***
St Columba’s Eve,
Wednesday, June 8th
It didn't. Tizzie, resigned to a fluttery stomach and nervous palpitations, were almost pleased when St. Columba's Eve arrived. No more waiting. A burst of morning rain freshened the sky to a real June blue. Even the sun promised to give some summer warmth. It pleased Maggie as chores needed doing swiftly and they got done on a fine day with less pother. Tizzie muttered as she scurried about. Still Maggie had the right of it, none of the visitors should find aught amiss at their farm.
Mike and Agnes, with John-Jack doing heavy lifting, were set by Maggie into a whirl of polishing and flossying up, to get table, chairs, floor and everything visible, as shiny clean as possible. Bert and Jack did the outside chores, tidied the seldom used path from the lane to the front door. They tested the gate and tightened the hinges. Then they gave the front door a few trial openings, oiled its hinges, finally swept the path again under Maggie’s severe eye.
Bert, back in the kitchen collecting a bucket of hot soapy water, gave his mother a look. “We’ll be all to cock if they come into the yard and use the farm yard door.” With rags and the bucket of hot water clutched in one hand, he bared his teeth in a kind of grimacing smile at his mother. “They’ll know we don’t use the front door.”
Maggie didn’t take that well. Tizzie soothed her wrath. “They might know, Maggie, but they’re not daft. Vicar’s lady’ll not bring her family through the yard.”
Maggie moved to reach out and clip Bert’s ear, but he’d shifted to safety behind Mike, headed towards the front hallway. “I’ll wash paint down then,” he said, and slipped away.
After their make-do, pie and a piece dinner Maggie took soap and water to the lads and reminded Bert and Jack, yet again, to change their shirts. Tizzie and Agnes escaped up the back stairs to Tizzie’s room.
“Quiet then, lass, or we’ll be called back. Didst tha iron our aprons?” Agnes pointed to them lying on Tizzie’s bed. “By, how much starch you’ve used. They’re crackling” Agnes stood her apron up by itself and they chuckled. Tizzie dressed herself in her green skirt and floral blouse before easing Agnes into her Sunday frock.
“Eh, lass, that collar’s so firm it’ll cut your shoulders, but thy apron strings will make a beautiful bow. Stop fidgeting and let me set it straight. There, that’s pretty. Now let’s twist those plaits up.” Agnes lifted up her head. “That’s better.” Tizzie pinned firmly, then tied the ribbons and let her go. Her own hair she’d twisted and coiled after milking, she merely damped stray wisps with a dab of rose water on her fingers and tucked them away.
Agnes tried to see her bow in the looking glass, squirming to peer over first one shoulder then the other. Tizzie grasped her by the hands and pulled her close. “Listen well, lass. Look at me. Art tha hearing me?” Agnes nodded, eyes growing larger, darker with worry. “Whatever happens with that silver thruppence, if we do distract your Mam so that I can take the tray of slices and muddle ‘em round, you must be careful not to cry out nor crow. Do you understand?”
“Yes, we mustn’t let Mam know you’ve done owt. She mustn’t have a chance to cry cheat or say we did wrong.”
“Good lass, you’ve the right of it. So don’t look at me. Don’t watch me. Speak to vicar and his lady. Offer to answer questions for these professors. But when you receive your piece of St Columba’s cake, you break it apart hopefully. And don’t....”
“I know! I ken, I ken, Auntie Tiz, what you’ve said. ‘Don’t crow nor cry.’ I won’t.”
Tizzie hugged Agnes, enveloping her in a close embrace. Agnes wrapped her arms round Tizzie’s waist and squeezed. “I’ll do my best, lass, but don’t hope too much, just be careful and sneck your tongue tight.” Tizzie pressed a kiss on the top of Agnes’s head and released her. Agnes raised a face full of expectation, eyes shining with affection. Tizzie swallowed the lump in her throat, kissed Agnes’s forehead. “Let’s pray all goes well, lass.”
“Tizzie, get thasen down here, and bring that lass.” Jack’s bellow startled them both. They hurried to comply.
Jack and Bert stood, hands scrubbed pink and smelling of Maggie’s best soap, faces new shaved, in the front hallway. Tizzie sniffed, the front hallway still smelled a little musty, the air stale from being unmoved, but the washed paint and polished floor smell nearly overpowered it. Mike and John-Jack, Jack said, stood as lookouts by the window in their bedroom. Maggie called, wanting Tizzie and Agnes in the kitchen for last moment orders. They had barely turned to go when Mike yelled. “They’re coming.” Feet pounded overhead.
John-Jack racketed down the stairs first, his feet slipping and sliding as he descended. “Mam, It’s His Lordship, His Lordship’s come.”
Mike, coming after, pushed through to his mother’s side. “There’s two full carriages and Sir Charles’s driving the first.”
That caused a flutter, Jack swore and Maggie raged, Tizzie winced, hiding her delight. These extra uninvited guests would help her arrangements. Sir Charles had the right to come any time, for he were their landlord, and if he saw Agnes get that coin Jack’d have to watch it.
Everyone rushed to see. Agnes sent Tizzie a quick excited glance. Tizzie frowned her down. Maggie, grumbling and complaining, arranged the family in the front hallway as Jack opened the front door.
Tizzie peered between Maggie and Jack. It were an open carriage His Lordship drove. Grand way Sir Charles had with his horses, high light hands, easy on their mouths, and the horses’ heads free of bearing reins. And what a fine matched pair of Cleveland Bays he had pulling the carriage too, moved like the wind over grass, manes flowing, feet floating. He swung them in to draw up beside the gate as neat and nice as could be. The following carriage were driven by...must be a visitor, for he weren’t the coachman or head groom. Handsome Cleveland Bays harnessed to that carriage as well, it pulled in behind the first near as tidily. He were another considerate driver. The grooms jumped down and ran to the horses’ heads. The gentlemen handed out the ladies, Sir Charles lifting his wife down with a delicate touch. Lady Esther, blushing and protesting gently, still did not look to be carrying a child. Tizzie felt her stomach lurch, tried to keep her fingers out of her best apron pocket, away from her hidden thruppence. Agnes trembled beside her. “Easy, lass,” she whispered.
Maggie, with a gasp, pushed Bert. “Open gate for ‘em, lad,” she hissed. Bert flushed up, didn’t move, scowled at his mother. His father reached out to cuff him, but Tizzie, slipping along behind Bert, tweaked his elbow, gave him a little shove, and he went. He strode to the gate, opening it as Sir Charles and Lady Esther reached it. Jack pushed Mike and John-Jack behind him into the narrow hallway and stepped forward to welcome them. Maggie stood with him.
Tizzie tipped her head at Agnes. “Back off a bit, lass,” she whispered. They retreated to the kitchen doorway, trading a couple of glances. “Now then, Agnes, remember.” Agnes nodded. Tizzie found her fingers worrying away again at the coin in her apron pocket. She mustn’t do that, but what to do with her hands she couldn’t think. Eh, she were in a tiz. She’d just have to twine her fingers tight and hold them together.
The visitors crowded in, moving down the hallway with each new person’s entrance, politely thanking Maggie for the opportunity to watch her bake St Columba’s cake, and including Jack, thanking him for his generous hospitality. Even the smell of polish and washed paint didn’t hide the scent of Sir Charles’s pomade, an expensive one Tizzie thought she could smell beeswax and a spicy lemon scent something like her pickled lemons. Lady Esther trailed a thread of her favourite floral scent, soft tones of meadowsweet and honeysuckle, reminding Tizzie of summer evenings, but the professors brought the scent of starch and Wright’s Coal Tar Soap, not hair pomade. The hallway, filling with people accompanied by those rich scents, and the sounds of silk rustling and fine worsted coats sliding over starched shirt fronts, made Tizzie shy. “Come away, lass, ” she whispered. She and Agnes bobbed and backed into the kitchen, but the crowd followed, pressing them further down the length of the room.
Mrs Holbrooke introduced her father, Professor Melliot, and her youngest brother, Professor James Melliot to Maggie and Jack. Eh, they were a pair, stick tall and that thin. White hair and dark hair were only way Tizzie could tell t’other from which. They had notebooks just like Mrs Holbrooke carried. Tizzie checked, saw the vicar’s lady had her notebook ready too. Oh, please, Lord God, let them, let those professors, distract, so she could slip the coin into Agnes’s bit of oatcake unseen.
Lady Esther joined Mrs Holbrooke. She noticed Agnes, gave her a smile. “Are you ready to help?”
Agnes bobbed her head. “Yes, m’lady.”
Good lass, that’s it, answer their questions, encourage more. Tizzie laced her fingers together behind her back and wondered what Maggie were doing disappearing into the scullery when all ingredients were ready on the small table they’d brought in for the cake mixing.
Sir Charles and the vicar stood with Jack and Bert near the big window. Hay, Tizzie heard, that’s what had them talking, prospects of the year's haymaking. The men's tongues set wagging, their attention on the vital matter of winter fodder, they were distracted already. But Tizzie only had eyes for Maggie, arriving in a fuss and bustle, hands new washed, best apron blued to a blinding white. She began showing how the oatcake ingredients were measured out and mixed. Pencils scribbled, questions asked. The why questions flummoxed Maggie, but Agnes, oh she were a quick lass, helped in such a clever way. “Mam told me,” she’d say. Everyone watched the coin dropped into the lumpy batter. Agnes exhaled loudly. Tizzie's stomach knotted itself up again and her fingers wandered back into her pocket.
“Are you hoping to find the coin, Agnes?” That were Mrs Holbrooke.
“Oh yes, m'am, I've never had it yet. All my brothers have, but not me.”
Professor Melliot began talking about Beltane bannocks, Quarter cakes, teething bannocks and Tizzie knew not what else. Mrs Holbrooke and her brother joined in. The questions from the four adults popped out around Maggie like roasting chestnuts, she’d no sooner answered one than another burst forth to be answered. The professors questioned keenly and wrote long words on their pages. The ladies chatted away. Maggie, flushed up, looking flattered, answered as best she could.
Behind her Tizzie heard Bert talking about growing cabbage as winter feed for those extra cows Jack meant to give her and Agnes. Jack nay-sayed him, but Sir Charles, arguing for cabbages and mangel worzels, did not. Mike and John-Jack stood either side of their Da, who had a hand on each shoulder. No cheek or pushiness allowed under his weighty hand, they must answer the vicar straight about their school work. Beside her Lady Esther made a kindly comment to Maggie about Agnes being a good helpful daughter. Agnes bobbed another little curtsy. Tizzie caught Maggie swallowing a scowl, hid her smile carefully as she bustled off to do her part. Now she could get near the cake. She showed the bundles of rowan and oak twigs to make the fire under the bakestone, arranged them carefully to light swiftly and so warm evenly. When everyone had seen and questioned she set them alight.
“Ah!” exclaimed the professors, “rowan and oak. Perhaps a sign of an ancient pagan tradition carried through to today?” Mrs Holbrooke joined the debate and they bickered gently, missing Maggie’s affronted face and stiffening posture.
“Does the smell tell you it’s baked?” Mrs Holbrooke scented the air as she spoke.
Tizzie intervened. Maggie’s jaw, stiff with indignation over her St Columba’s celebration being called pagan, didn’t bend readily to speech. “Aye, but first we wait for the smell from bakestone to say it’s ready. They have a certain smell when they’re hot enough.”
Lady Esther came to sniff. She and Mrs Holbrooke exchanged looks and laughed at each other. “We’re like hound puppies,” Lady Esther said.
The bakestone impressed the professors, who wanted to know if Maggie made her havercakes on it. The ladies laughed some more, teasing the professors for their lack of culinary knowledge. Tizzie felt her heart flutter and bump. Eh, how long it took for that stone to warm when everyone waited on it. Now she must ready herself to do the first bit of her task. Maggie poured then scraped the batter from the bowl. Tizzie moved behind Maggie and reached round her to remove the empty bowl from her hand. Maggie, answering the professors, and, with Mrs Holbrooke, explaining about griddles and bakestones, barely noticed. Tizzie turned away, carried the bowl through to the sink in the scullery, scraping her coin round the bowl, to make it sticky with the remnants of batter, when she knew she were clear of watching eyes. Behind her talk flew from bannocks to Yorkshire oat cakes, how they differed from havercake and why griddle scones baked best on a griddle and bannock on a bakestone. Tizzie eased the sticky coin into her pocket again, between the folds of her handkerchief. If it stuck to the front of her pocket Maggie’d spot the mark. Better to hope the hanky stopped that happening, like she planned. Fingers fumbling, Tizzie finally flicked it into place.
The men came closer to see the oatcake and watch it cooking. Tizzie counted heads. Where was that Mike lad? Ah yes, he and John-Jack stood by the vicar, Jubilee talk this time, the pageant. Sir Charles held Jack in some serious conversation, Jack’s brow furrowed like a new ploughed field, he cocked his ear towards Sir Charles. Sir Charles shook his head, and his hand smacked the air, emphasising some special point.
Please, Lord, don’t let him be ranting about Agnes again. And help my bonnie lass. Look at her, so attentive beside the professors, her eyes fixed firmly on their notebooks.
The smell of bake stone and cooking oatcake drifted upward with the smoke from the hearth, dispersed through the kitchen. Tizzie sniffed. Aye, it’s cooking well, smelt good. She stood back, keeping clear of Maggie’s performance. Lady Esther caught her eye, smiled. Tizzie nodded politely, waiting, watching and waiting.
Maggie, using a skewer, not her fingers, tested and retested. “It’s done,” she said, and flipped the flat oatcake onto the marked wooden platter. The visitors peered at it. Even Maggie’d say it were nothing special to look at, and where had she hidden that coin? How’d she know where? Tizzie gripped her fingers tightly to stop them fidgeting back into her apron pocket. She edged in behind Maggie, ready to seize any opportunity. Then, oh disaster, Maggie didn’t cut the cake into slices there on the little table. Tizzie had planned to sneak the coin in to Agnes’s piece as she carried plates from the hearth to the big table. How could she get that coin into a slice at the big table under all those watching eyes?
Tizzie despaired. “Shan’t you cut it here?” She whispered the words directly at Maggie, who ignored her. “Maggie....” but Maggie sought her children.
“Cake’s ready, lads.” ‘Twasn’t often Maggie used that tone at home, her Sunday chapel voice, Agnes called it. Bert thrust Mike and John-Jack forward, aiming them between the adults. They wound their way through to join Agnes. John-Jack received the platter, raised it to chin height, and led the procession to the big table.
Usually everyone sang an old version of St. Columba's hymn, the words in Gaelic, somewhat muddled, but Maggie weren’t having any raucous chanting. ‘Christ Is the World’s Redeemer’ was a more modern and respectable version and she’d sergeant-majored it into Mike and John-Jack until they’d got the words, if not the tune. Agnes sang tunefully, keeping them mostly right as they escorted the cake, singing the first verse only.
The long planked table, made by Granddad’s Da, hid its marks and scars under Maggie's damask linen cloth. Both ends of the table bore a platter of ham and one of pickled beef, a board of Tizzie’s hard and soft cheeses, a basket of fresh baps, a plate of scones, and a breadboard with a fat farmhouse cob waiting to be sliced. The centre remain bare, waiting for the cake. It looked...“Most generous, a most lavish tea,” as the vicar said, but Tizzie knew how thinly the meat had been sliced and artfully arranged. Her butter, clotted cream, and individual cheesecakes filled the spaces, along with the best of the jams and preserves carefully ladled into Maggie's precious glass scallop dishes. The flowers, posies of wild ones from the valley, did look grand in the old brown cream jugs. Tizzie had rushed them in when Maggie weren’t looking, ready to take the blame if there were trouble, though Agnes had picked them. Aye, it all looked well.
The guests were generous with their praise. “A real Yorkshire farm tea, there's none better.” Sir Charles inclined his head to Maggie, whose cheeks mottled crimson with pride. Jack's jacket lapels spread farther apart and his chin rose.
“If you’d care to speak a grace for us, Vicar,” Jack said, “we’d be honoured.”
“It would be my pleasure. I sought out a special one for the occasion.” The vicar folded his hands, closed his eyes and began. Tizzie smiled. Vicar had a way with words, rolling ‘em out all round and clear. It were a fine prayer about St. Columba and his goodness. The Amens died, heads raised, eyes opened and focussed upon Maggie, who ceremoniously drew the knife across the surface of the oat cake, marking the sections. Agnes closed her eyes again, lips moving silently. Tizzie kept her lips still and her eyes open, but prayed fervently, Oh dear Lord, help me make it right this time for Agnes, please.
Maggie cut the cake slowly, cautiously, sliding each slice onto a plate without touching it, placing the plates on three small serving trays. She still had everything tightly under her control. Tizzie, hands behind her back, twisted one apron string round her fingers. Maggie’d carry the trays and serve the company, she’d never get a chance to slip in Agnes’s coin. She had to move, do something to upset a tray. Maggie took up the first tray, walked over to the ladies, bobbed her head, and served Lady Esther a slice first, the vicar's lady next. Tizzie smoothed down her apron skirt, hand ready to dart into her pocket. The three slices on the other tray had to be for the children. Maggie must know, must have marked the cake somehow. If Tizzie could just get hold of...then Jack, Jack of all of ‘em, he who never did women’s stuff, stepped in. He lifted the tray, grinned at Agnes, John-Jack and Mike sitting straight on their stools, turned and addressed the ladies.
“It's more bread than cake. Tastes better with our Tiz's clotted cream and a bit o' jam.” He nodded at Bert. “You offer them to the ladies and gentlemen, son. I’ll take these round to the bairns.”
Bert, still testy, feeling his oats a bit, slowly, reluctantly, moved. Tizzie watched Jack. He knew where that coin lay hidden. Maggie had set it up somehow. Which of those three slices were the one? She moved towards him.
Maggie, distracted by Bert, and obviously anxious for all to be neat and polite in front of the gentry, spoke sharply as she hurried to serve the gentlemen. “Use the bread platter, Bert, arrange a selection of preserves and jams, and the cream on it for the ladies.”
Bert scowled, gathered up a couple of dishes, found himself with hands full and nowhere to empty them.
Tizzie, edging close for a chance to get at Jack and his tray, could have kissed Bert. “Here, lad, put ‘em on this.” She reached out for the nearest platter of bread, putting herself between Bert and the table, moving him backwards into Jack’s path. Jack had to step sideways and walk round him to reach the bairns. Tizzie slid the loaf from one platter onto the other, thrust the platter at Bert, forcing him to step back again. Jack, negotiating around them, bumped shoulders with his son.
Maggie, watching Bert from the corner of her eye, obviously thinking he’d do it all wrong, twisted her head to glare at him, jerked her tray and caught a corner of it in her apron bib. It jolted upwards sharply, tipped. The plates began a slow slide towards the lowered end, unbalancing it further. Jack stretched out an arm to support the sloping edge of Maggie’s tray, leaving his own tray balanced on the flat of his hand. This were it. Tizzie took her chance, scurried to help. Bert reached out at the same time and they both bumped into Jack. His tray slid off his hand. Tizzie fumbled, grasped, then caught it.
Thank God! Quick, serve it up. She made to fetch the coin from her pocket as she turned her back on the confusion, but a jutting semicircle on the edge of the middle slice of cake caught her eye. She stretched her thumb to touch it, scratched it with her nail. It were Saint Columba’s silver thruppence, all covered in cake, it had been baked then. How did Maggie...enough dithering. She must rush. A quick glance over her shoulder showed Jack, Maggie and Bert busy untangling themselves and trying not to shake the tray contents to bits.
“I’m coming, Maggie,” she called as she pinched the middle slice so that it crumbled and hid the coin again. She rushed to where the bairns waited, the lads standing, watching Bert and Jack trying to level the tray. She whisked the end plates of cake before the boys. “Here, lads, your cake.” Agnes reached up to take her plate. “You don’t mind the broken piece, do you lass?” Tizzie gave her the plate and whisked back to Bert and Jack. “Let me,” she said, grasping the tray. “There now, Maggie, it’s all safe.”
Maggie, mortified, looked at the mess of plates and crumbled cake, then glared at Tizzie. Tizzie stepped back, lowering her gaze. Praise the Lord Maggie’s not able to speak her mind in front of this grand company. She’s dying to tell everyone off. I hope that lass keeps mum a while.
Maggie wrung her hands in the skirt of her fine linen apron, her face purple as her Victoria plums. The ladies came to her rescue with soothing remarks. The gentlemen apologised for overcrowding her and causing confusion. Mrs Holbrooke praised Tizzie's rescue.
“We can still have a morsel to taste,” the Professor remarked, hoping to console.
Tizzie, inspired, seized her chance. “Don’t fret, Maggie. I'll cut out little rounds, like scones, and serve them with cream and your blackcurrant jelly. Come wi’me and lend a hand, Agnes.” She moved off with the tray, and then, only then, did she dare glance at Agnes. “Agnes?”
All eyes turned towards Agnes. She sat spine straight, head raised, with such a smile lighting up her face she glowed like the midday sun. Between her finger and thumb she held a silver threepence. She only spoke when she saw she had the adults’ attention. “It was in my slice. I’ve found it. Saint Columba’s coin. It’s mine.”
It were genuine delight, Tizzie knew, which sent the ladies rustling across with kind words. Just as well, for Mike jerked upright, face white, eyes dark holes, mouth opening wide to let out one of his roars. John-Jack intervened, made as if to put his arm round Mike’s shoulders in commiseration, but actually twisted his brother to face him, at the same time pulling him away from the ladies. He also stuffed the slice of cake into Mike’s mouth. Mike tried to roar round it, spitting and spluttering. “Easy, lad, tha’s choking, come away,” John-Jack soothed, and dragged his brother out to the scullery. He did it all so quick and certain Tizzie were sure no one had noticed Mike’s real condition ‘cept herself, and his Mam, of course. Aye, John-Jack were quick witted like his sister. Oh, there’d be trouble later, but now it were enough to let the visitors congratulate Agnes and establish the lambs as hers.
“I am delighted you found the coin, Agnes, you deserve the good fortune.” Lady Esther told Agnes. She were an’ all, smiling and placing a hand on Agnes’s shoulder.
The vicar spoke to Jack. “How many lambs will this most fortunate young lady be given?”
Tizzie watched Jack cautiously from the corner of her eye. Jack cast a glance at Maggie, saw Sir Charles and Lady Esther, the professors, the vicar and his wife all looking his way and gave in. “Upwards of thirty, Vicar, it were a good crop of lambs this year.”
More like forty and more, but thirty’d do for Agnes if Tizzie could manage the money side after their sale.
Agnes beamed and bobbed, polite as could be, stuttering and stammering over and over. “Thank you, thank you. Oh, I can’t believe I've found St Columba's lucky coin at last.”
“Well, Agnes, if you rear the lambs well,” Sir Charles said, “I shall buy them from you. Your father always breeds good sheep and I will need more sheep this year. Let me know when they’re ready, and I’ll make you an offer.”
Tizzie kept her face still. That were a wonder, such an offer, and one which Jack could not get round. Agnes would have a fair chance now of seeing some real money from those lambs. Maggie hid her present anger well, but there’d be hell raised tonight. How could she spare Agnes, and herself, the storm of reproaches? She wiped down her tray and arranged the individual cheesecakes on it. A little distraction might help. If she could keep the visitors talking and eating, Maggie and Jack might realise they could not stop Agnes benefiting when four of the visitors lived in the community, and were around to see what happened. She carried the tray carefully over to the ladies and stopped half way through offering Lady Esther a cheesecake. They were safe, Agnes and she, nay, not wholly safe, but at least fairly safe, for Maggie and Jack didn’t know she knew about their cheating. And they didn’t think Agnes knew either. They might suspect, but if she and the lass could act innocent, and Bert and John-Jack kept their mouths snecked up tight, they’d muddle through without too much torment. Her knees wobbled with relief.
“Yes, I am allowed to eat one of your cheesecakes, Tizzie Cawthra, please don’t hover with those delicious dainties in front of me.” Tizzie bobbed her head and allowed herself a broad smile for Lady Esther. There might be tantrums, but nothing direct, not tonight, from Maggie and Jack. Thank God. She’d warn the lass to stick by her these next few days. Let that brother of hers cool his temper before he found Agnes on her own. There’d be a storm from that lad, but if Maggie and Jack had time to think then Mike’d not have much support in his tormenting.
***
Sunday, June 12th
The storm blew in after Sunday’s Jubilee Rehearsal. Agnes’s birthday it might be but no one made a fuss about it. Tizzie had sewn a summer frock and fancy apron for the lass, not a Sunday Best one but not a workday one either. “Something pretty for you, lass.” Agnes had tried it on immediately, trotted off to the rehearsal wearing it and a broad smile.
“Where’s Agnes?” Tizzie, counting heads as the bairns left the church, stopped her nephews.
“Schoolmaster and vicar’s lady wanted her a moment.” John-Jack shoved Mike on ahead. “She’ll not be dallying, she knows she’s milking.”
“Aye, and tha’s helping too, both of you, I’ve curds to cut and presses to turn, cheese making’s heaviest this month. I need some help.”
“Nay, don’t get tetchy, Auntie Tiz, we ken we’ve to carry milk and clean up. I’ll even milk if that’ll keep you getting narky and glumpish.” John-Jack gave her a cheeky grin and raced after Mike.
Her? Peevish and grumpy? Tizzie shook her head. That lad, he’d enough brass to outface the Queen. Well, she couldn’t wait, cows needed milking and Mike’d gone up ahead. Agnes knew to come straight to her and avoid the lad so she’d best get on. She walked briskly after the lads.
If only Maggie and Jack spoke their plans out loud. She and Agnes had been eavesdropping. Nay, she didn’t regret doing it even though she knew it were wrong. She’d said her prayers over it and asked forgiveness. She had to know what they planned to do now Agnes had the lambs. Mike made it plain he were vexed, but his Mam had some hold on him as yet. They were waiting. For no reason Tizzie could think of.
It were good that June and July were the busiest farming months. It meant mischief making were difficult. Tizzie took the short cut across Ivy’s orchard and scrambled over her wall into the farm lane. Oh, Mike glowered and sulked at Agnes every moment he saw her, but he’d not flown at her yet. She’d been watching. Jack had said nowt, too busy fixing up with the neighbours about who had and hadn’t washed sheep, and who were clipping them first with which gang. Shearing gangs needed feeding too, which kept Maggie, and thus Tizzie, busy. Then it were a question of who had labour for hay making and who needed extra this year, specially with this warm moist spell coaxing new growth from the hay meadows. Nay, Jack were throng with farming problems. Maggie had the summer fruit to preserve, the shearers’ meals, and the final sheep clipping supper to fix, day labourers to feed, and the demands of the market stall, heaviest in June and July with the summer visitors to the Dales plus the Jubilee celebrations. All that surely must give Agnes and herself a peaceful spell.
Tizzie reached the cow yard and saw the cows lining up, heard the youngest calves bawling yet for their Mams, though only because they’d seen them walking past their paddock. Tizzie shook out her skirt, hitched up the hem clear of her ankles and went to wash at the pump. She’d just time to check the cheese presses before letting the cows through to the shippon. As she swung the pump handle Bert plummeted down from the hay loft into the yard beside her.
“Eh, lad, tha startled me. Let the cows in for me, please. Help me out like a kind lad. I’ve cheese presses to turn. Mind the bull, he’s a bit testy with all the work he’s been doing.”
Bert sniggered. “Lucky him, eh, Aunt? I’ll cart water for you an’ all if you’ll sew the buttons back on my Sunday shirt.”
“Gladly, Bert. What’ve you been doing that tha durstn’t ask that of your Mam?”
Bert winked and strode off.
Tizzie watched for a moment. Maggie’d skin him if he’d been tom catting with Ivy’s lass. Tizzie huffed a sigh and walked into the dairy. Bert were heading for a battle with his Mam, and Maggie didn’t know. He weren’t her little nipper any longer. If only she’d let him have a longer rein, he’d be more willing. Still, no use fretting, Maggie’d never heed her words and she’d only five minutes to work the cheese presses.
She’d barely touched the first press when the uproar began. She paused...now what...she listened with half an ear. The rising yowl, like the noise from the barn cats having a spat, stopped. Into the silence came feet pounding, flying over cobbles, up near the stables it sounded. Happen ‘twere the lads, but they were supposed to be at the shippon starting the milking. Tizzie took her eye off the pressure gauge, stopped the last turn of the handle, listening. The cheese’d survive a few moments longer without her. She ran to the door. As she tugged it open she heard yells and a scream. She’d been waiting for this. That Mike, he’d cornered Agnes. Tizzie fled.
She heard John-Jack and Bert following behind, their boots clattering up the yard. The house door thudded open, Maggie or Jack out to see what the noise were about, but Tizzie arrived first.
She’d guessed well, ‘twere Mike and he were laying into the lass. They were behind the stables and Mike had his little sister by her hair.
“They’re my lambs, Mam said, meant for me.” He twisted Agnes’s hair with one hand and slapped ferociously wherever he could reach, mainly her head and back. Agnes, struggling, kicking and scratching, screamed again. Mike slapped her mouth. “Say they’re mine. I want ‘em and you’ll give them to me. Mam’ll make you.”
“Tha great lump. Bray lads your own size, you big bully.” Tizzie grabbed his hair, yanked his striking arm back. He let go of Agnes with a bellow just like his Da’s, stamped on Tizzie’s feet, then kicked her legs.
Tizzie dodged the kicks. “Adone do, lad or I’ll make you right sore.” She shook his head hard, jerking him by his hair. Mike roared, and slammed his elbow back, catching her in the stomach. Tizzie gasped, doubled over, and loosened her grip.
Mike twisted round, and punched his aunt right on her chin. “You gave her the coin, Auntie Tiz. It’s all your fault.” He punched again.
Agnes screamed and attacked him as Tizzie fell.
Mike swung back to her, fists raised, but Bert collared him, digging his knuckles in his brother’s neck, choking him. John-Jack caught Agnes, slid his hands under her armpits, lifted her gently, swinging her to safety away from Mike as Maggie arrived. She anxiously bent over to aid Tizzie.
Jack, last to come, heaved Tizzie to her feet. “See what’s come of you meddling,” he said as Tizzie staggered and held on to him. Maggie hushed him.
Agnes sobbed and sobbed, John-Jack, face whitewash white, had his arm around her, patting down her torn hair and staring at her bruised, bloody face.
Mike, puce of face, shaking with anger, spitting with rage, shouted to Maggie. “Make her give me the lambs, Mam. You said you’d see to it.” Bert shook him. Maggie tushed, staring at Agnes’s bloody mess of a face.
Tizzie opened her mouth a little way, most carefully, touched her chin. Aye, her jaw did hurt, and a tooth, too. Dots of light danced in front of her eyes. She blinked and focussed on Agnes. Nay, her face weren’t badly marked, wash the blood away, stop her nose bleeding, and she’d look almost as usual. But by, that lad needed schooling, and his Mam wouldn’t be doing it. Ah, but there was one who would. She’d heard him on the topic of hitting girls before now. “Schoolmaster’s going to thrash thee, lad,” she mumbled round the soreness.
Maggie prickled up like a hedgepig. “That he shan’t. Aggie shall stay home until her bruises mend.”
“But Mam...” at her look John-Jack clamped his mouth tight over any more words, sent a frantic appeal to his big brother.
“It’s the Jubilee, Mam.” Bert pushed Mike at his Mam. Maggie’s arm slid around Mike’s shoulders, gripping him tightly. “Agnes is Brittania, a big part to play, and she helps the little bairns as well. She can’t miss a day. Schoolmaster must see her face and have his say.” He shook Mike’s shoulder. “You’d best be sorry or he’ll make thee.”
“Our Aggie?” Maggie’s voice rose. “Why does she have an important place? She’s not going teaching, she’s leaving soon.”
Bert looked down, full into Maggie’s face, his eyes not at all respectful, scornful more like. Maggie seemed not to notice, were she blind? “Happen ‘cos she is leaving, Mam. All t’village knows what the schoolmaster and His Lordship would have her be. They think you right fools to take her out of school now and anger His Lordship so. Specially after his offer in church. All that money she could earn. Village isn’t best pleased with us Cawthras.”
Now it were Jack bawling out. “Watch your mouth, lad. If Tizzie hadn’t given the coin to Agnes....”
Tizzie pushed her brother’s arm off, supported herself. “I gave no coin to Agnes. I didn’t know where the coin was.” She held her jaw tenderly and frowned. “I watched Maggie drop it in the mixture. Did you know, Jack? Didst tha think to cheat to get Mike the lambs?” Tizzie managed to speak clearly though it made her face ache.
Jack’s mouth flapped like the hay loft trap door, open and close, open and close. His face mottled, his voice echoed over the valley. “Don’t you be brangling wi’ me, Tizzie Cawthra. Mike gets those lambs. Lasses don’t need brass in t’bank. Our Aggie shouldn’t have got ‘em.”
This was it, a chance to seize and make Jack and Maggie think twice before taking the lambs away. “Our lass’ll not give them away to Mike after what he’s just done. And think on, brother, His Lordship saw her find the coin. Lady Esther saw, and the vicar and his lady. They all spoke to Agnes. They know she wanted the coin. They’ll not believe she gave the lambs willingly to Mike.” Tizzie put both hands on either side of her jaw. She hoped Mike’s head felt near to bursting, too. She thought wearily of all the days ahead with Maggie needling Agnes, haggling over every thing the lass did or tried to do. Maggie had a streak of meanness sharper than petty spite and it could wear holes through rock.
John-Jack half carried Agnes over to Tizzie. “If Aggie and you want to tend your faces, Aunt Tizzie, I’ll start milking.” He darted glances at his Mam and Dad. “Happen Bert and Mike can help an’ all.”
Tizzie’s arms reached round Agnes’s shoulders. “Nay, lass, weep no more. I’ve arnica, a comfrey salve for bruises, and lavender water for our heads.” She raised her own throbbing head with a wince. “Well, Maggie, are you milking? For Agnes and I will not.”
Maggie gave them both a stiff nod. Jack spluttered, began to raise his voice in a bellow. Maggie laid a hand on his arm, pinching so tightly he startled and closed his mouth.
As she led Agnes up the yard Tizzie wished she had ears like a hare. She’d give much to know what Maggie’d be saying to Jack and to Mike. She foresaw more deceit needed to find out, plus eavesdropping for a whole basketful of new problems, but the lambs would stay with Agnes, at least for now.
***
Monday, June 20th
Problems there had been, but today were village Jubilee Day and the promise of that day had kept Agnes from fretting over much. Poor little lass. She’d be coming to warm her feet in a moment. Tizzie peered at the early morning light then snuggled her patchwork quilt up to her ears. For may be a minute she could shut her eyes and pretend all were fine and dandy. June 21st tomorrow. Linden Hall’s Jubilee. Another year half done, aye, and her still trying to catch it by the tail and slow it down. If only Maggie’d ease off, but she never let up. It were hard on all the bairns, but worse for Agnes. “Do this, do that. Fetch this, fetch that. Do it again. Do it right, you useless lump.” And she were over-free with that hard hand of hers. Tizzie flung off the coverlet in a fret. She couldna shield the lass all the time. Oh, she helped her out as much as possible, and Mike stood off. Schoolmaster’d lammed him right well and his brothers kept him in sight. Agnes were safe with them, for they’d not let Mike shame them again.
The door latch clicked. Agnes poked her head round the door. “Weather might hold fine, Auntie Tiz. There’s enough blue showing.” She pattered, bare foot, across the floor and bounced onto the bed. Her hair, falling out of its bedtime plait, straggled over one shoulder and strands tickled her face. “Milking, check calves, feed pigs, all to do. Can we start now. I’m fair bursting to finish and get ready.”
Tizzie sighed. “What a horse’s mane you have. I can’t see a face.” She twitched the thickest strands of hair away over Agnes’s shoulder. “There now, lass. We must rush to be ready. Shall we pretty ourselves up here before we go?”
Agnes laughed. “No, vicar’s lady wants to do me up special. I’m going to look right queer as Britannia, hair all flattened and tucked up short under the helmet.” She laughed again, slid her cold feet under the sheet, pressing them against Tizzie’s leg to make her jump.
The door clicked open. “I thought I’d find you two here. I want a word.” Tizzie and Agnes scrambled out from the bed clothes, sat up, feet on the floor. Maggie walked in, lips pulled up in that smile. It boded ill.
Agnes shivered closer to Tizzie. Tizzie lifted her head, eyed Maggie. She knew that tone of voice, all sweet on top and rock hard underneath, like a week-old, iced bun. Maggie might be look sugary, but she were granite underneath.
“Your lambs, Agnes.”
Tizzie found Agnes’s hand on the quilt and pressed down firmly.
Agnes curled her fingers under Tizzie’s hand, in response. “Yes, Mam?”
“You won’t mind letting me have a couple for the shearer’s supper and the Hay’s Home feast will you?” Her tone said clearly what would happen if Agnes nay-sayed her.
Agnes glowered. “How many?”
“Three or four.”
Aye, and happen she means more, Tizzie thought. And she remembered what the shearers and sheep men always said. “Why not a pig this year. That’s what the men prefer after all those sheep. We usually give them belly pork and chap hams.”
“The pigs, Tiz are for selling. We need money. The lambs....”
Tizzie gathered her courage, it were now or never, and there’d been too much never in her life. “Why do we need money, so much money?” Tizzie wrinkled up her brow, tried to look thoughtful like the schoolmaster did. “What’s all this money for? We make money on market day and you don’t pay wages to servants, nor us family. That’s saving money. There’s milk and cheese money, corn and hay money, sheep and wool money, pig and calf money. Where’s it all go?” She dared a glare in Maggie’s direction.
“Now, Tiz, you haven’t a head for figures even if I explained to you. All those expenses this farm has.”
“What expenses?” Tizzie made herself ask. “I helped my Mam keep my Da’s accounts and I’ve a fair idea.”
Maggie looked, one of her scathing scouring looks. “That’s for me to know and you to mind your own business.”
Tizzie opened her mouth, but Maggie raised her voice, spoke over her.
“Four lambs we need, Agnes. It is right and proper that you should share your luck with the family.” The tooth edged smile flashed again. And to reinforce the smile came words. First time Tizzie’d heard Maggie come right out and say what she intended for them without cloaking it round, and softening it. “You finish with schooling, Aggie, in July, and there’s an end to it. You’ll learn with Aunt Tizzie in the dairy. No more thoughts of school. Until you’re of age what your Da and I say goes.”
Agnes exploded. “I’m going to Night School.”
Maggie shook her head. “You’ll do as you’re told. Work hard, mind your manners, and maybe you can go, but only if I say.”
Tizzie grabbed Agnes, held her back by her nightdress, heard the words before she knew it was herself saying them. “Two lambs only, Maggie, or His Lordship’ll learn about it. And Night School, you’d best let her attend. I’ll be going. They’ll look for her and wonder. His Lordship....”
“She is my daughter not his.” The edge to Maggie’s voice could have clipped the wool off a sheep’s back. “And if you think to leave us, Tiz, remember this, there isn’t any hope that Aggie will be allowed to come to you or visit you. You’ll not see her. If you want to help her you must stay here. The two of you together. That’s what we all want. Then Aggie can be dairymaid for her brother, on his farm.” Maggie reached out and tapped Agnes hard on the cheek. “If you, lass, make a fuss and loose your tongue outside these walls, you will lose all. Be warned, Aggie Cawthra.”
Tizzie beat Agnes into speech. “It’s Mike that flaps his tongue outside and at school. He’s never learnt to sneck up. Agnes says nowt.”
Maggie’s eyebrows rose. “If Mike chatters then I’ll see he learns to say naught,” she turned and left them.
Tizzie held on to Agnes, hand over the lass’s mouth, as she listened to the footsteps tapping down the stairs. Into the quiet she counted out fifty softly before releasing her hand. “Hush now, let’s be sure your Mam’s gone.” She used a thread of voice and watched Agnes’s eyes until she saw comprehension and a promise of silence. She’d expected outrage and fury to express itself, waited for the fuss, but Agnes held up her hand, thumb flattened against her palm.
“Four years,” she whispered, “that’s all I’ve got to wait, four years. I can do it, Auntie Tiz, with your help.”
“Jane Eyre, lass, think on Jane, who waited eight years for her chance.”
“I will.”
“Then we’d best be getting on, lass or you’ll be late to the parade. Fret not, your Mam’ll not stop us, try how she may. Now let’s get our work done and you off to school and into your costume.”
Agnes smiled and poked Tizzie with her elbow. “You’re coming too. Miss Eddings needs you and Mrs Mullens to dress the wee ones and lead them round the village green.”
Tizzie pretended to groan. “I were hoping to escape that task.” She managed a frown.
Agnes, shocked, began to exclaim, saw Tizzie’s mouth twitch. “Auntie Tiz!”
Tizzie laughed. “Away with thee, lass, let’s get work done and be off.”
***
Midsummer Day,
Tuesday, June 21st
The final day of their Golden Jubilee celebrations, thanksgiving and prayers done, pageants and speeches over, all complete. Today was feasting and fun and Tizzie’s day to bless the dairy. All three villages, and yes, it were all, came crowding the grounds of Linden Hall for a day of admiring the displays. Seemed like every craft and handicraft group had made a show of sixty years of their work.
The carefully mowed lawns appeared in small green patches between the marquees and clumps of people dressed in their summer best. Tizzie felt her stomach snarl. Never mind the fireworks to come and the dancing, nor the feast, and the tour round the house, she had to bless the dairy, and she were all of a dither. Thank God the weather promised to stay dry if not actually sunny. It were a mild greyish day, the sun might break through an’ if it did turn to mizzle later Sir Charles had prepared with those marquees and a great canopy put up over the dancing square.
“Your turn, Auntie Tiz.” Agnes swung the basket of cheese pieces in the crook of her arm. She’d had her go the day before, and a grand turn it had been, never a slip or mishap as she’d spoke out the prologue, linked the set pieces of the pageant and given a rousing end piece. Tizzie’d been aglow with pride and hard put not to show it over much. Now it were her turn.
“I can’t. I’m all of a tremble.” Tizzie pulled a silly face, tried a laugh, squeezed Agnes’s arm. “I’ve forgot what I’m to say.”
“Auntie Tiz! You’re all in a tizzie.”
The words felt like a slap, came as an ice-cream cold shock to her head. That’s what Jack had said all those years ago when her brothers started calling her Tizzie and not Liz or Lizzie. “You’re stupid, allus in a tiz, should of been christened Tizzie and not Lizzie.” She’d been Tizzie ever since to all but her Mam and Nan. ‘My dearling, my Eliza-Beth,’ she’d been to them, nor did they think her stupid neither.
“Aunt? Auntie?”
Tizzie unfroze, patted Agnes’s cheek. “I’m here, lass, you jolted me, reminded me of one of your Da’s tricks. But thank you, for I’ll fair grandly now.”
I am not stupid, she thought. I know what’s been done and what must get done She smiled ruefully to herself. It’s just the getting it done that’s the worry. “Right then, lass, we’re off to the dairy.” And heaven keep Maggie and Jack from finding out all of what she were doing today, but heaven smile on Schoolmaster Topley.
The blessing of the dairy had excited the vicar’s lady and her family. Both professors and Mrs. Holbrooke begged to be allowed to come. Tizzie’d hoped to keep the ceremony private, just for m’lady, but now she knew there’d be a small crowd of dairymaids and home cheese makers, along with any nosy villagers from all three villages. Well, she’d have to make shift and do it right. Her helpers, Agnes, Ivy’s lass, Peggy, and the oldest dairymaid in the community, Nan Babbit, escorted her. They stopped outside the dairy, where a goodly crowd stood waiting for them.
“Eh, it’s throng with folk,” Nan Babbitt muttered.
“Oh, Auntie Tiz, how will we manage with so many people?”
“Nay, lass, who is in a taking, a quaking and shivering now?”
Agnes turned big shining eyes, all velvet soft, to her aunt. “Happen I am,” she said with a chuckle and skipped ahead, taking Peggy to stand near the door.
Lady Esther, leaning on her husband’s arm, had lost the drawn, pale appearance early pregnancy had given her. She were beginning to bloom and shine, right bonny she looked, her skin and hair showing a sheen like the silk of her flower patterned dress. She held the dairy door key out for Tizzie. Tizzie bowed her head to Lady Esther, took the key, bobbed to the gentry, finally gave a good day to the villagers. How ever were she going to do this with ‘em all so close by? She drew in breath and braved meeting the glances from the schoolmaster and Miss Eddings standing with a group of the older girl scholars, and the stares from a good handful of local lasses and women who still made cheese and butter. The schoolmaster nodded encouragingly, Phoebe Eddings gave a little wave, the scholars giggled. Tizzie felt her cheeks warm, quashed her trembling, gathered her assistants and unlocked the door. She turned to face the crowd. “If you please, Lady Esther, to come in with me.”
People began to move. Tizzie had to speak up. “Please, all wait, beside the door, for the first cheese to be made. Her ladyship and me do that.”
Nan Babbit coughed and shuffled to the doorway. With hazel brown skin and long slender fingers, her hair tight under a bonnet, but curling down by her ears, she looked more like a hobgoblin than a respectable grandmother. Tizzie wondered if she’d chosen well, but the oldest dairymaid must be present. Nan began the first blessing, touching the door posts, sill and lintel with butter smeared fingers, as she spoke. “The lady and the maid, first they be, to set the cheeses. May all go well with thee. God bless the milk, the cream, the curds, all will go fine, for we’ve said the words.” Those villagers who knew the ceremony amened loudly and clapped.
“Whose curds be you using then, Tizzie Cawthra?” someone called amidst laughter.
“Best be good’uns for His Lordship,” came from another wag. More laughter and sly looks to see if Sir Charles would take a huff or accept the jests.
Tizzie watched him incline his head with a faint smile. A clever man, or happen it were his lady who schooled him to be more accommodating than his lady mother’d have been. She felt her cheeks warmed, mayhap she’d stutter, but she’d say it for Lady Esther’s sake. “Lady Esther made the curds, and proper made too.” Aye, well, Tizze stood behind her every step of the making, prompting and aiding, but Lady Esther had done it. ‘Twere right and proper too that the dairy owner made the first curds, even if it were with Tizzie’s cream and Tizzie’s rennet. The onlookers cheered that and another voice called out.
“You’re doin’ it right and proper, Tizzie Cawthra. Her Ladyship and Linden Hall’ll be rivalling your cheeses soon.” That brought another cheer.
Lady Esther entered her dairy. Tizzie followed. It still didn’t smell right, more a stone and earth smell of that marble and the pottery tiles, than the sweet ripe milk smell a good dairy had, but she’d soon get that sorted. She bobbed her head to the lady. “Now then, m’lady, we’ve been blessed, let us make the first cheese.”
Together they placed the moulds on the draining mat, over the drip tray. Lady Esther scooped the soft cream curds into the little moulds and Tizzie put the weights on top. Outside Nan Babbitt led the chanting of the dairymaid’s song to make the butter come, through all the cheesemakers’ rhymes about the type of curds and lengths of the threads for the varieties of hard cheese and finished with the rhyme for making cream cheese.
Lady Esther washed her hands, held the towel for Tizize as she washed hers and smiled at Tizzie. “Thank you, Tizzie Cawthra, for this.” She gestured round the dairy. “Will you teach me more another day.”
Tizzie smiled, “I’d be pleased to.” She’d not want to put herself forward, but Her Ladyship’s words gave her such a feeling warm in her chest that it quelled the butterflies in her stomach.
The crowd round the doorway grew restless. Vicar’s lady near fell through the door trying to see all they did inside. Her brother blocked the view with his over sized artist’s drawing pad, her father scribbled frantically. Sir Charles kept back, letting the villagers peer as best they could. The muttering outside grew.
“We’d best let ‘em all in,” Tizzie whispered.
Lady Esther went to the doorway. She laughed, pink showing in her cheeks. “The first cheeses are made.”
Why, she’s that proud of her cheese, Tizzie thought and felt a wave of pleasure when a good hearted hurrah greeted the words. Nan Babbitt, Peggy and Agnes stepped forward, the crowd came after them, gentry first, followed by as many of the scholars and cheese makers as could crowd inside. Tizzie heard the indrawn breaths, little sighs or gasps as people took in the marble slabs, sinks, and piped water. She gave them a moment to look, then beckoned Agnes and Peggy. “Put your cheeses in place,” she whispered. The lasses paced round the dairy, placing the pieces of cheese on every shelf and surface around the room. Tizzie named each giver and rubbed the wall and work-top with each piece of cheese. Nan Babbitt, supported by a chorus of those spectators who knew the ceremony, called out the blessings on the cream, milk, curds, butter and cheeses, and the final one for the dairy maid and mistress who would use this dairy. Nearly done. ‘Twere a shame so few knew the words, for Tizzie agreed with vicar’s lady, it would be sad to forget something which did actually help make a dairy turn out good cheeses. Tizzie wiped her hands on her apron. Time for the last blessing and she’d to do it on her own. By, her stomach fair flipped and fluttered. She turned to Lady Esther, holding out a large wicker basket.
“May your butter stay sweet, your cream never sour, your curds and your whey give you plenty to boast. May all cheeses you make in this dairy be prize winning cheeses to win you a toast.” She bobbed and lifted a large cheese from the basket. It was a wheel of well ripened Wensleydale, one of Tizzie’s prize cheeses. “For the cheese room, to sweeten your cheeses.”
Lady Esther didn’t fully understand the significance of the gift, but the dairy women did. They clapped, and twitted Tizzie until she squirmed.
“Aye, Tizzie Cawthra, that were well done.”
“Does thy Jack know? What’ll he’ll say when he finds you’ve given, given, lass, not sold, one of your prize cheeses to sweeten up a rival dairy?”
Tizzie found herself swept into the cheese room to place the cheese on the empty shelves and cut it open. The women began again to tease and the funning continued as Lady Esther and Sir Charles entered the cheese room.
“Quick, m’lady, sir, shut the door, lock her in. Don’t let her out until she tells us how she makes such grand cheese and sweet butter.”
“Nay then, don’t be so fond.” Tizzie found her voice. “Let be.” She turned, discovered Sir Charles at her elbow.
“Thank you,” he said, and raising his voice a little he thanked Nan, Peggy and Agnes. “Lead us out, Tizzie,” he said and escorted her himself.
Tizzie didn’t know where to look, her face felt as hot as when she scorched it toasting muffins close to the fire. Sir Charles being that polite to her, it felt right queer. He were holding her arm. It were this Quaker business, his wife’s teaching she’d bet on it. Certainly not his lady mother’s.
“Thank you for your kindness to my wife. She has enjoyed her dairy work with you,” he told her, releasing her when they reached the outside. “I will always have a place for your skills here, Tizzie.” He stood beside her on the flag path by the dairy as everyone crowded round her. “Never forget that.”
“Make her tell us how to do it, Sir Charles,” voices begged. “No one makes a keeper cheese like she does.”
Even the vicar’s lady joined in. “I’d like those sweet cheese and cheesecake recipes too.” She smiled. “If we steal away Agnes and refuse to give her back, will you tell us, Tizzie?”
Everyone laughed, especially Agnes.
“Ah,” exclaimed the schoolmaster, “a little blackmail. Pressure rather than persuasion. Will it work though?” He, usually so solemn, wore a holiday face.
Phoebe Eddings smiled. “I’ll take Agnes, conceal her away.”
Tizzie stopped hiding her face and tried to laugh. “You leave my lass be. Nay, it’s not that simple. You have to start with a good cow and then it’s care that counts, all the way.”
People nodded.
“There’s no more?” someone wanted to know.
Agnes darted a glance at her aunt. “Keep all clean, Aunt Tiz always tells me. ‘A clean dairy makes a sweet cheese.’ She makes us wash before milking and we wash the cows too.”
“No more,” Sir Charles decreed. “I’ll blackmail Tizzie Cawthra into teaching you here if I have to steal Agnes away myself.”
The crowd chuckled, murmured, broke up, drifting away in good humour.
“You’re to come to tea in the house before the fireworks, Tizzie,” Lady Esther whispered as Sir Charles took her arm. “With Agnes,” she added as they walked past, “to arrange buying Agnes’s lambs.”
Phoebe Eddings touched Tizzie’s arm. “Ice cream?” she suggested. “One for now, and I know there are sorbets at the house tea.” She smiled her pretty coaxing smile, her eyes full of teasing laughter. “You can tell me all about this most interesting ceremony you’ve just performed as we eat our ices.” Beside her Agnes wriggled eagerly and turned pleading eyes to Tizzie.
“Aye, well I reckon we’ve earned a treat haven’t we, lass?”
Phoebe grabbed Agnes, took her by the hand. “Ah, now I’ve found you on your own, Agnes Cawthra, before you slip away to your friends, I’d like you to repeat for me that long prologue you recited yesterday, about the queens of England, for I missed some of it.” They strolled ahead towards the tea tables.
The schoolmaster moved beside her to offer his arm. Tizzie blinked. “That was well done, Miss Cawthra.” He grinned, actually grinned like Bert would. “Proper grand ceremony it were an’ all,” he added, in pure Yorkshire.
Tizzie knew she were pink to her ear tips, looked into his face, astonished.
“A schoolmaster must speak the Queen’s English, Miss Cawthra, but I don’t forget my good Yorkshire.” He placed her hand on his arm and escorted her after Phoebe and Agnes. “I’m looking forward to these fireworks,” he said, “aren’t you?”
Tizzie exhaled and nodded. Better not let Maggie catch her with the schoolmaster, but, oh my goodness, what a day this were growing into.