‘Tell me, who owns the orchards right in the middle of the village?’ asked Victoria. ‘Is it Farmer Churchward?’
The housemaid paused in her dusting and bobbed a curtsey. ‘Oh no, miss. That be Farmer Whitcomb’s land,’ she replied.
‘Is that so?’ Victoria looked vaguely interested. ‘There is a jenny donkey in one of them with the dearest little foal. I wonder if Farmer – Farmer Whitcomb, you say? – might sell it to me when it is weaned.’
‘He might, miss,’ replied the surprised housemaid. Miss Victoria wasn’t usually one to be friendly with the servants. Spurred on by her young mistress’s unexpected affability she added, ‘But the price won’t be cheap. They say he drives a hard bargain, does Farmer Whitcomb.’
‘Does he indeed? In that case, perhaps I won’t bother.’ Victoria wandered away, leaving the housemaid to get on with her work. She had not been interested in the foal, that had been a mere subterfuge. What she had been after was information about Cal Whitcomb.
The local gentry were slow in forgiving the Fitzherberts for Victoria’s misdemeanour; the mantelpiece at the White House remained remarkably devoid of pasteboard invitations. But while her mother might weep and her father curse, Victoria amused herself with her pursuit of Cal Whitcomb.
She planned her campaign with the precision of a general at war. It was obvious that ‘chance’ encounters would be the only way she would meet him, and to do that she had to know as much about him as possible. For the first time she was beginning to appreciate the benefit of having local people as servants. Most of them had been hired along with the house, and now they were providing her with a host of invaluable scraps of information.
Thanks to her cunning she knew the extent of the Whitcomb land, and much about the man himself. He was efficient, and kept to a routine as rigidly as was possible in the country.
‘Does the rounds of his land every day, does Mr Whitcomb,’ the gardener informed her in an accent she could barely comprehend. ‘Goes round both his father’s land down to Church Farm and his mother’s land up to Oakwood near enough every day. There idn’t many as still does that. The best muck on the land be the farmer’s boot, that’s what he believes, begging your pardon, miss.’
Armed with this information, Victoria did not need to take many rides into the countryside to establish when she was most likely to encounter Cal Whitcomb. For a while she contented herself with giving only the frostiest of salutes, which Farmer Whitcomb, in all courtesy, was obliged to acknowledge. The grim lack of enthusiasm with which he bowed in return did not escape her notice.
Little do you know it, Mr Clodhopper Whitcomb, but you will soon change your tune, she vowed.
It was like angling for a fish. At the moment she was no more than trailing the bait in the water by these seemingly accidental meetings – accidental and not too frequent; she did not want to frighten off her quarry too soon. Before long, though, she would begin dangling the bait in earnest, and then the fun would begin, for her at least.
‘Victoria, my love, where can you be going, dressed like that?’ asked Mrs Fitzherbert, encountering her daughter in the hall one day.
‘I am going walking, Mama. Have you any objections?’
‘It is your dress, my love. Don’t you consider it to be somewhat – somewhat brief?’
‘Not at all, Mama. This is the fashionable length for walking dresses this year.’
‘In Hyde Park perhaps.’ Mrs Fitzherbert looked doubtfully at her daughter’s outfit. The two-piece in blue barathea was certainly attractive, and the darker braid trim on the fitted jacket made it very elegant, but it was the shortness of the wide skirt that she had doubts about. ‘But isn’t it rather… short for the countryside? My love, your ankles are clearly visible.’
‘What could be more practical for these messy lanes?’ demanded Victoria. ‘You know the trouble it is getting this red mud off hems, the colour stains so. Besides, I understand Princess Alexandra wears skirts as short as this for walking.’
‘Oh, if Princess Alexandra wears them…’ Mrs Fitzherbert gave way, though still sounding uncertain.
‘If you have no more to say on the matter, Mama, I’ll be on my way.’ Victoria did not wait for her mother’s further comments, she was already making for the front door, her maidservant in her wake. Although her skirt was less than a crinoline its hooped fullness swayed provocatively.
Her mother watched her go with misgivings. If only Victoria were not so headstrong. Her skirt did look indecently short, but if Princess Alexandra wore skirts above the ankles…
Had Mrs Fitzherbert given the matter more thought she would have realised that there was not much mud about. It was an exceptionally dry year and the lanes and footpaths were not at all muddy – as Victoria well knew. That was why she had chosen to make a circuit of Oakwood Farm on foot for a change, wearing a provocatively short skirt and displaying neatly turned ankles. If she should come face to face with Farmer Whitcomb she was determined to be looking her best.
Her first tour of the lanes surrounding Oakwood was a dismal failure. The sole living creature she passed was an elderly dog taking itself for a leisurely stroll. As she set off round again there was a faint groan of dismay from her maid trailing behind.
Mary was one of the few servants the Fitzherberts had brought with them. She had been afforded this privilege because, as well as being good at her job, she had managed to weather the storms of Victoria’s uncertain temper for severed years. In addition, if she had been turned off, the Fitzherberts would have been obliged to pay her back wages, something they regarded as a totally unnecessary expense. At that moment her London-bred feet were finding the stony trackway uncomfortable and tiring.
‘Can’t we stop for a rest, please, miss?’ she begged. ‘There’s a nice grassy bit there that’d do.’
Victoria’s first reaction was to refuse, then second thoughts suggested that to pause might be a good idea. It was quite likely that Farmer Whitcomb would come this way, and if he did, there was a better chance of hearing his approach if she were sitting quietly.
‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘But for goodness’ sake keep quiet while we rest. I am in no mood for your idle chatter.’
Mary, who had hardly spoken on the walk, kept her feelings to herself as she helped her mistress to sit as decorously as possible, then she sank down thankfully herself.
In silence they stayed there for five minutes, ten, fifteen… Victoria consulted the small enamelled watch pinned to her bosom. Another few minutes and she would return home.
It was then the regular clip-clop of hooves reached her ears. There was no guarantee that it was Farmer Whitcomb, of course, but she had her fingers crossed. At the same moment the elderly dog appeared from the other end of the lane, sniffing its way contentedly along the hedge.
Victoria rose, pulling the reluctant Mary with her. Impatiently she waited to see who the approaching rider might be. Her hopes were answered. It was Calland Whitcomb, on his chestnut gelding. At the sight of her he slowed his horse to a walk, intending to pass by with nothing more than a bow from the saddle. Victoria, however, had other ideas.
‘Mr Whitcomb, if you please, will you be kind enough to help me?’ she asked, looking up at him.
Cal brought his horse to a halt. ‘Certainly, Miss Fitzherbert, if I can,’ he said cautiously.
‘It is the dog,’ said Victoria. ‘It makes me nervous.’
They looked in the direction of the animal which was now having a comfortable scratch. As an example of ferocious beast it was a pretty unlikely specimen.
Cal gave a cough to cover his snort of disbelief and said, ‘It’s only one of my farm dogs. He’s quite harmless.’
‘Are you sure?’ Victoria was careful not to let any unsightly frown pucker her brow. ‘One hears such appalling stories of rabid dogs.’
‘I promise you he’s not rabid. Simply rather old and somewhat flea-ridden,’ Cal assured her.
‘Then it is safe to pass him?’
‘Quite safe,’ replied Cal gravely. ‘However, since he bothers you, I will remove him at once.’
‘I would be so grateful if you would.’ Victoria looked purposefully at his riding crop, but it remained idly in Cal’s hand. He had no need of it.
‘Home, boy!’ he ordered. ‘Home!’
The dog’s response was obedient if slow. It rose and wagged its tail at the familiar voice, approached Cal’s gelding and sniffed round its hooves in greeting, then finding a gap in the hedge dutifully climbed through it and ambled homewards.
There,’ said Cal. The danger is over.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Victoria’s upward gaze grew more limpid. ‘I find dogs very frightening. It is silly of me, I suppose, but I’ve always been so, haven’t I, Mary?’
‘Yes, miss,’ replied Mary with a complete lack of conviction.
‘You surprise me, Miss Fitzherbert. I would have thought very little frightened you,’ replied Cal dryly. ‘However, after such a major fright will you permit me to escort you on your way? Or if you feel faint after your experience I could fetch transport to take you home.’
For a moment Victoria was tempted, then she noted the wry disbelief lurking in Cal Whitcomb’s eyes. He was no fool, he recognised the artificiality of the situation. It did not do to push too hard too soon. She decided she had sufficiently exploited the circumstances for the time being.
‘No, thank you, sir, you have already been more than kind. Pray do not let me detain you any longer. I’m sure you are frightfully busy.’
‘If you are certain I can be of no further assistance? Then I will bid you farewell.’ Raising his hat to her he rode away.
Victoria set off for home well satisfied with her day. She had made contact with Cal Whitcomb and had carried out a reasonable conversation with him. From now on he could no longer pass her with just a curt greeting; the rules of common courtesy would not allow it. As far as she was concerned, the enemy had been engaged, an odd way of regarding the start of a flirtation perhaps, but it was exactly how she felt.
As the spring days lengthened Maddy’s regular trips into the village were always tinged with happy anticipation at the prospect of seeing Patrick. She did not mind that they would exchange no more than a smile and a few words, that was enough to feed her love until they could be together in a more private, secluded place. On this particular occasion she was disappointed to see no sign of him, although she made a quite unnecessary detour past the Church House Inn. By the time she had started her shopping she was conscious of an atmosphere of subdued excitement hanging over the place.
‘What’s been happening?’ she asked Mrs Cutmore who kept the grocery shop.
‘Oh lor’, ‘tis been like a tinker’s wedding yer and no mistake,’ the shopkeeper replied, evidently relishing the recent drama. ‘Yelling at each other, they was; and the language! I tells you I had to make my youngsters stop up their ears for fear of what they’d hear. Fancy, two grown men quarrelling like that. I was certain they’d come to blows, so I sent our Johnny for Constable Vallance. He sorted them out good and proper.’
‘But who?’ demanded Maddy. ‘And what be un all about?’
‘Harry Ford and Sam Watkins, that’s who,’ Mrs Cutmore said. ‘And the reason was that incomer, who’m such a friend of youm. You knows as he’m been working up to the Church House? Of course you do! Who better? Well, seemingly Sam Watkins have been trying to persuade him to go down the Victoria and Albert instead. Offered him another half-a-crown a week. My, I wishes someone’d offer me another two and six for doing naught different. Any road, Harry Ford got to hear of un, and you knows what his temper be like. Stormed down towards the Victoria and Albert he did, like a man possessed, but he met Sam coming up the hill. That was how they come to have their set-to out in the street with the world and his wife looking on.’
‘And what happened?’ asked Maddy, anxious for Patrick’s wellbeing.
‘Naught, as far as I knows. Constable Vallance sent the pair of them on their way with hefty fleas in their ears, telling them not to be two such gurt fools.’
‘And Patrick?’ persisted Maddy.
‘Patrick? Oh, the incomer. Last I heard he were still serving up Church House, same as usual. Makes you wonder what be there as is worth giving up an extra half-crown for.’ Mrs Cutmore gave her a sly prod in the ribs, then suddenly remembered Maddy’s relationship with the young man and looked embarrassed. ‘Now then, was that a large block of salt you was wanting, my dear?’ she asked hurriedly.
Maddy neither heard her nor noticed her gaffe, she was too concerned for Patrick. As the unwitting cause of trouble, she hoped he would suffer no backlash.
‘Beg pardon, Mrs Cutmore?’ She became aware of the shopkeeper waiting expectantly.
‘A block of salt you asked for. Would that be a large or a small?’
‘Large, please.’
Maddy paid for her own purchases along with the few goods she had got for Annie, and set off home. She was constantly on the lookout for any sign of Patrick, but there was none, and a niggling nameless fear worried at her. Then, as she passed the back of the Church House, she heard Mrs Ford’s voice call, ‘Patrick, boy, be you’m going to shift this barrel today or next Christmas?’
His voice replied cheerily, ‘For you, Mrs Ford, I’ll do it this instant.’
Immediately Maddy relaxed and began to smile. His reply was typical, full of charm and humour, even when the subject was nothing more remarkable than a barrel. She smiled at her own foolishness too. Why on earth should Patrick leave the village? The two landlords had nearly come to blows because they both wanted his services, not because they wanted to get rid of him. Walking along the lane, her fingers strayed to the shape of the Janus ring Patrick had given her, hidden beneath the calico of her dress. She had bought some ribbon specially to hang it about her neck, blue ribbon, chosen because it was exactly the same colour as Patrick’s eyes. She smiled at her choice. A few weeks ago such an idea would never have occurred to her, but a few weeks ago she had not met Patrick and had not experienced the new awakening of her senses.
Listening to him, she had become aware of the thickness of her own accent. Patrick had laughed when she had said she wanted to speak like he did.
‘Nothing fancy, just nice and proper,’ she had insisted.
‘But what will happen to my Rustic Damozel?’
‘I don’t reckon there’ll be that much of a change if rustic be countrified. I can’t see me losing my Devon tongue altogether, I idn’t sure I wants to, any road, but if I could have the rough edges rubbed off. There’s some as talks proper, yet you knows they’m Devon the minute they opens their mouths.’ She was thinking of Cal Whitcomb. She could never learn to speak as well as Patrick, he was almost as good as the vicar, but the way Cal Whitcomb spoke, that was a different matter. She was confident she could be as good as he was any day.
‘If you’re sure that’s what you want then I’ll help you.’ Patrick had been smilingly reluctant. ‘But the instant I begin to suspect I’m losing my Rustic Damozel I stop. Is that understood?’
‘’Tis understood,’ affirmed Maddy.
‘It is,’ corrected Patrick gently. ‘It is understood. There, that is your first lesson.’
He was a good teacher, and Maddy, with her quick ear and her sharp intelligence, proved to be such a good pupil that he cried in protest, ‘We must stop this. You’re progressing too well. I haven’t heard a “wadn’t” nor an “idn’t” nor a “where be to” in ages, and I miss them.’
They did not stop, of course, and Maddy continued to watch her speech. Her family mocked and her friends smiled, not that she cared. Patrick had opened one more horizon for her.
Just because she had been a country bumpkin did not mean she had to remain one. She could change herself. She could be anything she wanted – if she discounted the existence of her father and brothers.
Her family was uncharacteristically silent on the subject of Patrick. They must have known she was seeing him frequently, everyone else in the village seemed to, but fortunately they were too wrapped up in their own affairs to do more than comment, ‘You’m been with that damned mountebank again?’ They could think of nothing these days except their grudge against Cal Whitcomb. It had been so ever since they were prosecuted, and it occupied their minds to the exclusion of nearly everything else.
They came stamping in for their dinner, mucky boots trailing river mud across the clean floor. Maddy had left her copy of Jane Eyre on a chair. Bart remarked, ‘You’m a fool, addling your brain with such rubbish,’ before sitting down. Not so long ago he would have thrown the book on the fire or at her head, but such was his absorption in his grievances that he just flung it on the settle. Grateful for the lack of interest in her private life, she decided not to grumble about the filthy floor and concentrated on dishing up the meal.
‘Cal Whitcomb idn’t eating plain boiled pudding for his dinner, you can bet that,’ declared Jack.
‘No, he’m sure to be cutting gurt slices off a saddle of mutton, or maybe a bit of beef,’ agreed Bart. ‘He idn’t bothered about the poor souls he’m driven to near starvation.’
The large portions of pudding Maddy was putting on their plates hardly constituted ‘starvation’; as for the description ‘plain’, she had managed to flavour it well with home-grown leeks and a bit of bacon. But Bart had a point: life for the Shillabeers was not going to be easy.
The netting season was a short one, lasting from March to August, then her father and brothers would have to take what work they could get. Surprisingly, they were content to leave the financial arrangements to Maddy, not only the household budget but the money they made from the salmon too. It was she who kept a tally of how many fish were sent up to Totnes, she who kept a sharp eye on market prices, and she who controlled the money they received. She dealt with the expenses too – the purchase of the annual fishing licence, of new nets and tar to preserve them, and the materials needed to keep the boat well maintained. All this was Maddy’s responsibility.
Spreading an uncertain family income over an entire year involved careful budgeting at the best of times. Paying her brothers’ fines was going to make things more difficult than ever, and Maddy considered how to cut her already slender housekeeping even more. Apart from potatoes and bread, fish was going to be the mainstay of their diet. Not salmon. That was far too valuable to put on the family table. No, it would be coarser fish such as pollack or mackerel which sometimes got trapped in the net. If the worst came to the worst she would have to take the boat out herself and hand-line for whatever the river had to offer. As she totted up the figures on a piece of old sugar bag, trying to work out how to feed five hungry men on next to nothing, Maddy joined her brothers and heartily cursed Cal Whitcomb and his harsh ways.
Slow footsteps announced the approach of Annie, and Maddy rose to her feet. It had to be something important for her friend to disturb them during their dinner. One look at Annie’s grave face betrayed serious news.
‘You habn’t heard then?’ she said.
‘Heard what?’ asked Maddy.
‘About Biddy. Her’m been drowned. The miller found her by the dam.’
‘Poor soul,’ said Maddy sadly. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best. She did naught but suffer while she was living. It was an accident?’
‘Who knows? My William rowed Mrs Bond, the miller’s wife, across the river not half an hour since – her goes over to see her sister to Dittisham, the one as is bedfast – and her were moaning because her were late. Her said there weren’t no telling what happened.’
‘Which side of the dam were her found?’ demanded Bart. ‘The river side or the pool?’
‘The river side. That’s how her wadn’t noticed earlier. Her were caught up underneath one of the boats as is moored there.’
The sigh that went round the table was one of relief. The brothers were not interested in the other details of Biddy’s death, just where it had occurred.
‘We’m safe for the rest of the year, lads,’ said Jack.
‘That’s what my William says. The river have got its due for this year, the rest of us can bide easy. And perhaps ’tis better it were Biddy than some other poor soul,’ said Annie. ‘Mind, there’m those as say ’tis naught but nonsense, this notion that the Dart claims a heart every year.’
‘Then they be danged idiots,’ stated Jack firmly. ‘Every year there be someone as goes to the river and don’t come back. It have been so way back, afore anyone can remember. One body be what un claims and no more. Now it have got Biddy this year, it’ll be content.’
Like the others, Maddy had been conscious of a feeling of relief at the news of the drowning, sad though it was. She, too, believed implicitly in the ancient superstition that the Dart demanded one victim a year. Those who mocked at the notion did not know the river as she did, and they did not have loved ones who wrested their living from its capricious waters. The tricky currents could catch the boats of the unwary and overturn them in an instant, the Dart could suddenly change from a serenely flowing river into a heaving, raging torrent which could defeat even the strongest, most experienced boatman. She had never been able to think of the river as an inanimate thing, it was too unpredictable. To her it was a living creature, by turns gentle, generous, and savage.
Patrick did not scoff when Maddy told him of it.
‘And why shouldn’t water have a spirit?’ he asked. ‘It moves, it changes, it has life, it’s never still. Yes, why shouldn’t your lovely Dart have a spirit, albeit a cruel one at times? It is what the ancient peoples believed, people like our friend Janus, and even further back than him.’
‘How is it you knows such stuff?’ asked Maddy, lost in admiration at his cleverness.
‘Because I like to find out things, I suppose. I’m interested… and at the moment my sole interest is in you!’
He pulled her towards him unexpectedly, causing her to shriek with surprise, but once his lips were on hers there was no chance of shrieks or words. All she wanted was to be there in his arms, savouring his kisses, enjoying his presence.
‘You are happy?’ he asked softly, when at last their lips parted.
‘Oh yes,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I didn’t know it was possible to feel like this. It is as if every day I am… am flying inside.’ Then she felt embarrassed, as she always did when she expressed her emotions.
But Patrick was pleased with her description. ‘Flying inside! I’ve never heard it better put. Yes, that’s it exactly. Flying like a swallow.’
‘Or a skylark,’ said Maddy.
‘That’s even better,’ he cried with delight, ‘for that is a soaring thing, that’s lifted up and up to disappear into the blue heaven.’
Maddy wished she had not suggested the image of the skylark. Any notion of disappearing made her uneasy, especially where Patrick was concerned.
‘And are you happy?’ she asked, to drive away the faint shadow.
‘Extremely.’ Patrick fell back on the grass, pulling her with him. ‘I came back to Stoke Gabriel out of curiosity, nothing more. I did not expect to find so much. This place is more beautiful than anything I ever expected. I have found work and I have found you. What man could want more?’
Listening to his words with her head against his chest, Maddy felt that she, too, could want nothing more. Her days were golden, with nothing spoiling them. For a while they lay without speaking, content to be in each other’s arms.
‘I hear you was being fought over the other day,’ Maddy remarked eventually.
‘I was? Who were the lucky women?’
‘It weren’t – wasn’t women, it was Harry Ford and Sam Watkins.’
‘Oh them! They didn’t actually come to blows that I heard of, but it’s pleasing to be appreciated.’
‘Did Sam Watkins really offer you an extra two and six a week to work down the Victoria and Albert?’
‘No.’ Patrick smiled the mischievous smile which so delighted her. ‘He offered me two shillings. It was Harry Ford who offered me half-a-crown to stay put.’
Maddy laughed. ‘You’ll soon have your own carriage at this rate,’ she chuckled.
‘There’s certainly plenty of work for an able fiddler round here. I’ve been asked to play at more weddings and celebrations than I can manage.’
‘That’s because the only fiddler we’ve had till now was Henry Beer. Poor Henry, he was never too able, and now he’s getting on in years we can’t hope for improvement. You knows what it’s like singing hymns when he’s playing. Can you imagine what it’s like trying to dance to him?’
‘I’d rather not, thank you.’ Patrick sat up and gave an exaggerated shudder.
Maddy sat up too. ‘Poor soul, I suppose he’s noticing the difference these days with folks not wanting him to play any more.’
‘You think I should refuse to play at weddings and such in favour of Henry?’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You can’t go turning down a chance to make an honest penny. Besides, I don’t think folks would be satisfied with Henry any more. You see, until you came most of us hadn’t heard decent playing afore. We didn’t realise how bad old Henry really was. We know now, though, and there’s no going back.’
‘I’m sorry if I’ve spoiled things for Henry, but I must admit I’m glad to be so much in demand. But let us forget Henry for the moment. I have something more important to discuss. Would you kindly give me an opinion upon this trifle?’
He reached for his fiddle. There was nothing out of the ordinary in him having his violin with him for he was seldom without it. He had admitted that he was uncomfortable if it was not within reach, and she understood his possessiveness. Taking it from its canvas bag, he tuned it.
The melody which flowed from his violin made Maddy think of many things, of sadness and of joy, but in some strange way the cadence of its notes reminded her mainly of the beauty in life that she had so recently found. She had never known that music had the power to move her, not until she realised her cheeks were wet with tears. When he finished playing she was reluctant to speak for a moment, lest she broke the spell.
‘That were beautiful,’ she said at last, forgetting her carefully attained speech in her emotion.
‘Then you like it?’
‘Indeed I do. I’ve never heard anything as beautiful, saving the once…’ Her voice faded away. He seemed pleased with the tune, it was obviously special to him, and she was suddenly afraid she was being tactless.
‘Saving the once?’ he prompted.
‘That first day when you came and you played for me and I felt proper foolish,’ Maddy hurried on uncomfortably. ‘You played something like it then, only it wasn’t as good.’
He seemed delighted. ‘What a memory! What a natural ear for music you possess! You’re right, of course. I did play it then, or rather a very raw unfinished version. It had just come to me as I was walking. As I worked on it I knew it was something special, which is why I give it to you, Maddy.’
‘Just come to you? You mean you thought up that tune out of your head?’ Maddy gazed at him in awe.
‘Don’t look at me with such amazement,’ he laughed. ‘Lots of people think up tunes.’
‘No, they don’t.’ Maddy was adamant. ‘Leastways, no one I’ve ever known. I thought such things were for grand folk up in London or maybe Exeter, yet here you be saying you made up a tune as calm as you please. I always knew you were different from the other menfolk round here, more clever and such, but I never realised how clever. Have you thought up other tunes?’
‘Yes, I do it quite often, but not like this one. This is my very best, which is why it is for you.’
‘For me?’ She regarded him blankly. Slowly the nature of his gift began to sink in. ‘That beautiful tune is for me?’
‘Yes, it is dedicated to you, my Maddy. Every note is for you alone.’
‘Oh!’ The wonder of it almost took her breath away. ‘I’ve never been given anything like that… anything so special… The tune’s for me, you say?’ She paused, trying to gather her bemused wits. ‘Please, please would you play it once more for me?’
‘With pleasure.’ Taking up his bow he began to play, and again the beauty of the music took hold of Maddy.
When the last notes faded away she was too convulsed with sobs to speak.
‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to gulp at last. ‘I’m happy, truly I am. I don’t know why I’m bawling like a babe, save that I never heard anything so beautiful before…’
‘I’ll take your tears as a compliment.’ Patrick smoothed her damp cheek with gentle fingers. ‘Any musician would be gratified to move his listener so.’
‘Then you aren’t angry because I blubbed at your music? To hear such music is a marvel in itself, but to know that it is for me… Has it a name?’
‘Of course I’m not angry, and certainly the piece has a name. It is called “Miss Madeleine’s Air”.’
‘“Miss Madeleine’s Air”.’ She said the words aloud, relishing their rhythm. That sounds grand, too grand for me. But if you think it is fitting then I do too,’ she added hurriedly at his gently reproving look. ‘And just to say thank you doesn’t seem enough.’ To emphasise her words, she held out her arms to him.
Patrick put aside his fiddle and enfolded her in an embrace. ‘Oh Maddy, Maddy, Maddy, what a remarkable creature you are! So sweet, so honest and so sincere.’
He held her close, until she could hear the beating of his heart. Not content to wait for his kisses, she drew his face down to hers. Their lips met with tenderness at first, then with increasing passion. Even in the midst of the mounting emotions which gripped her, Maddy was aware of relief within her. For the first time she felt secure, sure of Patrick’s love. Of late she had been almost certain of his feelings, only in her blacker moments did it bother her that he had never spoken his love aloud. Now he did not need to. In his music, and in his gift, he had declared his love for her more clearly than with any words.
Later, as Maddy made her way home, in a cloud of blissful daydreams, she sang the air that Patrick had composed for her. She was not afraid of ever forgetting it. It was enmeshed too firmly in her head and in her heart.
At church next Sunday there were stirrings of drama in the air. In the minutes before the entry of the vicar and the choir, a shocked whisper went round the congregation that Henry Beer had left the church band. Details were scarce, and everyone waited in eager anticipation as the band struck up. Sure enough, there was no Henry, and in his absence, as the only remaining violin, Patrick led the small group of musicians. There were only five of them, including him, but they blended superbly – cello and fiddle, flute, clarinet and bassoon. It was not only Maddy’s biased opinion that the music was the best heard in the church for a long time. Many other people expressed the same view as they filed out.
‘Tis a disgrace! After the years our Henry have gived to this church and what happens? He’m thrown aside like an old rag and for what? For a young flibbertigibbet as haven’t been here two minutes.’ Mrs Cutmore, who was Henry’s sister, was not slow to air her grievances as soon as she was through the church door. ‘Forty years come Michaelmas! That’s how long he’m played the hymns.’
‘That be long enough in all conscience,’ called a wag. ‘Our ears have suffered long enough.’
But many people sided with Mrs Cutmore and argued that Henry had been shabbily treated. The blame fell squarely on Patrick. Not content with taking over every wedding and celebration, the incomer had now taken Henry’s church band from him.
Maddy listened without comment. She was sorry for Henry, though she could not see how Patrick could have been at fault. Eagerly she awaited a chance to hear his version of the story. She did not have to wait long. She had barely started to walk up School Hill before she heard familiar footsteps following, and then Patrick fell into step beside her.
‘I suppose you’ve heard the news,’ he said. ‘Tongues were still wagging nineteen to the dozen as I came along.’
‘It’s true then? Henry has left the church band?’
‘Only Henry himself can answer that one.’
‘What happened? No one in church seemed to know for sure.’
‘It was trivial beyond words. I’m aware that many people blame me, but I assure you that displacing Henry was the last thing I intended. He was late for practice on Friday so we started on our own, and as is customary, because I play the violin, I led. We were doing splendidly – we played the anthem particularly well, I recall – when Henry arrived. He was most displeased to find us practising without him, and even less pleased to see me in his place. He was determined to start again from the very beginning, right from the anthem. We pointed out we had already done it. He said, somewhat sourly, that we would do it again properly, and I am afraid things deteriorated from then on.’
‘And was Henry thrown out?’
‘No, he left of his own accord. Stormed out, in fact, swearing never to play a note in the church again.’
‘And you were blamed for that? When it was Henry’s bad temper?’ Maddy was highly indignant.
‘We mustn’t be too hard on the poor fellow. I can understand how it might have seemed to him. I feel quite guilty at my part in it.’
‘You have nothing to feel guilty about!’
‘I have. If I hadn’t been there the practice would probably not have gone ahead. The church band is Henry’s life, I’d not deprive him of it. In fact, I went to the vicar to see what I should do.’
‘If you aren’t the kindest, gentlest man, being concerned for a pig-headed old lump like Henry who can’t even play in tune. And what did the vicar say?’
‘He was in favour of letting things take their own course. If Henry decides to come back, then all well and good – not that he was very hopeful, for Henry can be obstinate apparently. In the meantime he said he would be grateful if I would continue leading the other musicians.’
‘I bet he would.’ Maddy gave a chuckle. ‘He’s very fond of music, is the vicar. Every service since he came here he’s had to battle with Henry, trying to make the hymns sound right. No wonder he’s happy for you to take over.’
Patrick smiled with relief. ‘Then you don’t think I’m to blame? You’ve made me feel much more comfortable. Not for the world would I cause trouble, yet I must confess that it does seem to follow me about.’
‘That’s because you aren’t in the usual run of folk. People are always suspicious of them as is – those who are a bit different. I don’t know why it should be so, but it is.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. You’re a wise creature, Maddy Shillabeer.’
‘If I am then it has rubbed off from you.’
He shook his head. ‘No. I know facts. You have wisdom. There’s a difference. Of the two I’d rather have wisdom. It can only be gathered through understanding and experience. Fools like me can’t get it simply from books like we can get knowledge.’ They had reached the top of the steep slope down to Duncannon, the place where they always parted, because it was secluded enough for a farewell kiss – or maybe two. On this occasion Patrick raised Maddy’s hand to his lips.
‘Goodbye for the present, my sweet, wise Maddy,’ he said. ‘How I wish I could learn from you.’
The serious note in his voice surprised her. For the first time she detected a lack of confidence in him, and she wondered at it as she made her way home. From what he had told her, he had been a wanderer all his life; perhaps this was less through inclination than because of the trouble which undeniably followed in his wake. And now, because of the fuss over Henry and the church band, did he fear he might be forced to move on once more?
Not if I have the say in the matter, decided Maddy. No one idn’t going to make him leave if he don’t want to, she vowed, all thoughts of correct grammar forgotten.
She turned her mind to her own future. Two dreams had begun to haunt her. The first was a wonderful impossibility; in it she was not tied to her father and brothers. It was a vision of the years ahead spent with Patrick, an idyll where she loved and cherished him with nothing to mar the perfection of their existence. The second was a nightmare, in which she saw a future completely devoid of him, and a black, bitter prospect it was. One image she dared not foster, the other she dreaded, so to force them both away from her thoughts she began to hum to herself. The tune, of course, was ‘Miss Madeleine’s Air’.
Nothing was resolved about the church band during the next week. Henry showed no sign of relenting, but sat in his pew with his family, grim faced, never once looking towards the small group of musicians. Maddy was proud to see Patrick continuing to lead the group, and even Henry’s most stalwart supporters were forced to admit that the music had improved. Whatever discord there was in the church, thanks to Patrick none of it was musical.
When Annie approached the cottage one mid-week afternoon, Maddy saw at once that she had news to tell.
‘What’s afoot?’ she demanded as her friend reached the door. ‘Something is, I can see from your face.’
‘I had it from the squire himself,’ Annie said importantly. ‘He’m just back from Totnes, from Biddy’s inquest. William rowed him from off the Newcomin.’
‘What was the verdict?’
‘Accidental death, thank goodness. Squire said that since there wadn’t no evidence that the poor soul meant to end her life, it were the only verdict possible.’
‘Thank goodness indeed. I always feel sorry for those sad creatures who aren’t allowed to lie in the churchyard. As if they haven’t suffered enough without being buried outside the churchyard wall. At least Biddy can lie decent – decently,’ she corrected herself.
‘Yes, she can lie decently,’ repeated Annie with teasing emphasis. ‘You haven’t never said a truer word. My, at this rate you’m going to have me talking as grand as you.’
‘It’s the book-reading rubbing off on me,’ said Maddy.
‘If I believed that I’d believe aught,’ replied Annie. ‘Mind, I misses the book-reading. I regrets us’ve got to the end of un.’
‘I do too,’ admitted Maddy. ‘Us – we could leave it a spell then start reading it again, if you like. I’d hoped to have bought another one by now, but thanks to Mr Cal Whitcomb, that idea went out the window. Still, if I get a good price for my strawberries, who knows?’
‘A new book’d be grand, but I’d be content to hear about Jane again. I can’t listen to un too often. That Patrick have given you some fancy ideas, but getting you reading books is the best by far. ‘Tis a pity…’ Her voice faded.
‘What’s a pity? Maddy looked up from the shirt she was mending.
‘I didn’t say naught.’
‘Yes you did.’ Maddy gazed at her enquiringly and was surprised to see her friend looking uncomfortable.
‘I’d best be getting back,’ Annie said. ‘I’ve a pot on the fire as’ll be boiling dry.’
‘It can last another minute or two while you tell me what you were going to say before you thought better of it,’ Maddy insisted.
Annie gave a sigh. ‘I always let my tongue run away with me,’ she said regretfully. ‘I suppose you may as well hear it from me as anyone else. That sweetheart of youm, Patrick, he’m lost his job.’
‘From the Church House? Whatever for?’
Annie looked decidedly uncomfortable. ‘How should I know?’ she replied.
‘Annie Fleet, you should give up lying, you’re no good at it.’
‘I never were,’ her friend agreed. ‘May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, I suppose, though I’d pay no heed to un, if I were you. There’s likely no truth in un and, anyway, you knows what I be like, always getting the wrong end—’
‘Annie!’ said Maddy threateningly. ‘Tell me why Patrick was dismissed from the Church House.’
‘According to what I heard, and ’tis probably a pack of lies, Harry Ford accused him of carrying on with his wife.’
‘With Lucy Ford? It seems a bit harsh, to turn him off because of that.’
‘Is that all you’m got to say? You’m a cool one and no mistake,’ said Annie in astonishment. ‘Don’t you mind your sweetheart being accused of flirting with a married woman?’
‘I mind, but I don’t take it seriously,’ said Maddy after careful consideration. ‘I dare say he did flirt with Mrs Ford. She’s still a fine-looking woman, and he can’t help flirting with any female. It’s his nature. I doubt if there was any serious carryings-on. It was probably wishful thinking on Lucy Ford’s part.’
‘Bain’t you the least bit put out? I would be if it were my William involved. Crippled as I be I’d get up there and be giving that Lucy Ford a bit of my mind, aye, and I’d tear out a bit of her hair as like as not, for good measure.’
‘It’ll turn out to be nothing, you’ll see. Poor Patrick, petty troubles like this seem to dog his steps. I suppose it’s because he’s so often the centre of attention. I expect Harry Ford got jealous of Patrick. After all, he’s brought far more trade to the Church House than Harry ever managed on his own. That’s probably why he took his spite out on him. I doubt if carrying on with Lucy Ford had much to do with it really.’
‘If you say so.’ Annie looked far from convinced. ‘Now I must go. I really have got a pot on the fire. Its bottom’ll be burned out by this time.’
After Annie had gone, Maddy considered the new events in Patrick’s career. Confident of his love and in the certainty that she understood him, she honestly did not take this latest tale seriously. No doubt she and Patrick would laugh about it when next they met. Nor was she too worried about him getting another job. Sam Watkins would take him on like a shot at the Victoria and Albert – unless Patrick had gained too much of a reputation as a troublemaker; then no one would take him on. Coming on top of the trouble with Henry Beer, might it not force Patrick to leave Stoke Gabriel altogether? Her black dream, of a world without Patrick, came sweeping over her.
Don’t let it happen, she prayed. Don’t let it happen. She could not imagine what would become of her if it did.