Charlie’s prediction turned out to be absolutely right – it was a very hard winter, and in more ways than one. With Robert gone, responsibility for Old Hall and its occupants fell squarely upon Jessica’s shoulders. And although Mr Sotheby himself showed a degree of excitement concerning Theo’s book, which was in itself promising, he regretfully told her that the next auction at which it could be sold was not until March. With such an item, of course, a private buyer could almost certainly be found – but if she wanted to make the most of her legacy she would be well advised to wait.
Jessica, though a little disappointed, had been prepared for such news, and decided to take the advice. This windfall was all that she had and she intended to get the very best price for it that she could. If she had to wait a little longer, then so be it. When she left the auction rooms in Yorke Street she went straight to a pawnbroker’s shop that she had marked on her way through Covent Garden, and a little over two hours later was climbing aboard the creaking coach for the journey home with enough money tucked into her reticule to see them through the winter safely, if not in the lap of luxury. The small diamond earbobs that had been Robert’s wedding present to her had never been her favourite items in her jewel case; she doubted that she would even bother to embark upon the uncomfortable, bone-shaking journey from Suffolk back to the city in order to redeem them.
Through that long hard winter she heard not a word from Robert – she did not even know for certain if he had arrived safely in Florence. Neither, if she were honest, did she greatly care. Her anger and disgust at what he had done in taking the money and deserting them was this time too deeply rooted. She felt nothing for him, and his absence was a relief. She did not care if she never saw him again.
But she was lonely.
She tried to deny it, tried to ignore it, tried to bury it beneath the bustling activity of a busy life, but loneliness ate at her, cold as the winter wind and comfortless as the deserted cottage that had once held Danny O’Donnel’s life and laughter and now stood empty and rotting. She passed that cottage every week as she walked to the churchyard to tend Patrick’s grave, and each time she saw it the pang was as painful as ever, a physical pain in her heart. The nights were the worst. With the big old house creaking around her, and the silent darkness made deeper by the small flicker of a night candle’s flame she would lie, restless and alone with no one to talk to, no one to confide in, no one to laugh with, no warm body by her side, no strong arms to comfort her.
As an early and bitter cold gripped the countryside, stripping the last leaves from the stark skeletons of the trees and freezing the ground to iron she sought to assuage the nagging ache of loneliness with activity. With the help of the village carpenter she went through every inch of Old Hall discovering and noting the worst of the damage and listing it ready to be acted upon when the money was available. She refused to think of the choice that she might be called upon to make if Theo’s books did not make enough to cover her pledge to her mother as well as the repairs to the house. Local workmen were called in to patch those parts of the house where inaction and another winter’s attack might cause deterioration too bad to be reversed. Those rooms in best repair were made more habitable, the best and most comfortable of the furniture being moved into them, the draughts stopped, the chimneys swept.
She rode often, too, to Home Farm. Apart from being genuinely interested in the well-being and progress of their small flock of South Down crossbred ewes she enjoyed Charlie’s company – sometimes found herself asking his advice. He knew the local people and the village craftsmen better than she did, was happy to advise and help when it came to choosing a particular man for a particular job.
Twice a week she visited her mother. Maria was in pain and had not regained the use of her legs, although through what seemed to Jessica sheer force of will she could move her hands a little more freely. She refused, adamantly and with all her old authority, to be moved into Old Hall. ‘What can you be thinking of, Jessica my dear? You surely know me better than to believe I could live in a house full of females, much as I love you all? And in any case – you have quite enough on your plate with Sarah – I should be hopeless with the poor old thing – you know how impatient I am. You’d be living in a houseful of old women! Horrid thought! No, no – I’m quite comfortable here, thank you.’
‘Perhaps next winter?’ Jessica suggested. ‘After the building work is finished and the Hall is cosy again? I could have a separate suite of rooms made for you at the east end of the house – nobody would bother you—’
Maria laughed. ‘How very persistent you are! You get that from me, you know. But no, Jessica, I shan’t be needing your rooms in the east wing.’ She caught her daughter’s suddenly sharp look and held her eyes with her own untroubled gaze. Jessica frowned a little and opened her mouth to speak. Her mother, with difficulty, lifted an imperious, knotted finger. ‘Enough, Jessica. Don’t fuss, now. You know I can’t abide fuss—’
That day, trying not to worry about the clear inference of her mother’s words she rode back via Home Farm. It was two weeks before Christmas, and bitterly cold. The sky was leaden and miserable, and the wind that bit viciously at her face as she rode blew down from the north. She found Charlie loading a supply of cleaned and cut turnips into a farm cart to take down to the sheep pens. Bess lay not far from him, her nose on her paws, jealously watching his every move.
He staightened easily, smiling. ‘Afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon, Charlie. I thought I’d drop in to see if the ewe with the sore udder is improved?’
He leaned for a moment on the cart’s tail, brushing his forehead with his coat sleeve despite the cold. The great Suffolk Punch stood docile as a lamb between the shafts of the cart. ‘Aye. She’s fine. The treatment worked well.’
The mare danced a little, and in the movement Jessica caught sight of Charlie’s tall double-barrelled shotgun leaning against the driving seat of the cart. She frowned a little. ‘Why the gun? You don’t usually carry it with you, do you?’
He shook his head a little grimly. ‘There’s a dog about. Great brute of a thing. Wild, I think. It’s bin after the sheep.’
‘Worrying them?’
He nodded. ‘But don’t worry. I’ll have the bugger before long—’ He lifted his head and smiled suddenly, his teeth shining very white in his weather-burned face. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am.’ The apology was mischievous.
She laughed a little. He pushed himself away from the tailgate. ‘Would you be wanting to pick up some more of that horse liniment while you’re here? I mixed it last night. Tha’ss ready if you’d like it.’
‘Yes, I will. Thank you. It’s by far the best we’ve tried. Ben was saying just the other day that it worked wonders on Bay Dancer’s bad leg.’ She kicked her foot free of the stirrup and made to swing down from the little mare. She rarely used the sidesaddle when she rode alone around the estate. The mare moved a little and Charlie stepped forward to hold her head. The great carthorse made to follow him and the huge iron wheels grated noisily on the cobbled yard. The mare, startled, reared and danced away before Charlie could reach her and Jessica, caught by surprise, was flung from the saddle to land with a bruising thump on her left shoulder.
With a sharp exclamation Charlie dropped to his knee beside her. She struggled dazedly to a sitting position, her right hand clasping her painful shoulder. She tried to laugh, succeeded in only producing a slightly shaky squeak. ‘Good Lord! I haven’t fallen off a horse since I was eight years old!’
‘Don’t stand up. Wait a bit. Let me have a look at you.’ Charlie had an arm about her, supporting her. With the other hand he slipped the jacket from her shoulder. She let out a smothered gasp of pain. ‘Gently, now, gently.’ His voice was softly calming. With deft, probing fingers he explored the damaged shoulder. She had seen him many times handle an injured animal so, gently, firmly, reassuringly. His fingers probed, and she jumped. ‘Ah,’ he said, and then, a few moments later. ‘Tha’ss all right. That’ll be bruised an’ painful, but tha’ss not broken. Can you get your jacket back on?’
She nodded, and with his help got to her feet and struggled into her jacket. She had banged her knee as well, and it throbbed painfully.
He put a hand firmly under her elbow. ‘Come over to the house and rest a while,’ he said. ‘Tha’ss shaken you up.’
To Jessica’s surprise as they approached the door of the house it opened, a girl stood there regarding Jessica with wide, anxious blue eyes. She was painfully thin and frail as a buttercup, a mop of bright yellow hair pushed untidily beneath her small mob cap. Though obviously no child she looked like an undernourished waif, the bones of her shoulderblades showing clearly beneath the shabby homespun of her dress, and there were unhealthy shadows beneath her eyes. Behind her, the room had been transformed. The windows shone, framed by clean and pretty curtains, the range was alight, the small door open to let the cheer of the fire into the room. A pot from which rose an appetizing steam bubbled on the hob. On the table stood a small glass jar in which some evergreen twigs, fir, ivy and holly with its bright berries, had been prettily arranged.
‘Minna – get Her Ladyship a chair. Hurry.’
Jessica disentangled her arm. ‘No – really – I’m all right. Just a bit stiff, that’s all.’
‘That’ll be more than stiff tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Perhaps I’ll try some of your liniment on it.’ She had regained the composure that the unexpected appearance of the girl had so strangely disturbed, and her voice was light, though she flinched as she moved and a stab of pain shot through her shoulder. She studied the room, watched the waif-like girl with her promise of beauty.
The girl half-carried, half-dragged the only chair to where Jessica stood. Jessica seated herself, straight-backed, finding that she had to force her smile. ‘Hello. I haven’t seen you before, have I?’
‘Her name’s Minna. Minna Newton,’ Charlie said. ‘She’s from the village. She comes up to do for me a couple of times a week. Her brother Peter helps with the sheep.’
And she doesn’t have a tongue of her own, Jessica thought, mildly caustic, as the girl stood with downcast eyes, her hands twisting in front of her, half-hidden by her apron.
‘I’ll get the liniment,’ Charlie said. ‘Minna – mull some ale. Her Ladyship needs something to warm her.’
With little, nervous movements the girl drew the ale from the small cask that stood in the corner, set the jug upon the range, thrust the poker into the fire to heat. She kept her face turned from Jessica and her bony shoulders were hunched defensively almost to her ears. Her thin hands shook a little.
‘You’ve made the room very pretty,’ Jessica said.
‘Thank you Ma’am – Y’re Ladyship—’ It was the barest whisper.
‘You come twice a week?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. Mondays an’ Thursdays. An’ Sat’days I help with the sheep with Petie.’
‘I see.’
The poker was hot. The girl took it from the fire and plunged it into the ale jug. The liquid seethed and sizzled. The girl looked around for mugs.
‘They’re in the cupboard in the corner,’ Jessica said, and was surprised at the obscure satisfaction it gave.
Silent and downcast Minna took two mugs from the cupboard and poured the ale as Charlie came back into the room. Bess, following him, padded with swishing tail across the room and lifted her nose to Minna, who patted the little bitch, her gaunt face softening. Jessica felt a sudden and absolutely absurd frisson of something very close to jealousy. In all the times she had known Charlie Bess had never come near her, let alone shown affection.
Minna, holding the mug carefully between two hands, brought her the drink. Jessica accepted it with murmured thanks. Her shoulder was hurting and so was her knee. She could feel her back stiffening a little. She felt quite ridiculously sorry for herself.
The ale was good, strong and hot. She drank in silence, watched as Charlie took the other mug, with no thanks, from Minna. Neither did he offer that the girl should share it. Minna turned back to the range, busied herself with her back to them. Bess lay close to her feet.
Charlie looked at Jessica. ‘How’s the shoulder feelin’?’
‘Painful.’
‘Aye. That will be. For a coupl’a days or more. Rest’s the best thing. Try not to use it.’
She nodded, finished the ale and stood up, supporting herself by the back of the chair, waving away his offer of help with an unconsciously arrogant gesture that brought him up short. ‘I’d better get back,’ she said, ‘before I stiffen up and can’t ride.’
He was reaching for his stick. ‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘No. Thank you. That won’t be necessary. I’m perfectly all right.’
‘But—’
‘No, Charlie. I tell you there’s no need.’ Her voice was sharp, and cool. She turned from him and left the room, facing the wind of the dark afternoon, a strange tide of ill-temper rising within her. She did not give the girl a word or a glance of farewell.
Quietly Charlie followed her. Perforce she had to allow him to help her to mount, for her shoulder was too painful to manage alone. Once in the saddle she jerked on the reins, taking them from his hands. He stepped back, unsmiling. His face was forbidding.
Infuriatingly, for she certainly had had no intention of mentioning the girl, she found herself saying, ‘I didn’t know you had someone to help you in the house?’
He shrugged. ‘She needed the work. Her father and elder brother bin laid off from New Hall. The mother’s poorly. The few shillings I pay the two sprats come in handy. The family’d be in the workhouse without.’
‘Why were the father and brother laid off?’
He clearly hesitated for a moment. Then he lifted his head, his eyes direct. ‘Seems Mr Giles thinks they’ve bin causing trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘They were tryin’ to organize the labour.’
‘Organize—? You mean – unionize? On New Hall land?’
Charlie shrugged a little.
‘I’m not surprised Giles sacked them. It would be a red rag to a bull!’
‘They were only tryin’ to do what they thought was right,’ he said, very quiet and mild.
Somewhere in the near distance a dog barked. Charlie turned his head, immediately alert. Jessica too lifted her head, listening, but heard nothing more above the bluster of the wind in the trees. ‘Was that the wild dog?’
He was still listening intently. ‘Could be. Damn’ it for a killer. I’d better get down to the pens. You sure you can manage alone?’
‘I can manage.’
He handed up the bottle of liniment he was carrying, and she saw the faint glimmer of his teeth in his dark face. ‘You could do worse than to try that, Y’re Ladyship,’ the title was faintly mocking. ‘Though you’ll stink to high heaven. Tha’ss got no lady’s perfume in it!’
She took the bottle, returning his smile. ‘I might at that.’ She turned the mare and walked her down the track into the wind. Behind her she heard his chirrup to the great, patient carthorse and the grinding of the wheels as the ungainly cart turned in the small yard.
It was some hours later, fussed and bathed and tucked into bed by an exasperatedly solicitous Angelina, before she allowed herself to examine the events of the afternoon and to recognize in honesty that the immediate antagonism she had felt for poor, defenceless little Minna had been something absurdly close to jealousy. Not so much of her, as of the change she had obviously wrought in Charlie’s life. At least until now if she, Jessica, had been alone then Charlie had been even more so. The austere and cold little house in which he lived had been eloquent testament to that. But this afternoon the warm room, the appetizing smell that had filled the little house, the small pot of evergreens so lovingly arranged upon the table had made a scene so homely that for a moment she had felt a stranger, an unwanted outsider intruding on another woman’s territory, and she had resented that. And what was more she was sure that the girl, for all the downcast eyes and still tongue, had returned her resentment in full. She knew she had not imagined the look in the shadowed blue eyes as they had rested on Charlie – any more than she had imagined Bess’ immediate and unquestioning acceptance of the small intruder’s presence. As she lay, drowsy from the medicine that kindly, fussing Angelina had administered yet still uncomfortable from the pain in her bruised shoulder, she found herself wondering what other services the girl provided for Charlie. Did they do together the things that she and Danny had done? Did he love her with his powerful body, did she cry out in the darkness of that little cottage as his great strength was spent in her? She moved restlessly. No! Surely not! Charlie wouldn’t find that pale little shadow of a child attractive! She could not believe it! Charlie was a man, with a man’s pride, a man’s strength, a man’s lust. Such milk and water wouldn’t – couldn’t! – be to his taste?
The fire that Angelina had built for her flared and glowed, making the room uncomfortably hot. She pushed the bedclothes back, wincing at the twinge in her shoulder, unbuttoned her heavy nightgown to let the cooler air brush her throat and breasts. Shadows danced upon the tester of the bed, flickered in the dark corners of the room. When she slept it was to dreams that were to shame her when she woke, stiff and sore, in the morning.
The weather worsened. Bad before Christmas it got even wilder in the New Year, with no sign of let-up, no mild spell to break the relentless battering of wind and rain. Oddly, though it was bitterly cold it did not snow. The wind cut like a knife, the sky was heavy and the rain drove in constant drenching gusts across the countryside. The river rose, swollen and yellow, sullen-looking as it sucked at the soft banks and tugged at the exposed roots of the trees. The mud was a squelching trap for foot and hoof, and a sheep once fallen could not get to her feet for the weight of rain in her fleece. The ewes, Charlie reckoned, were about six weeks off lambing: and the depredations of the wild dog were getting worse. In the middle of January they lost a valuable crossbred ewe to the animal. Two weeks later young Peter surprised the beast amongst the flock and drove it off, but a ewe aborted and valuable twin lambs were lost. Charlie was in a cold rage.
‘I’ll kill the bugger with my bare hands! See if I don’t!’
‘Did Peter see what it looks like?’ Jessica asked.
‘We’ve both seen it. Tha’ss like a bloody wolf – prick-eared, bushy tailed, mangy, grey. And fast as the devil.’
‘Where does it live?’
‘Tha’ss what no one knows. Moves about like a shadow. One minute tha’ss here, the next tha’ss over to Melford, or raidin’ at Links Farm.’
‘Well, let’s hope that someone stops it soon. With lambing coming up in a few weeks we don’t need a killer dog to contend with—’
Charlie’s finger closed over the worn stock of his gun, and he stared grimly into the driving rain. ‘Tha’ss not “someone” as is goin’ to get it. Tha’ss me. That dog’s mine, an’ I’ll get it if it kills me.’
‘Would it?’
‘What?’
‘Would it attack a human?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows? But if the weather gets worse an’ the livin’ out there gets harder I wouldn’t let a child o’ mine out in these woods alone.’
The bad weather made life hard at Old Hall. The roof sprang a new leak a day, or so it seemed to the exasperated Jessica. Wood rotted, water crept under doors and through ill-fitting window frames. The wind battered relentlessly at none-too-sound leaded windows and weakened brickwork. But January did eventually end, and February came, and that meant that the sale, and the money, were closer. And surely – the weather could not stay like this for ever?
Sarah took cold, out looking for the dead Sir Thomas in the rain, and was very poorly for a while, and Gabriella, nurtured in the Italian sun, seemed permanently to be sniffling and led poor Jane Barton, whose catarrh reddened her nose and puffed her eyes, a dance that brought her mother’s exasperated wrath upon her head more than once.
The days crept coldly on: two weeks to the start of lambing, six weeks to the sale. Painstakingly Jessica had, at her mother’s dictation, written yet another letter to the moneylender asking for another couple of months’ grace to pay Patrick’s debt. Over the winter the 1,000 guineas had become 1,050. In the cold church, sheltering from the rain on the way to put holly and greenstuff on Patrick’s grave Jessica suggested forcibly to St Agatha that a good price for Theo’s book was now essential – or it was not just the church that would be in danger of falling down.
And then, in February, the change in the weather came at last – but it was too much in such a year to expect that it might be a change for the better.
Jessica woke to darkness and to silence, the only sound the murmuring lap of the risen river. For a moment she could not identify the change, and then it registered. There was no sound of wind, no driving rain. It was as if an enormous dark silence gripped the world, bitingly cold. As dawn broke, reluctant and grey, the atmosphere grew if anything colder. Everything was frozen – the mud into irritating, corrugated, ankle-breaking ridges of brown rock, the puddles into dangerous sheets of slippery glass. As the day wore on the river edges began to clog with ice, and the trees were black with it. The sky hung in dark and heavy billows above the miserable, frozen world. In the afternoon, almost as if by sheer habit, the rain tried to fall but turned immediately to sleet that rattled the windows and bounced onto the hard ground where it lay like a layer of dirty broken beads. With night, it was a relief to draw the curtains and stoke up the fires. In the next couple of days the cold did not abate. And then, on the day that Jessica, tired of being cooped up in the dark and airless house, decided to ride to Tollgate House to see if all was well with her mother, the snow came at last.
It was a day as still as death, and as cold. Winter darkness sat upon the landscape still at noon, the very air leaden with the threat that hung in the clouds above. As she rode across the parkland it seemed that the world held its breath, and each sound was magnified a thousand times. A snapping twig was a pistol shot, the sudden startled rising of a bird enough to unnerve the mare and set Jessica’s own pulse racing in momentary and silly fright.
Maria was in peevish mood. ‘Truly, Jessica, you never did have any sense at all. What possessed you to ride over on such a day? It’s perfectly obvious that it will snow – and heavily.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mother. Old Hall is less than three miles away. I’ll leave before the snow starts. There’s no danger. Or if it comes down too heavily, I’ll stay until it clears. I’ve left word to say where I am. They won’t expect me home if the weather gets too bad—’
Maria turned her head. Almost any movement caused her excruciating pain now, but an onlooker would have to be very well acquainted with her to know it. ‘Well perhaps it’s just as well you’ve come. I’ve been meaning for some time to have a word with you.’
‘Oh?’
Her mother’s face was repressive. ‘It’s in my mind, Jessica, that all the hard work expended upon you was for nothing.’
Jessica was stung. ‘What on earth can you mean?’
Her mother, with the perfect timing that was a part of her armoury, hesitated for long enough for the now-faded blue eyes to move from her daughter’s untidy hair to the worn hem of her heavy and mud-stained riding skirt. With no word said Jessica felt colour rising to her face. ‘Just look at you!’ her mother said at last. ‘Slipshod and inelegant! Tell me – do you spend the whole of your life in the saddle, or hobnobbing with farm labourers and workmen? Do you never wear a decent gown, or entertain people of your own station? Jessica, you were wild as a child, and wild you still are. For your own sake you should take yourself in hand. It’s bad enough that your husband should have deserted you, and that the whole county knows it. At least don’t give them room to believe that he had good reason for going!’
Jessica was so taken aback that she could hardly for a moment speak. When she did, though she tried to keep her voice level, angry exasperation was clear in it. ‘Where Robert has gone and why is no one’s business but his and mine. And as for the way I dress and act – for heaven’s sake! – what do you expect me to do? There’s work to be done and no one to do it but me. I don’t have time to call on the local gentry and drink tea. Nor, to be truthful do I want to—’
‘Quite.’ Perfectly unruffled Maria nodded her head, her point proven to her own satisfaction. ‘Lady Felworth called the other day,’ she continued, inexorably, totally ignoring Jessica’s obvious annoyance, ‘she tells me that you haven’t once called upon her since you came home.’
‘Mother! Now stop it, do! You’re being perverse. And I won’t be treated like a disobedient child! I’ve no time for such things, both literally and figuratively. You know it. For heaven’s sake – if I called on Her Ladyship – can you just imagine the conversation? “And how is dear Robert? You’ve heard from him of course? Such a pity that he should have been called away again so soon – and with you and his poor mother left in that draughty great barn of a house – but then no doubt he’ll be home soon? Where did you say he’d gone—?”’ Jessica’s voice that had been lifted in parody of Lady Felworth’s drawling tones dropped to normal. ‘The woman is a gossip of the very worst order. A hundred years ago she’d have been ducked in the village pond!’
Her mother regarded her stonily.
‘And Patrick – you can’t tell me she keeps her tongue from Patrick? Such a juicy morsel that! “Such a lovely boy – wild, of course, I always said he was wild—”’ Jessica stopped, brought up short by the look in her mother’s eyes at mention of Patrick’s name. ‘No, Mother! I couldn’t stand it,’ she said, determinedly. ‘If the world doesn’t like the way I live my life then it’s something for the world to worry about, not me.’
‘You are isolating yourself, Jessica,’ Maria said quietly. ‘Cutting yourself off from your own kind.’
‘I’m fighting for survival. Mine. Gabriella’s. Old Hall’s. I’ve no time and no money. Pretty gowns and carriages have at the moment to run a bad second to roof tiles and winter feed.’
Her mother picked gently at the blanket that covered her knees. ‘Clara, you know, is quite making her name as a hostess.’
‘Good for her,’ Jessica said, shortly.
‘Don’t be impertinent, Jessica.’ Maria’s voice still held that note of authority that could bring Jessica up short.
‘I’m sorry.’ She was fighting to prevent herself from truly losing her temper. She realized how hard it must be on Maria Hawthorne to see the daughter-in-law she detested take her place in local society whilst her own daughter ignored her social obligations and got herself well and truly talked about. But her mother’s criticisms, unfair as she perceived them, cut to the bone. ‘You have to understand, Mother. I’m a grown woman. I have the right to make my own decisions, live my own life.’
‘And you think you’ve done that successfully up until now?’
Jessica took a long breath. ‘In your terms? I suppose not. In mine? Yes. I’m not a simpering silk-draped dummy who opens her mouth when she’s told to and keeps it shut when she’s not.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘The mistakes I’ve made have been my own, and I’m ready to live with them. I’ve made no one else suffer for them, that I know of—’
‘Defensiveness, Jessica, has always been one of the least attractive of your habitual attitudes.’
‘And—’ Jessica ploughed grimly on, ‘—when I’ve put Old Hall back on its feet, when the house is safe and the future assured, when the land is well managed and the flocks secure I shall know I had a hand in it – a real influence on what’s happened. I’ve discovered that that’s more important to me than the entertaining of the county, the petty gossip, the whispering behind the fans—’
Her mother was regarding her with a tart amusement that reduced her effortlessly to the status of a grubby eight-year-old. ‘I don’t think anyone whispers about you, Jessica,’ she said, mildly. ‘I have the strongest feeling that they say what they have to say about you in a perfectly normal tone of voice.’
Jessica found herself laughing at that again as she rode across the park towards the woodland path, the first soft flakes of snow drifting into her face. So her neighbours gossiped about her, did they? Let them. She was surprised to realize that it truly did not bother her – and she suspected in her heart that it bothered her mother less than she would have her believe. For all Maria’s sharpness there had been a certain twinkle in her eye. Jessica had the distinct impression that, though her mother would never admit to it, Maria Hawthorne harboured a certain pride in a daughter who, rightly or wrongly, stuck to her guns and did what she wanted to do. Jessica found herself wondering how much her mother guessed of the disaster of her marriage. She had never questioned, not even after Robert had left. Perhaps, Jessica thought ruefully, she simply did not want to know— She stopped, her train of thought suddenly broken as the mare whinneyed and pulled to the right suddenly. It was snowing much harder now, the movement quite dizzying, a little disorientating. She reined in the obviously distressed animal, peered ahead to see what had disturbed her. In the trees to the left a dark shadow moved. She walked the mare forward, softly. The snow was settling, drifting and whirling between the bare branches of the trees, limning the world in white. The flicker of movement came again, and then for a moment she caught a glimpse of a grey and menacing shadow, wolf-like, threatening.
The mare tossed her head, worried.
Jessica held her. The shadow moved closer. She waited, straining her eyes, staring tensely into the moving, swirling wall of white. For a moment she lost the vague shape, and then she found it again. It was ahead of her, cutting across her path.
She held the mare still.
The animal appeared not a stone’s throw from her on the path ahead. That it was Charlie’s wild dog she had no doubt. It was big, but carried no weight, its wolf-like head hung low between thrusting shoulderblades, its great tail swished menacingly. It looked half-starved and entirely savage. In the darkness of the afternoon its yellow eyes gleamed perilously. For several seconds they stared at each other, the dog with each breath making a venomous growling sound deep in its throat.
Jessica’s mount shivered beneath her. The dog took a crawling step forward, and then another.
Blindly Jessica set the horse at it. The smaller beast stood its ground for a moment, snapping with vicious teeth, then it turned and fled, swift and silent as a shadow, through the woods.
Jessica fought for control of the frightened mare. By the time she had brought it to a stand the dog had disappeared, in the general direction of Home Farm.
She patted the mare’s neck, calming her, and set off at a gallop down the snowy bridleway.
She found the dog’s tracks on the bridge, fresh, only a little smudged by the fast-falling snow. She followed them.
Like an arrow they led directly to the sheep pens.
The dog just beat her in the race. She arrived in time to see the animal leap effortlessly into one of the pens. The ewes, heavy with lamb, scuttled away from it, terrified, huddled into a corner, bleating plaintively.
The dog slavered, crawling towards them on its belly.
‘Get away! Get away!’ She almost fell from the horse, cast about for a stone to throw. The dog ignored her. As she straightened, a stone in her hand, a terrified sheep broke from the flock. The dog was on it in a second, tearing savagely at the struggling animal as the rest of the flock milled in panic-stricken unison.
Jessica watched in horror, seeing the blood that stained the muddy snow, hearing the desperate cries of the dying ewe. Beside herself with anger she flung the stone. It came nowhere near the dog. The ewe had collapsed, bleating pathetically.
Jessica scrambled back onto the mare, clapped her heels to the frightened animal’s sides and set off at a flat run, to Home Farm, Charlie, and his gun.
In the few minutes it took for her to reach the house, shout for Charlie and lead him, running fast, gun in hand, back to the fold, the place looked like a slaughterhouse. A ewe lay dead, the blood from her torn throat steaming upon the snow, her stillborn lamb dead beside her, its head torn from its body. Another ewe struggled weakly upon the ground, fleece torn and bloody. The slavering dog was in amongst the rest of the frightened flock, snapping and snarling, yellow teeth bared. A ewe went down to her knees, her belly contracting, and the dog pounced.
A black and white streak went past Jessica and Charlie like a flash of light. Snow whirled. Bess hit the stray dog like a thrown hammer. The wolf-like creature staggered and turned, vicious teeth glinting like knives. Bravely Bess went for him again. The fangs slashed. Charlie whistled sharply. The sheep milled, terror-stricken. The wild dog lunged at Bess, snarling its fury. Bess yelped, and blood appeared on her shoulder. Calmly Charlie raised the shotgun to his shoulder and took aim. A frightened ewe blundered across his line of fire. He waited. The grey dog had bellied to the ground, its eyes on Bess, who stood her ground courageously, snarling challenge. Jessica’s own fingers tensed as she sensed Charlie’s steady pressure upon the trigger. The bullet caught the beast in the throat just as it was about to launch itself upon Bess. The animal reared, blood spraying, and dropped to the ground.
‘Stay here.’ Charlie, gun at the ready, approached the fallen animal, ignoring for the moment the carnage about him, the desperate bleating of the sheep. As he approached it the dog twitched. He brought the gun to its head. Jessica looked away as he pulled the trigger.
‘Mr Best! Mr Best! That you? Wha’ss happened? Mr Best?’ Peter Newton, a small replica of his sister Minna, scrambled through the snow towards them. Charlie was striding back, reloading his gun as he walked.
‘Tha’ss that. It’s dead. Petie, go get the wagon. We’ll have to get those that are birthin’ inside or we’ll lose ’em sure. Take Bess. An’ see to that shoulder of hers. Then put her in the house. The last thing these poor beasts want about them now is a dog—’
Charlie whistled Bess. Limping a little the dog joined him. He patted her. ‘Good girl. Now off! Off with Petie! He’ll see to you!’
Peter turned and began to run back towards the house and barn. ‘Come on, Bess.’
The dog looked at Charlie.
‘Off!’ he snapped, and she went.
He looked around, shaking his head, grim-faced. Jessica fought nausea. Near them a half-dead sheep, blood spreading upon the snow, was giving birth. The lamb hung, moving weakly, all but dead, half in and half out of its dying mother. The snow fell, large pretty flakes, settling on the frozen ground, melting into the blood, feathering the carcass of the dead dog. Charlie knelt beside the ewe and eased the lamb from her. Then he picked up his gun.
The flock were settling a little, though they still milled aimlessly. Several had wandered off alone, bleating quietly, their sides heaving in the first contractions of birth.
Jessica jumped at the gunshot. The ewe stopped her struggling. Charlie scooped up the tiny lamb and put it in his pocket, strode to where another ewe was standing, head down, sides quivering. He ran his hands over her, straightened. ‘She’ll be all right.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Shut the gate.’ He was already moving to another sheep that was in some difficulty. Jessica, as she ran to shut the gate, heard him curse viciously beneath his breath, then he called her name, urgently, ‘Jessie!’
‘Yes?’
‘Over here. Quickly!’
She ran back to him. ‘Bloody dog got this one too,’ he said. ‘Hold her forelegs. She’s a gonner. We might be able to save the lamb.’
Jessica dropped to her knees in the stained snow. Faintly she could hear the sounds of the cart coming down the track to the folds. Charlie worked swiftly and surely. Jessica felt the spasm that ran through the poor creature whose legs she held as the lamb was released, and then the life went from the mauled ewe, and she stilled. Charlie worked on the lamb for a moment, then shook his head and stood up. The lamb lay, a tiny scrap, dead beside its dead mother.
Charlie rubbed his hands on his jacket and shook the snow from his hair. ‘We’d better get the rest of the poor little buggers in.’
They worked, the three of them, in the failing light, for nearly two hours, Charlie and Peter taking the lion’s share of the labour, Jessica helping where she could. Snow covered everything like a blanket, making the footing treacherous and chilling Jessica’s feet, in their inappropriate riding boots, to the bone. It settled in Jessica’s hair, melted and trickled down her neck. It crept through the fine leather of her boots and gloves till her hands were as numb with cold as were her feet. But she would not give up. Until the last sheep was in, the last lamb safely delivered she stayed with them, fetching and carrying, holding the lantern in the dark barn, assisting with the animals when she was needed. She watched as Charlie introduced the orphan lamb he had carried in his pocket to a mother who had had a stillbirth, watched as he rubbed the orphan against the dead lamb, soaking it in the liquids of the ewe’s labour before gently presenting it to the mother. The ewe sniffed, licked. The lamb, wobbling on unsteady legs, bleated softly.
‘Will it work?’ Jessica asked.
‘Tha’ss difficult to tell. Sometimes does, sometimes doesn’t.’ Charlie straightened. ‘Well looks as if we’ve done all we can fer now—’
‘I’ll stay with ’em, Mr Best. I don’t mind.’ Young Peter grinned staunchly. ‘Stay all night out here, if you like. Tha’ss as comfortable as home, an’ a lot less crowded!’
‘You’ll freeze!’ Jessica said. She herself was suddenly shivering violently, and her feet had lost all feeling.
The child laughed and shook his head. The past hours had forged a bond between the three of them that for the moment transcended age and station. Tomorrow, Jessica knew, he would be in awe of her again. For now he had lost his constraint with her, as had Charlie. ‘It’ll be as warm in the straw with the beasts as in me own bed,’ he said. ‘Might I ha’ a drop of ale an’ a bite to eat I’ll stay all night an’ watch ‘em.’
Jessica shivered again. Charlie glanced at her sharply. ‘Good God, look at you! You’re blue! Petie – you sure you’re all right out here?’
‘Right as rain, Mr Best. They’ve settled now, poor beasts. If I need you I’ll call.’
‘I’ll get something warm for you to drink, and some supper. Miss Jessica—’ Jessie registered the return to a more formal address with something close to regret, ‘—you should get something too, an’ warm up a bit before you go home. They’ll ha’ missed you at the Hall, I reckon—?’
She spoke through teeth clenched against chattering. ‘They’ll probably assume that I’m sitting it out at Tollbridge House.’ She shivered again, uncontrollably.
He frowned. ‘You’d best get back to the house straight away. I’ll be along in a minute.’
She did not argue. Truth to tell she was so cold that she could barely think. On feet that she could not feel she crossed the yard and entered the house. The snow was falling in earnest now, steadily and with purpose, as if it intended to bury the world by morning.
She opened the door to a blissful warmth. The early darkness of winter had fallen, and the glow from the range lit the room. She shut the door and leaned against it, tiredness washing over her. The smell of sheep, of blood and of other things she did not care to think of hung about her ruined clothes. She dragged the chair close to the range. For the moment her fingers were too painfully stiff with the cold for her to attempt to light the lantern that stood upon the table. She struggled out of her heavy cord riding jacket. It was soaked through to the shirt beneath. She looked around. Behind the door hung an old jacket of Charlie’s, enormous, tattered, but dry and warm. Taking it down she wrapped it around her shoulders, shivering, then hunched in front of the fire, rubbing her hands. The marrow of her bones felt frozen. Her divided riding skirt dripped with dirty water upon the floor, chafed her skin, the hem soaked and blood-stained. Awful as her feet felt she simply did not have the energy to try to remove her boots. She huddled under Charlie’s jacket, rubbing her arms and her damp shoulders. The jacket hung heavy and warm about her shoulders, and she smiled at the smells that reminded her of Charlie – the smell of the outdoors, of sheep, and of wood-smoke. She rubbed her cold face upon the rough, dry material of the collar.
When the door opened to a rush of cold air she jumped. Almost, cold and wet as she was, she had dozed. Her hands were coming to life and her face burned uncomfortably in the warmth of the fire.
Charlie strode to the table and lit the lantern. ‘Ale,’ he said, filling a large jug from the barrel in the corner and setting it on the range. ‘And bread and cheese for the boy. You all right for a moment?’
She nodded. ‘Just cold, that’s all.’ Her hands ached as the warmth crept into them and cruel stabs of pain had begun in her feet.
He set the poker in the fire. ‘We’ll soon have you warmed up.’
She heard him clattering behind her, opening cupboards, setting things upon the table. She set herself grimly to stop herself shivering and gritted her teeth against the pain in her feet. Charlie did not seem in the least tired or cold. She was not about to show less stamina than he. She watched the poker as it began to glow a little in the heart of the fire.
Charlie mulled the wine, set a pewter mug full in front of her. ‘Drink that while I take this out to young Petie. I’ll be back in half a tick.’
She sipped the drink, relishing its warmth and the comfort it brought as it slipped down her throat and spread its strength into her shaking body. It was hard to say if the pain of returning life in her hands and feet was any improvement on the frozen discomfort of half an hour before.
When Charlie came back he came straight to her. ‘Tha’ss Petie taken care of. An’ it looks like the worst is over. A couple are in labour, but are managing all right on their own—’
‘How many have we lost?’
‘Three ewes and four lambs. It could have been worse. If you hadn’t seen that killer—’
She leaned forward, grimacing with pain, and rubbed at her painful feet through her wet boots.
‘Good God, girl,’ he said, softly, ‘what kind o’ boots are they to be runnin’ around in the snow in? Give ‘em here—’ He knelt before her and held out his big hands. Thankfully she lifted her foot for him to pull off her boot, but could not suppress a sharp cry of pain as he jerked it from her painful foot. The skin was white and bloodless as stone, and as cold. He chafed it gently then set it on his lap and reached for the other boot. She could feel the warmth of his hands on her skin, but oddly at a remove, almost as if her feet no longer belonged to her. He rubbed them in turn, briskly and then gently as the warm blood returned and brought with it a glowing, aching pain. She caught her lip between her teeth. The momentary pain was excruciating. Unselfconsciously he opened his jacket and tucked her left foot inside it whilst he rubbed her right. His face was concerned. ‘Tha’ss right daft to have let yourself get as cold as this!’ he scolded, not looking at her, his big hands chafing her ice-cold ankle.
Her left foot, tucked close to his chest, had almost stopped hurting, and she could feel the warmth of his body begin to glow through her skin like the warmth of a fire. She looked at the brown, bent head, the intent face. She fought an impulse to put out a hand and brush away the bright drops of moisture that the melting snow had left upon his thick hair.
He tucked her right foot against his chest and started on the left one, rubbing the foot, chafing the ankle and the calf of her leg. She was warm now, glowing with warmth. Her shirt was uncomfortably damp on her shoulders, and she could feel the wet hem of her skirt against her bare legs.
The movement of his hands had become slower, more gentle. A small, delicious shiver that had nothing to do with the cold rippled through her. The warmth that now glowed in her like a live coal seemed centred somehow dangerously deep, dangerously disturbing. The scene was dreamlike – the kneeling man, the flickering light of the fire, the feel of his strong, work-hardened hands upon her skin. Eyes half closed she watched those big, stained hands against her own white skin, watched the curve of his long lashes against his weather-brightened cheek, the curl of his brown hair against his ears; watched and, dreamlike still, felt the warmth grow and spread to flood those deeper parts of herself that until now only one man had ever touched or known.
He sensed it. She knew he did. His hands ceased their movement, but he did not look up. His big hand closed over her foot, drew it with the other close to his chest. For a long moment neither of them moved. She could feel the calloused hardness of his palm on her delicate skin. Then, very suddenly, he lifted his head and looked at her. His eyes were narrowed a little, his mouth straight and unsmiling. Her heart had taken on an irregular, almost frightened beat. Neither of them spoke, but the silence was suddenly thick with excitement. His eyes searched her face, unafraid, unsubmissive, fiercely questioning. She could not look away.
He sat back on his heels, setting her bare feet upon the cold floor. The touch of his hand brought fire to her body. He watched her for a moment longer. Then he stood up, easy and unhurried, stood before her, towering above her so that she had to tilt her head far back to keep her eyes on his.
He offered his hands.
She sat absolutely still for a moment, and then almost without thought placed her small hands in his. Quite naturally and with no effort he drew her to her feet, close to his body. The jacket fell from her shoulders. Still holding her hands he bent to her and for the first time in a year she tasted a man’s demanding mouth. In that brief, aching moment she was lost. The treacherous demands of her young body opened her lips beneath his. She felt his body tense and harden, thrusting against hers. Then he stepped back abruptly and she was left, trembling and bereft, watching him with eyes that pleaded no matter what her efforts to prevent it.
He took a visible breath. His hands were fisted at his sides.
Sharply, with a movement so violent that it startled her he turned and, striding to a wooden door in the corner of the room threw it open with a crash. Beyond it she could see a neat stark room, its only furniture a rough pine chest, a dresser upon which stood a chipped china jug and bowl, and a bed, neatly made, its cover homespun and rough.
He lifted his chin, his eyes meeting hers in challenge. Stay – or go. I’ll not beg Your Ladyship. She heard the words in her heart as clearly as if he had spoken them into her ear.
Her head as high as his she walked past him into the tiny room. It was very cold, and the only light was that which fell through the open door from the other room. When she turned he still stood by the door, watching her, the arrogant confidence of him suddenly gone.
She lifted her arms. ‘I’m cold, Charlie,’ she said softly.
His loving was nothing like Danny’s, nothing like the cunning Guido’s. It was without subtlety or guile, a straightforward act of physical pleasure tempered by tenderness but brutally forceful and totally satisfying to them both. As she had known it would be. Her climax came almost as soon as he entered her, and then she was able to share with delight his demanding pleasure as he thrust himself to join her. Afterwards she lay, relaxed and tired, against his big, strong-muscled body, refusing to think, at ease and truly happy for the first time in months. Yet thoughts of the world could not be entirely blotted out. What they had done was, in the eyes of most of society, almost as bad as murder. If it ever came to light she would be a laughing-stock, ostracized, sneered at, scorned.
She sighed a little. ‘I had better go home. They’ll be worrying.’
He leaned on one elbow, looking down at her, his face sombre. As he opened his mouth she put a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t spoil it. Don’t talk about it. There’s nothing to be said. Just – we must be careful. For Gabriella’s sake. For my mother’s sake, and for Robert’s mother’s too—’
‘And for your own, Your Ladyship—’ He smiled, but the words held a tiny, bitter edge.
‘Yes. And for my own.’ No matter what, Jessica was still a Hawthorne.
She rode home through the steadily falling snow, Charlie striding beside her, and not once did they speak. In the darkness beyond the windows of Old Hall she reined in, bent to him and kissed him, long, hard and passionately. Then before he could stop her she chirruped to the little mare and rode across the drawbridge and into the courtyard.
It was, as they had both known it would be, a hopeless affair from the start. But yet, in those first months they could not keep away from each other. As spring brought green to the world at last and then burgeoned into a summer that in its warmth and splendour seemed to be trying to make up for the truly dreadful winter they made love not often but whenever they safely could, almost every time swearing, each in concern for the other, that it must be the last, but never being able to hold to their resolution, always coming together again in that small bare room beside the cottage. For those few short weeks almost everything for Jessica became subservient to those clandestine meetings. She was overjoyed when Theo’s books realized almost 2,500 guineas between them, thus covering not only most of the money that Robert had taken but the whole of Patrick’s debt as well; but as she talked to carpenters and tilers, workmen and bricklayers a part of her was with Charlie in that austere little room that had become their haven. She never tired of his lovemaking, never tired of the beauty and force of his strong, work-toughened body; but yet she knew that if they were to avoid disaster they must break with each other before they were discovered. It was not only Jessica’s peers who would be shocked and disgusted by such a liaison – Charlie had to live with the village and its prejudices. He too, were their association made public, or even suspected, would be ostracized by his own kind. Both their lives could be ruined. Yet still they hungered for each other.
They lay one early May afternoon, half-sleeping, warm sunshine slanting through the unshuttered window and falling across their bare legs. Jessica wriggled her toes a little. A cuckoo called as she flew across the woodland that was lush with the year’s new growth. The gentle bleating of the sheep was as much a background noise as was the song of the birds, so familiar had it become. They had followed Charlie’s plan and enlarged the flock in the spring, when the other farmers were short of feed, and the land across the river had, to Giles’ unconcealed chagrin, come to Jessica. Jessica knew from her mother that at the last moment he had offered the money for it himself, hating to see New Hall land returning to Old Hall, but Maria had been adamant. Her bargain had been with Jessica, and she had stuck to it. Thinking of Giles Jessica stirred a little, her dislike of her brother twinging like a touched nerve. Relations with Giles and Clara were certainly at a low ebb, and their latest snub, though she denied it vehemently to herself and to others, had stung.
Almost as if reading her thoughts Charlie, whom she had thought to be sleeping, said suddenly, his eyes still closed, ‘Ha’ you spoken to your brother this week?’
She turned her head on the pillow, surprised. ‘No. Why?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘Wondered what?’
His eyes opened. ‘If he’s told you. About the letter.’
‘Letter? What letter? Oh—’ Jessica grimaced, ‘Not another of those stupid threatening things?’
‘Tha’ss right.’
‘This come as a warnin’ for you – iffen you doan get rid those machines you’ll ave your stacks burned afore next moon – signed, Cap’n Blood!’ Jessica’s voice was half-amused. ‘Oh, come, Charlie – you don’t take these things seriously, do you? Giles must have had at least half a dozen—’
There was a small silence. ‘There’s bin strangers in the village,’ Charlie said, apparently inconsequentially.
Jessica had been stroking his chest, that was furred with hair like the warm pelt of an animal, playing with the nipples that stood erect and dark among the soft brown hairs, watching in mischievous amusement as his tired body stirred to the rhythm of her playing fingers. At his words she stopped, coming up on one elbow, a small frown furrowing her forehead. ‘What sort of strangers?’
He pulled a face, deliberately nonchalant, not looking at her. ‘Just – strangers. Talkative, like.’
‘Talkative about – machines? About New Hall’s threshers?’
Again apparently at a tangent he said, ‘There’s bin some bad trouble north of here.’
‘Yes, I heard. Riots. Barn and rick burnings. Machine smashing. Are you telling me there’s some connection?’
His face was peaceful. ‘No idea. Don’t have no threshers meself. But—’ he turned his head, ‘—worth watching, p’raps. Worth tellin’ someone – someone who might be at risk, like – to keep an eye—’
She knew the effort that warning her must have taken. In common with the rest of the local population Charlie detested Giles and the regime at New Hall that had impoverished the village and filled the workhouses to overflowing. But Giles was Jessica’s brother, and warning had been given.
She smiled a little. ‘Thank you, Charlie. I’ll pass it on. If I get a chance.’
‘What about the big shindy on Saturday? A word in an ear – naming no names—?’
She made a small, rude sound in which amusement was sourly tempered. ‘I’m not going to the May Ball. I wasn’t invited.’
His eyes, that had closed sleepily, flew open again. ‘Why not?’ he asked, sharply.
She shrugged a little. ‘I’m given to believe because of my delicate position in being a deserted wife. My dear brother and even dearer sister-in-law want to shield me from any unpleasant gossip. Any excuse being better than none at all. I don’t care. I didn’t want to go to their beastly silly ball anyway.’
He turned his head, looking up into her face. His eyes were sombre. ‘You sure tha’ss the reason?’
‘Of course it isn’t. They just don’t want me there.’
‘No other reason?’ he asked, quietly.
‘Of course not. What other reason?’
‘Try – you carryin’ on with a farm hand,’ he said. ‘Try – rumours an’ gossip an’ people that can’t keep a still tongue in their head.’
She shook her head, positively. ‘No. I’m sure that isn’t it. You know that Giles and I don’t get on. And Clara and I have never been exactly bosom friends. Why should they bother to ask me to their ball? I probably wouldn’t have gone if they had. No, Charlie, this is a family affair. Nothing to do with us. No one knows.’
He tucked an arm about her and drew her to him, close to his side, his other hand reaching to cradle her small head on his shoulder. ‘It can’t go on, Jessie,’ he said. ‘We have to stop. For both our sakes.’
Her hand slid down his body. ‘Once more,’ she whispered, feeling him stir beneath her fingers. ‘Just once more. Then we’ll stop.’