He left her at the farmhouse door, kissing her and whispering, ‘Wait for me, Becky, won’t you?’ before turning and striding away down the yard.
She watched for a moment and then heard other footsteps. Will came out of the shadows, a gun couched on his arm. Face to face with Joseph, he stopped abruptly and said harshly, ‘What you doin’ here? We don’t want you here, Freeman. You brings trouble. Leave Becks alone, get outa here and don’t come back.’
Becky gasped, about to fly at him, but she froze as he raised the gun, leveling it at Joseph’s chest. A bitter silence swept through the yard, broken only by hard breathing and then Joseph’s deep, controlled voice saying, ‘I’ll go now, but I’ll be back and you can’t stop me, Will Yeo.’ She saw him turn away, striding purposefully into the darkness, and felt a cold hollowness fill her body.
Will came up, stood looking at her and frowning. But his voice was warmer. ‘He’s no good. Don’t think no more o’ him – come indoors, maid.’
She went in slowly, not looking back, her mind a slough of thoughts, images and voices, so that Thirza’s greeting – ‘Ah, maid, I hoped as you’d come home’ – didn’t at once make sense. She looked blankly around the lamp-lit kitchen, smelling the familiar scents of fire, oil, food and worn clothes and then, gratefully, felt the old warmth of home banish the pain that was surging through her.
‘We heard ’bout the maister,’ Thirza said anxiously. ‘Is he any better?’
Becky unwrapped her shawl, watched Will come in, set down his gun and claim his usual fireside chair. She decided not to burden Ma with this latest problem, so said quickly, ‘Yes, Ma, he’s sleeping now. That’s why I’m here, ’cos he likes me to sit with him when he’s awake.’ She caught the look on Thirza’s face and sat up straighter, meeting her mother’s questioning, anxious eyes.
‘He’s poorly,’ she said defensively. ‘He needs looking after.’
Thirza bowed her head and turned to the fire where the kettle was humming. ‘I’ll make tea.’ Her voice was low, and she looked, thought Becky, frowning, full of sorrow and anxiety.
‘What’s wrong, Ma?’
No reply for a moment and then, ‘Will an’ me, we wants to talk to you, maid. Somethin’ serious.’
‘Yes?’ Becky tensed. She didn’t want more problems – surely there were enough of them already, casting shadows over her life. But she had to release the anger inside her. Words burst out. ‘I don’t want to talk to Will, he’s so hard and I don’t—’
‘It’s for your own good, Becks.’
The blue eyes, looking across the room, had thawed. She stared, wondering what new game this was. Three years older than her, he had always tried to boss her around, and was still doing so, but there seemed some odd change in him tonight. Even his voice was more caring, the words slower than usual. ‘Mr Briggs has offered for you, maid.’
Becky caught her breath. ‘Offered? You mean—?’
She couldn’t say it, but Thirza did. ‘Wants to make you his wife. Wants you to marry ’im.’ The thin voice grew stouter. ‘It’d be a real good chance fer you, Becky, love – estate bailiff ’s wife, an’ he promises to do up his cottage. Why, just think—’
‘I’ll never marry him! He’s rough and dirty, hateful – how could you possibly think I might? And you want me to? Both of you do? No, you can’t! I won’t!’
She was on her feet, raging at them as she flung herself around the room, feeling all the anger inside her striking out; her eyes blazed, her fists belaboured the air and her strident voice echoed off the shabby walls.
Thirza was the first to answer, persuasive and loving. ‘But, maid, you’ll be set up for life. Safe. No more hard work like ’ere, chances of nice clothes, an’, – an….’ Meeting Becky’s wild eyes, she faded, huddling on her stool, a sad, teary figure, shaking her head and dissolving into silence.
‘She hasn’t thought it through.’ Will stood up, came to Becky’s side and laid a hand on her heaving shoulder. ‘Don’t say no more. Let’s have tea an’ then I’ll walk you back to High Cross Manor. C’mon, maid, sit down.’
Boiling water pouring onto twice used tea leaves. A slide of burning wood sending a glitter of ash onto the hearth. They sat down in silence, sipped the tea, each deep in thought, until Will said, more cheerily than Becky thought she had ever heard him speak, ‘Wanna hear ’bout Dinah, d’you, Becks? How she’s gettin’ on?’ and Becky knew that she owed it to her family to return to everyday matters and leave the awful suggestion of marrying Nat Briggs for another day.
But she had to accept that, like Will had said, she must think about it.
Later they walked together down the lane, heading for the Manor, as the fast moving clouds released the brilliance of stars overhead. The little owls that nested in the woodland were on the hunt, small voices carrying through the still quietness, and Becky slowly felt her anger drawn away into this peaceful night as she listened as Will, for once in his life, it seemed, talked easily to her.
‘Dinah’s doin’ well, Becks. Hard worker an’ she makes me laugh.’
Makes Will laugh? Becky found herself smiling at the idea, but also wondering what gift plump little Dinah possessed that was clearly making Will more affable, even more cheerful. Whatever it was, she felt a warmth of filial affection spread through her.
‘So, in a way, it’s good that I’ve gone and you’ve got Dinah instead.’
He didn’t reply at once, but looked at her sideways, and then nodded, before saying slowly, ‘So what ’bout that Freeman chap, eh? You don’t want nothin’ to do with him, Becks. I warned him off.’
‘You and your gun,’ she said with a quick blaze of returning anger. ‘After a fox, were you, and then heard us come home?’
‘Aye.’ He said no more, but she knew from the slouch of his shoulders that this was a tricky subject and best to leave alone.
‘Thank you for walking back with me, Will. I’ll come again when I can. And in the meantime—’ She stopped, turned to face him as the Manor farm yard opened up before her, and suddenly, on an impulse, kissed his hoary cheek. Her brother, with all his own problems and thoughts. He deserved her love. ‘I’ll think about what Nat wants, Will. But don’t hope too much. And don’t talk to him. Well, goodnight, now,’ and she ran towards the kitchen door.
He waited, watching her go into the house, heard the latch bang to behind her, and then turned, striding rapidly back along the dark lane, going home. He wondered briefly if his warning to that useless Freeman chap was enough to keep him away, and then, half smiling, went back to thinking of Dinah and her funny ways.
Two days later, Rupert Fielding insisted on getting up. Nat Briggs brought the village midwife and general cottagers’ helpmate to help dress and shave him and Becky brought up a breakfast tray to the study where the invalid somehow got himself to the table and chair and sat there, glowering into the brilliant sunshine that brought the dusty, shabby furniture into high relief.
‘I shall write a letter to Mrs Richards and you can ride over and give it to her, Briggs.’ His voice was crisp and testy. Becky, pausing at the door to make sure he had all he wanted on his tray, thought that this was a different Mr Fielding from the quiet, dour man she had first met. The accident had, in some way, woken him up. Now it was clear that he intended to move on, to make his life more important, to perhaps tend to the estate and look forward to his wedding to the elegant Mrs Richards. She felt glad for him and then, making her way back to the kitchen, wondered at the feeling.
Nat Briggs appeared in the middle of the morning, the letter sticking out of his coat pocket. ‘I’m off to Moreton, back for dinner,’ he said importantly. ‘You, Becky, go up to the maister. Ses he needs you for something.’
She looked at Nellie, who sighed, nodded her head, and carried on making pastry.
About to leave the kitchen, she encountered Nat waiting in the doorway, looking at her with a grin which she immediately feared. Very low, he said, ‘I’m gonna talk to you when I gets back. Make sure you’re here, see?’
She made no reply, kept her eyes down and slipped past him into the escape of the hall. But going up the sweeping staircase her heart raced and she felt a return of the old anger and rebellion. She would have nothing to do with the man. Only one thing mattered: she would wait for Joseph to come back and save her.
Rupert Fielding looked up as she entered the study. She bobbed. ‘Mr Briggs said—’ but he cut her off at once.
‘Yes, I want you. Pull that chair over and sit down. Here, by me.’
Becky could hardly contain her curiosity. Why should she be given this unexpected privilege? She bowed her head and murmured, ‘Yes, sir,’ as she obeyed.
‘Now.’ Rupert Fielding looked at her very keenly. ‘You can write, and read?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you good with figures? Here, look at this.’ He pushed an open book towards her.
Becky looked at it with trepidation. What if she couldn’t please him? But as she slowly took in what the book contained, interest grew. It was a ledger, showing credits and invoices. Memories of her school arithmetic prowess rushed back – adding, subtracting, multiplying. Yes, she could make sense of all this. But what did he want of her? She looked up at him. ‘I know what this is, sir.’
He smiled, an easing of the frosty expression that had greeted her. ‘Good. Excellent. I had a feeling that you were more intelligent than the usual servant. Now….’
Becky flinched and sat back on the hard chair, but his long fingers were spreading over the page, stopping at various names and amounts, and she realized her feelings might be hurt but to him they couldn’t matter less. She concentrated hard.
‘These accounts,’ said Rupert Fielding, frowning, ‘go back several years. Years in which I have to admit I let things go. I didn’t scrutinize them sufficiently. And now I realize I must make amends.’ He sat back in his chair, grimacing with pain as he did so, but looked at her with new interest. ‘Or at least, you will do it for me. I will teach you what needs doing – it won’t be hard. You see, I shall have enough to do getting the house into better shape before Mrs Richards and I marry so you will oblige me by sorting out these accounts. And if you find any deficiencies, or suchlike, then you must tell me and I’ll do something about it. I suggest you come up here every morning to do the paperwork – we’ll do it together, to start – and then continue with the household duties after that. You understand?’
Becky drew in a strengthening breath before she replied, meeting his eyes fearlessly and raising her chin. ‘Yes, sir.’ She hesitated. ‘May I ask a question?’
He frowned. ‘Well?’
‘Forgive me, sir, but surely Mr Briggs, your bailiff, could do this for you? Isn’t it part of his job to handle your estate finances?’
Silence. Rupert slowly stretched out his legs, put a hand to his back and rubbed it, still staring at her. Becky was suddenly afraid. She had been insolent and could well be sent off without any reference. She knew that, all her life, this rebellious feeling had been her great difficulty, and now, she had probably spoiled everything.
‘A good question, Rebecca.’ He shifted again, the pain bringing a rictus of anguish across his long, grey face. ‘And one I wouldn’t have expected. But I’ll answer it because I can see your intelligence is enough to understand and do what I am asking. Well, Mr Briggs certainly does deal with the tenancy fees and suchlike, but I don’t intend to let him loose on them any more.’
They stared at each other and she had a sudden flash of knowledge that was warm and reassuring. Nat was in trouble. Which meant he could have no power over her. She smiled.
‘I’ll do what you say, sir. I’ll try hard to learn. But, please, may I have an hour or two off every day to go home and see that my mother is well? She – she worries about me.’ Their gazes remained locked until he nodded, and gave her a freer smile than she had ever received before.
‘Does she?’ He looked back at the papers in front of him. ‘You’re an astute girl, Rebecca.’ A moment’s pause, and then, ‘Briggs refers to you as Becky – so that’s what I’ll call you.’ He looked at her, direct and demanding. ‘Yes, you may go home for a short while in the evenings, but now, I’d like you to start straight away. Here’s pen and paper and the files dealing with all the farms are over there in that cabinet. I’ll explain as we go along. I’ll take a short walk – tell Nellie you’ll be here until dinner time.’ Slowly and painfully he rose, put a hand on the back of his chair and looked down at her. She saw the hint of a smile touch his thin mouth.
He looked at her in silence and then, ‘I thought I heard you singing to me, when I was just becoming conscious again,’ he said slowly. ‘You have a sweet voice. Something about a sprig of thyme, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Becky was amazed. She would have liked to ask then about his mentioning of the girl Grace, but already he was limping towards the door, looking back at her and saying, ‘When you’ve finished for the day put the book back in the top drawer, lock it and always bring me the key. I’ll be up here again very soon. In the meantime, just read through the pages and make what you can of them.’
The door closed behind him and she was left looking at the figures on the pages before her. But instead of feeling resentful, Becky instinctively knew she was being drawn towards a new step of her life’s journey. Where might it take her, she wondered, but then she looked down at the figures in the book, switched her thoughts, preparing to try and recall all the knowledge she had gained at school.
She was helping Nellie dish up the midday meal when Nat Briggs rode into the courtyard, tied up his cob and then marched through the kitchen without saying anything. Becky thought he looked important and wondered what message he was carrying to the maister. They soon found out.
Ten minutes later Rupert Fielding hobbled downstairs and stood, leaning against the door jamb, Nat Briggs a shadow behind him. In a cold, rapid voice, he said, ‘You had all better know that my hopes of bringing Mrs Richards here soon are delayed for a while. She tells me that she has had to accompany her sick sister who is going abroad for a month. Well, perhaps this is just as well. It will give us more time to get the house into better shape. But I shall need someone to organize things.’ Dark eyes rested on Becky. ‘Come to my study after dinner. I want to talk to you.’ Clumsily he turned, leaning against the door for a few seconds, and then as Nat Briggs stepped away, slowly limped towards the hall.
Nat Briggs swaggered into the kitchen, sat down in the chair Nellie always used, and said enjoyably, ‘Bad news, it were. She don’t wanna come, clear as daylight. Went white as a sheet when I told her ’bout the accident. Reckon she don’t fancy an injured husband.’ He laughed coarsely. ‘Wouldn’t be up to much, would he?’
Nellie and Becky exchanged glances. Then, ‘You got proper nasty thoughts, Mr Briggs,’ said Nellie acidly. ‘If the pore lady got to take her sister abroad for health reasons, then it makes sense that she can’t come here, surely. And now, if you wants your dinner, get yourself cleaned up first, if you please. I don’t like nothing dirty round my kitchen table.’
The meal was eaten in silence and Becky’s thoughts, for once, avoided Nat Brigg’s presence, although he sat opposite her. She was sorry for the maister who must have hoped so much to see his lady. Indeed, must have needed her here while he was so weak. And whether the excuse was a valid one or not, she felt that Mr Fielding deserved some sympathy. And then, suddenly, why did he want to see her again? She hurried Nellie through the washing of the dishes, and was thankful to see the back of Nat Briggs, who had tried to get a quiet word with her and then flung off in a flurry of temper when she said shortly, ‘Not now, Mr Briggs. Mr Fielding said he wants to see me, so I must go.’
He sat in the study, his dinner tray pushed aside on the table and an open letter in front of him. As Becky knocked and was bidden to enter he looked at her and nodded at the chair beside him. ‘Sit down. We have to make plans.’
She sat, watched him draw a paper towards him and read through what was written, his pencil moving from one item to the next. And, although she guiltily berated herself for doing so, she slid her glance towards Mrs Richards’ letter, open and seemingly forgotten, in front of her.
…Amazed that you expect me to come while you are in such a state. Surely you have servants who can nurse you through this foolish accident? And meanwhile, I am taking Maria to Italy because her poor lungs need the warmer winter air. I will write when I expect to come home again….
Such an unkind, unloving message was enough to instantly push Becky’s quick emotions into a depth of new compassion. She had already felt that the maister needed her help and now, whatever else he asked her to do, she knew she would at once respond with cheerfulness. Even with some odd and unasked for sense of fondness, perhaps. The idea was strange, but she accepted it.
Looking at his lined, creased face, occasionally tensing with spasms of pain as he moved in his chair, she told herself that she would be helpful and obedient. And perhaps, as they got to know each other better, he might tell her how he came to know her song, The Sprig of Thyme.