Rupert Fielding looked at her across the desk and she saw how fast he was ageing now. Some of the brightness had gone from his dark eyes, and as he spoke, she thought that his voice was no longer so demanding, as he said slowly, ‘Things have got on top of me. And now, with this back – well, there’s so much to do.’ He pulled Felicity Richards’ letter towards him, gave it one glance and then sighed, pushing it into a drawer in the desk.
Becky didn’t know what to say, but her sympathy for him made her suggest the first thing that came into her mind. ‘I’m sure Mr Briggs will do all he can to help.’
He looked at her with a curious half smile. ‘I’m sure he will. But even Briggs won’t know about cleaning up the house. We need more help, another girl from the village, perhaps.’ He stopped, nodded, face full of thoughts. ‘A man to do the other work, see to the beams, the window frames that need mending, all that sort of thing.’
Wondering if she was speaking out of turn, she said, ‘I could find someone to help with the housework, sir. She and I could do all that’s needed with the cleaning. Would you like me to – to….’ The expression on his face made her stop. Had she gone too far?
No. Indeed, she thought she saw a brief look of relief. ‘A good idea. Yes, see who you can find – someone reliable, young, who won’t mind hard work. We shan’t need an interview if you find the right girl. Not as if she’ll be responsible for anything if she’s working with you. And Nellie Mudge can still give a few orders. Although—’ Abruptly he stopped, narrowed his eyes, continued to stare at her.
‘What I need,’ he said very slowly, measuring his words, ‘is a woman in charge of all the work. Not fair to ask Nellie to have to do it as well as the cooking and the rest of the kitchen work.’ A pause and he still looked at her. Then, slowly, ‘What about you? Think you could take on the housekeeping duties?’ A wry smile briefly softened his face. ‘You seem to know what you’re about – you’re not stupid, are you?’
Becky wasn’t sure exactly what she was. Kitchen skivvy, accounts keeper, and now – housekeeper? It was all happening too quickly for her confused mind to know where to turn. She sucked in a deep breath, thought hard, and then said quietly, ‘No, sir, I’m not stupid. But I’m not sure if I can deal with all the things you’re asking me to do. I mean, you engaged me to work in the kitchen, didn’t you?’ She paused, but it must be said. ‘And now you’re asking me to look at your accounts, still help Nellie, and then tell a new girl how to clean the house. I – I don’t know whether I can do all that.’
He sat up straighter, began moving papers on his desk and looked down at them. ‘Of course you can. You’re intelligent, and,’ he glanced at her and she saw that for once he was smiling as if he meant it, ‘there’s something about you. You’ll do it all. And I’ll give you a good wage.’
She met his eyes and felt herself returning the smile. This was all very strange and she felt as if she was becoming closer to Rupert Fielding. Could she believe what was happening? And could she do it? Still confused, she kept looking at him, saw the smile grow.
He nodded. ‘You’ll do, Becky Yeo. I’m a good judge of people’s capabilities, and I have no doubt that you’ll not only clean up the house but put my accounts right and make a thorough job of it. I think you’re an ambitious girl, so give me your answer, and then we’ll get down to making plans. Yes or no as housekeeper?’
She said ‘yes’ without further deliberation, and felt that their exchange of smiles signified another shift in their odd relationship. And then she added the final, important part of the bargain. ‘Sir, please will you explain to Mrs Mudge? Before I go back to the kitchen?’
He seemed amused. ‘Kitchen politics, eh? Very well. Ask her to come up and see me when you go down. Don’t worry, she’s a sensible woman. She knows a thing or two. I’m sure she’ll understand that this is a good move for her.’
Joseph Freeman was contented, working on the new set of pews in Manaton church. The Reverend Mr Broadland, who had engaged him, left him alone without too many visits to inspect the work. As usual, he felt at one with his woodworking tools; his long hard fingers enclosed chisels and knives, saws and hammers, and he knew he was working on something important to his being. Not just a job of work, but a piece of craft that meant more than the week’s pay and the hot meal at night. It meant he was slowly discovering what his life held. Sometimes, as he worked in the silent church, old images filled his head; the first job after leaving the workhouse with farmer Eli and his beaknosed wife Lizzie. The beatings, the coldness of the attic bed, the ever lasting hunger. Until he ran. And that brought more images: sleeping between rocks out on the moor, with bracken piled into a mattress and a blanket; eating berries when he could find them; copying the ponies and sheep and nibbling leaves and stems; stealing fruit from a farm orchard. And then the Reverend Mr Gosling, elderly antiquarian and folklore collector, and the first kind person in his life, had found him, one day, at the end of his small tether, taken him back to the vicarage, washed, fed and clothed him and then discovered that this bony little imp showed intelligence as well as a lot of curiosity. So he had learned as he grew into adolescence; so many things. The old songs the reverend collected. The pleasure of learning to read and write. To speak clearly. To treat other people with manners. And finally, to be himself. No longer the wretched little Jack Adams from the union, but a new person with a new name. Joseph Freeman. He gave himself the stimulation of this new name, knowing that Freeman would help him to find the freedom he craved. Free to discover where his life would take him. Free to travel and eventually find his future.
So, accompanied by many snatches of songs remembered from Mr Gosling’s collection, the carvings grew slowly but with pleasure and great craft. Sometimes he thought about Becky Yeo and smiled. Yes, he would find her again. Miss Freckles. Becky Yeo with the determined mind and thick chestnut hair. The girl who wanted to be kissed, and who would be, again, sometime soon. At the moment he was too occupied to make plans. He sang a couple of snatches of the Sprig of Thyme and settled more deeply into the carving. He was content.
Until one morning, Nat Briggs came into the church and stood behind him and he saw a shadow fall across the rose he was carving. Turning, he looked into closely set, sly eyes and at once recognized the threat that puffed out Briggs like a territorial bird fighting its corner.
Deliberately, he put down his chisel and hammer and leaned against the pew, straightening his back. ‘And what can I do for you, Mr Briggs?’ There was cynical note in the words and Nat instantly picked it up.
‘More what can I do for you, Freeman, ’cos you an’ me must have words. That message you brought the other night – not so important after all, I found, going to the Reverend. He said it would’ve done next morning, he did. So why did you think to get me out at night? An’ if you got a reason it’d better be a good one.’
Joseph studied the small man standing a few inches too close to him. Saw sweat on his leathery face, smelt rankness in his breath, and knew that if he cared to do so, he could floor Briggs as easily as if he were a small annoying mouse in the flour bin. But he wouldn’t do so. The man was irritating, that was all. So, raising an eyebrow and smiling, he turned back to his work, picked up the chisel and said casually, ‘Don’t make so much of it, Briggs. Seemed a good idea at the time – free supper and a look at the pretty maid we’ve both got our eye on.’
Nat grunted, snatched at his arm, raised in the act of completing one small rose petal, and tried to pull him around. Joseph turned, said tightly, ‘Leave me be. I don’t want to hurt you, so get out of here and take your foul thoughts with you.’
‘You’re fooling with that maid!’ Nat burst out. ‘You leave her be, she’s mine and she knows it. And now you know it. too. An’ I’ll see that you gets a bad name, Freeman. What I say goes round here. I can get you out of work just as easily as I got you that harvest work on the Yeo farm – remember that.’ He was breathing fast, his eyes dilated and the words spitting as he spoke.
Joseph frowned. ‘Get out,’ he said very quietly, and raised the hand holding the chisel. ‘Get out and leave that maid alone. She’s not for the likes of you, or me, probably, but I don’t want you sniffing round her any more. You hear me? And if you do bother her, I’ll deal with you and by God, if it comes to that you’ll be no use to anybody afterwards.’
They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Nat took a step back. His mouth lifted and he showed yellow teeth in a snarling grimace. ‘Just wait,’ he growled. ‘Just wait. I’ll get you, see if I don’t.’
Joseph waited, smiled tightly, and watched Briggs march away, leave the church and bang shut the door. No backward look. Just the sound of horse hoofs trotting off, and then the old peaceful silence returning. He rested against the pew for a long moment, breathed in a huge breath and then looked at the chisel, still in his left hand. Sharp enough to maim or even kill. But only a threat. He would never use it – never desecrate its magical use – to do anything other than carve wood. But if Briggs had taken it as a threat, then all to the good. And now – just wait and see what would happen next.
He continued with the carving, completing the rose flower, and then started on the first leaf, and while he worked he thought of Becky Yeo and slowly he knew that he must see her again, very soon. She was in his life, in his dreams and that little trouble maker Briggs must never be allowed to take her away from him. Because – and here he paused in the middle of veining the leaf – he wanted her himself. Longed for her in a way that he had never felt before. Because she was important in some way that had only just begun to make itself clear.
Yes, he must go and find Miss Freckles again – soon.
Nat Briggs cornered Becky, late in the afternoon, as the light faded and the old house became shadowy. She was coming upstairs after going to the village and asking young Ruth Hext to come and start work the next morning. The Hext family was poor, father Nathan suffering with his chest and not permanently in work, so Ruth had been pleased. ‘Workin’ at the big house? Yes, I’d like that, Becky.’ Then she’d stopped. ‘I mean, I s’pose as you’re Miss Yeo now – housekeeper, are you?’
Becky had nodded, smiled. ‘Yes, I am, Ruth, but no need to think anything’s different. Becky’ll do.’ But even as she walked home, she had known that everything was suddenly different. And of course the village would be the first to know and talk about it.
‘Becky!’ Now Nat had his hand on her arm, swinging her round to face him. She saw the gleam in his narrowed eyes and flinched, stepping away from him. But he came after her, this time pulling her by the waist so that she couldn’t move and found herself facing him, too close, too tightly held to escape.
‘Let me go. What d’you want?’ As if she didn’t know.
He grinned, showing his teeth. ‘They’ve told you? That I wants to marry you?’
Becky struggled. No use. He was holding her in a vice of tight arms, his rank breath warm on her half turned away face. ‘If you let me go we can talk. I won’t be treated like this. Just let me go, Nat.’
Slowly he released her. ‘Tell me as you will. Tell me now.’
She strengthened herself for what she knew must come as she said fiercely, ‘No, I won’t marry you.’
‘You got to! It’s only sense, see – me the estate bailiff and now you the one in charge here in the Manor – we can make a good pair.’ His grin sent a shiver down her back. ‘Good pickings to be had, my maid. An’ we’ll be happy, together, you an’ me in my little ole cottage. Just the two of us, warm an snug, an’ I’ll give you babies.’ He sniggered and again pulled her close. ‘Cos I’ll love you proper, Becky.’
Footsteps approaching and she jerked herself away from him, turning and running in the opposite direction while Rupert Fielding’s sharp voice echoed down the passage. ‘Briggs? What’re you doing here?’
In the distance she heard obsequious, muffled words from Nat. She reached the kitchen in a flurry of quick breaths and was thankful to shut the door behind her. Things had happened far too fast today and although she had told Nat she wouldn’t marry him, she knew that he would keep pestering her. It was a thought that created shadows at the back of her mind. She saw Nellie Mudge standing by the hearth, thoughts flying across her lined face and Becky knew at once that Nellie had talked to the maister and now looked ready to confront the new housekeeper.
Becky went up to her, saying quietly, ‘I hope you understand that the idea is to take a lot of extra work off your back, Mrs Mudge. And it’s just that I’m younger – perhaps a bit stronger – and there’s so much to be done.’
They looked at each other, and then Nellie sighed as she sat down heavily in the chair beside the fire. ‘Aye, I understand. And you’re bringing in another girl, he said. Well, that’ll leave me to do the cooking. Not what I expected, but there.’ Slowly she smiled and then added, in a lower voice, almost as if she spoke to herself, ‘O’ course, I’m not surprised. You belong to the house. Right that you should give the orders.’
Becky pulled a stool from under the table and slowly lowered herself on to it. She frowned. ‘What do you mean, Mrs Mudge? How can I belong to the house? I don’t understand.’ But, even as she spoke, she heard Thirza’s voice going on about something bad happening. Was it to do with the Manor? With Mr Fielding? A name whispered? With Grace?
Nellie fidgeted and bent her head. ‘No, no, I’m just speakin’ out of turn. I don’t mean nothing.’ Her eyes, shadowed but sharp, met Becky’s. She nodded and then smiled more easily. ‘You been busy today, maid. Time for a sup o’ tea. An’ you can tell me all the plans now that you got a new girl to help you. Bedrooms are finished, so it’ll be the morning room and the drawing room, I dessay. An’ you’ll have to get in a man to deal with those window frames.’
Drinking tea all was quiet, Nellie going on about the plaster that was wet in the dairy, and how that Briggs never helped, just made trouble. She eyed Becky warily. ‘Keep away from him, maid. He’s no good. And one of these days the maister’ll learn just how bad he is….’
Becky nodded, thinking that Rupert Fielding already had knowledge of some bad accounting – she began to wonder what else might turn up in the days ahead.
Every day seemed shorter than its predecessor. Cleaning, turning out, taking down curtains and tapestries and pictures, searching in corners and cupboards and finding filth and spiders and even vermin, took time and stamina. Ruth Hext was a strong girl and worked well, but even so, Becky found it all tiring and thought provoking. But to keep the work up to a high standard, she reminded herself that, when the maister’s parents lived here in the Manor, it must have been a beautifully kept home. Then the thoughts developed: how could he have borne the following years when decay and dirt masked all the wonders of the old structure and its magnificent decorations? And, slowly, she came to realize that many of his old ways of neglect and loose living had changed since the accident, and then wondered if the blow on the head had liberated some old, forgotten ideas. But what with checking on his accounts, first of all with his help, and now on her own – and finding many cases of deficiencies – she was thankful each night when, candle in hand, she traipsed up the old stairs and fell on the iron bedstead.
All her thoughts, it seemed, were of work and what must be done today. So it was a surprise when Ruth arrived one morning with the latest piece of news spreading around the village. ‘That Joseph Freeman been put off from the church over to Manaton.’ The girl’s eyes were sharp with enjoyment, gossip always bringing pleasure into dull lives.
Becky, on her way upstairs, paused in the open doorway and looked back. ‘Why? What happened?’ For a moment she was elsewhere; out in the dusky evening, held close in a warm, strong embrace that had comforted her, thrilled her, taken her into new worlds. His name brought it all back, and she waited for Ruth’s answer with an uneasy feeling of urgency.
‘Reverend Mr Broadland found the Poor Box gone. Reckoned only that Freeman could ha’ done it. So Reverend put him off right away. Left the carving unfinished, so that’s a pity, ’cos we heard as it were good.’
The Poor Box stolen? But that was absurd. Joseph wasn’t a thief. Becky said quickly, ‘But why was he suspected of taking the money? Could have been anybody – the church is never locked.’
Ruth tied her apron around her waist and said happily, ‘Course it were him – Mr Briggs said as how he knew Joseph Freeman for a bad one and wouldn’t never let him near such as the Poor Box if he’d had his way.’
Nat Briggs. Becky sucked in a great breath and tried to control her rage. ‘That’s a load of rubbish,’ she snapped over her shoulder, and ran up stairs before Ruth said any more.
In the study, taking the account book out of the locked cupboard and setting it on the table, Becky saw only Joseph’s face before her. He was smiling, looking at her with that smile that eased all her anger and pain. She almost heard him say, laughing in that deep voice, ‘Don’t take on so, Miss Freckles. Briggs and me have got a big sort out coming one day. But for now I’ll go on my way.’
Standing motionless at the table, she thought she heard him as she stared blindly out of the window and wondered what was happening to her. Of course he and Nat had to sort things out – one day. And of course Joseph was going on his way. That was how he lived. Away from her.
Very slowly, she let out her held breath and sat down, trying to look at the black figures on the pages in front of her. But she still heard him, deep inside her head, and she was able to weakly smile as she imagined him saying, ‘I’ll be back, Becky. One day.’