The letter lay on the table before him. He had read it three times and now he leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the bookshelves at the far end of the study, letting Felicity’s writing, her small, well shaped words in their black ink, run around in his mind.
‘You will be glad to know that Laura is recovering, although she still needs my presence here. Therefore, and this is difficult for me to say to you, Rupert, I have decided that our engagement must end. I find Italy a beautiful place to live, and I feel settled, with lively and interesting new friends around me. And I know you would never leave your old home in Devonshire, so I fear this must be goodbye. I trust you are now quite recovered from your accident. Again, I am sorry, but they say that time heals, you know. With best wishes, Felicity.’
So that was the end of the proposed marriage. No new mistress for High Cross Manor. No amiable companion to accompany him into shared old age. A heavy sigh broke through his darkening thoughts. Alone, as ever. And he had hoped that Felicity, for all her brusque bossiness and comparative youth, would release him from that solitude. But no. It wasn’t to be.
After a pause of some moments, he straightened his aching back, reached for writing paper and began composing his reply. It was short and to the point, saying that he understood and agreed with her decision that the engagement must end. He wished her happiness and then, before signing himself, paused and narrowed his eyes, wondering how she truly thought of him. Sighing, he wrote, ‘Sincerely, Rupert Fielding.’ No affection, indeed, no more pretence, but reality. He had never become her lover, and now found he wasn’t really interested in the life ahead of her. So why not make his feelings clear?
Indeed, as the minutes passed, he began to tell himself that her rejection was a kind of blessing. After all, he was no longer alone – he had a daughter. Becky was part of his life now, a real blessing which he was already enjoying. Leaning back in his chair he allowed a smile to lift his heavy face. Becky was a strong and vital young woman who seemed to have some slight affection for him, as well as an admirable sense of duty.
And that brought Joseph Freeman into his thoughts. A man he had at first thought to be a useless and wild peasant, until their exchange of thoughts at the fair had minimized his dislike, even bringing a grudging sense of admiration in their wake. Freeman loved Becky, that was very clear; as, just as obviously, she loved him. And Freeman had said he was intent on working until he considered himself a suitable husband. Well, time would prove those optimistic words. And in the meantime it wouldn’t hurt to introduce Becky to a more respectable society.
Rupert’s thoughts shifted then to Nat Briggs who would be here tomorrow morning, coming for orders as usual, and would be told about Freeman’s need to fight him. Of course, thought Rupert, scornfully, Briggs would argue and do his wretched best to get out of it. But if the winner of the fight should be awarded a good purse – what then? Nat Briggs, he knew, with a wry curl of his mouth, would do all he could to put his hands on that money.
Rupert considered. Where should the fight be held? A deserted stretch of more or less level moorland was needed. He visualized the various miles of his property and his eyes brightened as he found the very place. That flat piece of downland behind Bonehill Rocks. Out of sight of Widecombe below, away from passers-by, half hidden by the huge rocks with enough level turf for two men to work out their fury. Somewhere easy enough for watchers to gather unseen. His landowning friends, always ready for some sport, would probably be delighted to fund a purse, and it should be easy enough to instruct some tenants who had suffered beneath Briggs’s bad temper to prepare the ground and act as sticklers and seconds. He chuckled. There would probably be a large audience, all intent on hopefully seeing Briggs get what he deserved. Was Briggs bound to lose? He was a slight man, while heavily built and taller Freeman would have a natural advantage over him. But knowing Briggs, Rupert suspected he might well have some tricks up his sleeve. No, it would not be an easy victory for Freeman. But it would be a fight well worth watching. For a moment his thoughts took him back to youthful similar bouts, money being lost and won, and old feuds avenged. He was looking forward to it.
With a new purpose ahead of him, Rupert felt a return of his old strength. He pushed Felicity’s letter into the top drawer of the desk and left the study to call Tom from the yard, give him his own letter to post and tell him to harness Justice; he had some calls to make amongst his friends and a word with both Tom and Eddy about likely estate farmers to help organize the match. Striding into the yard he recalled a few words of that letter. Time heals. Yes, he felt it might well do so.
Nat Briggs left the maister’s study next morning in a state of confused fury, half of his thoughts veering towards enraged resentment – he, the estate bailiff, being threatened with dismissal in this way? – and half planning how to ensure Freeman’s downfall. Because it was vital that the fight that the maister was organizing must end in his own victory.
‘There will be a goodish purse, Briggs, you can be assured of that,’ Mr Fielding had told him, looking down his long nose and leaving no doubts as to his distaste for the man standing before him. ‘But just remember that your situation as my estate manager rests on the outcome. I would have sacked you long before this on account of all your nasty little cheats and frauds – and don’t forget that you still have to repay those embezzlements – but I needed your work to continue for as long as possible before replacing you; reliable estate managers are hard to find. So if there is the slightest chance of you cheating or breaking rules in the fight, then you’ll be out. Understand?’
Silently seething with rage, Nat’s reply had been quietly subservient. ‘Yes, sir. O’ course. No question of it. You should know that I’m an honest man mostly….’ The expression on the maister’s face forced an explanation. ‘I mean, money’s always hard to find, and sometimes, it’s a bit of a temptation to—’
‘Get out, Briggs. Get on with that work over at Worth’s farm. Those pigsties must be repaired without any more delay. And be polite to the farmer and his wife. I’ve had complaints about your behaviour.’ A last freezing stare over the desk and a final order as Briggs headed for the door. ‘Just make sure you’re up at Bonehill on the day and at the time I plan.’
Nat stomped downstairs, thundered through the kitchen, ignoring the stares of Nellie Mudge and, outside in the yard, wary words from Tom Abbot. He kicked the cob, hardly controlling his pace as he reached the lane and headed for the main road and Hexworthy. Those bloody pigsties. That bloody farmer, Worth. And when that’s all done, he must make plans about the fight. Freeman’s name brought Becky into his mind and again his rage exploded. This was probably all due to her, the bitch persuading Fielding to look on Freeman more kindly. Well, when the fight was over, the watchers would know who had won, and who would remain estate bailiff without any more to do about it. Just wait and see.
Becky and Thirza climbed into the trap which Tom Abbot had driven into the yard.
Dinah, feeding Flower, the pig, waved as they headed out towards the lane and the road to Moretonhampstead and Becky said, ‘What can we buy as a present for Dinah?’
‘Some’at for the wedding, p’raps,’ Thirza said thoughtfully. ‘She’s got nothing new – wonder what she’ll wear?’
They looked at each other and laughed. ‘Her ole blue,’ they said together.
Thirza thought for a moment. ‘I haven’t started sewin’ that material you bought the other week in Newton – why don’t I make that up for her? Just make a size bigger’n you, maid, for she’s got a proper curvy figure.’
‘That’s a good idea, Ma. And I’ll buy something she can wear with it when she walks up the aisle – something pretty she’d never buy even if she had the money. We’ll have a good look around.’
They did. Once the trap was left beside the White Hart Inn, with Tom saying he’d wait in the tap room for their return, Becky and Thirza went from shop to shop, enjoying the freedom of not working and of being together. They chatted as they went, as companionable and loving as they had always been and Becky saw that Thirza had left behind her much of the quiet unhappiness that had been building up over the years.
She thought about their recent visit to Grace’s grave, understanding now that the past can easily cast a wretched spell over the present if it is allowed to do so. Just like the grave beneath Bowerman’s Nose – folk repeating the old story until it seemed to be still living. How much better, she thought, to let the past rest and just live each day as it comes. And this was what she was trying to do with her own life. Grace’s sad death was behind her, although never to be forgotten. She knew that Father would always need a part of her, and this she would never deny him, even when she and Joseph were together. She wondered how life would be if Mrs Felicity Richards came back from Italy and married Father. Would she, the illegitimate daughter, be welcome at High Cross Manor any more? Or would the new mistress push her back into the old farm home?
But wherever she landed up, she told herself resolutely that it would only be a temporary shelter, for Joseph had promised her a home, and he would find one. And then, of course, another shadow suddenly edged into her mind – what about the fight Father had said he would arrange? Joseph and Nat Briggs fighting…. Becky blinked away the anxiety and said quickly to Ma as they entered the dressmaker’s little shop, ‘We’ll look at a pretty hat for you, Ma – Dinah’s not going to be the only handsome maid at her wedding.’
It took an enjoyable twenty minutes or so of trying on before Thirza finally settled on an ivory coloured Leghorn straw, trimmed with ochre and pale gold braid, with a large satin bow dipping over the side. ‘But I can’t wear this,’ Thirza kept saying nervously, looking at herself in the mirror, and then back at Becky for reassurance. ‘It’s too fine for me.’
‘Nothing’s too fine for you, Ma. You’ve done without things for so long, you deserve a lovely hat, and I want you to have this one. A few flowers on the brim and you’ll be a picture.’
‘Well….’ At last the hat was packed up, while Becky searched for a gift for Dinah. The local lace school had arranged its products on a small table at the back of the shop, and there she found just what she was looking for – something expensive and rich, something Dinah would never have thought of buying. Picking it up, Becky felt the soft texture of the handmade lace collar and pictured what it would look like, an elegant decoration of flowers and flowing tendrils at Dinah’s throat, catching all eyes and enhancing the simple new dress that Thirza was making.
‘I’ll have this, please.’ Becky found money in her pocket and shook her head when the dressmaker offered to put both purchases on Mr Fielding’s account. She had received her wages and wanted to share them with her family. What the future held regarding money she had no idea, but this was an important moment. She longed to give something to both Dinah and Thirza to show her gratitude for all their love and help during the bleak days of the recent past.
‘You Freeman?’ The postman stopped in the yard, bag over his shoulder, one hand on the pony’s bridle, the other holding out an envelope to Bill Narracott, and staring at Joseph, just coming out of the farmhouse.
‘Gotta message from Mr Fielding. Ses to tell you five o’clock next Saturday at Bonehill Rocks.’ The man stared, curiosity etched on his leathery face as he remounted.
‘Thank you.’ Joseph nodded and continued on his way across the yard, pausing as Narracott shouted after him.
‘What’s all that then? Sat’day afternoon? You wants time off?’
Joseph went back to the old man. ‘Something very important. I’ll make up the time.’
Bill Narracott’s eyes, set deep in his weathered face, held a gleam of knowledge.
‘Important, eh? I heard as ’ow that Briggs most likely’ll get what’s comin’ to him. That’s it, then?’
Grimly, Joseph nodded. ‘That’s about it, Mr Narracott.’
‘Oh ah. An’ not before time. All right then, you gets your Sat’day afternoon.’
‘Thank you.’ Joseph paused. ‘But I have to take a couple of mates with me. All right for Mr Hunt to come?’
The old man stared. ‘So that’s the way o’ it. Need your friends around you, eh? Sounds like a fighting match – is that what you’re up to?’
So the word had got out. No secrets on the moor, thought Joseph wryly. Well, he could use it to his advantage, perhaps. ‘Yes,’ he answered shortly. ‘I’m fighting Briggs an’ I need my mates as seconds and sticklers. Dan’l has said he’ll be there if you let him off the last few hours of the day.’
Narracott said nothing but slowly nodded. And it was only as Joseph turned away he called after him. ‘Where is it again?’
Joseph looked back. ‘Bonehill Rocks. Five o’clock.’
Their eyes met, Narracott nodded, and then they went their separate ways.
Dan’l waited until crib time when they sat in the shade of the wall they were repairing. ‘Ole man said all right ’bout Saturday.’ He grinned as he bit into a chunk of hard bread. ‘Looks like he’ll be there. These ole chaps, they like a good wrestling match. It was all the rage fifty years ago but died out then. Now you’re starting it up again. But can be cruel stuff. How do you feel ’bout it?’
‘I’ll beat him. Briggs is all mouth, he won’t last long.’
Silence while they drank cold tea. Then Dan’l said carefully, ‘Course, he could well be up to tricks – we know what he’s like.’ He glanced aside at Joseph. ‘Look out for a few tricks, lad – tripping, kicking, even gouging if he can get away wi’ it.’
‘I will. Thanks. And how about letting me see your dad’s, what did you call them? Skillibegs?’ They laughed at the forgotten word. Then Dan’l cut into an onion and said, ‘You want to watch out for him kicking, an they’ll protect you. Briggs’ll know all about that, probably bake his boots to make ’em hard. You don’t want no broken legs, lad, not if you’re going to follow the rest o’ your plan for the future. ‘
Joseph leaned back against the wall, his mind busy, knife and bacon forgotten on the turf beside him. ‘You mean doing what old Satterly did? Yes, I’ll keep out of trouble all right. But I’ll need more than just you beside me, Dan’l; need a few more mates to keep control and use their sticks. Think I’ll drop into the Forest Inn this evening and ask for helpers.’
Dan’l packed up his bag, corking the bottle and storing both behind a handy gorse bush. ‘You won’t need to ask. All round here, we wants to get even with that bloody Briggs. You’ll see. Men like Andy Burridge, who suffered from losing half his profit over timber sales to the little shit. Try him.’
‘Thanks. I will.’
They got to their feet, spat on their hands, and went back to work.
In the farmhouse at High Cross all the talk was of the wedding, arranged for three weeks’ time, after the banns had been called. In vain had Will said crossly, ‘Gotta get the ’taties clamped first and the oats stored. Can’t just be runnin’ off to church at any old time.’ But his half smile at Dinah took the edge off his words and Becky felt a new sort of warmth filling her and casting out lurking shadows. Will had changed so much since Dinah’s arrival, but on the other hand she also realized her place in the family circle was being replaced. No room now for another seat by the fire. No extra bed upstairs for the nights when she didn’t want to go back to the Manor. Thirza was busily turning out her bedroom ready for the newly married pair, putting her few belongings into what used to be Becky’s little attic. The only sleeping place now was a blanket and some pillows on the settle beside the dying fire. And because of the discomfort and the cold feeling of no longer belonging, Becky usually returned to her comfortable bedroom at High Cross Manor.
The Manor was quiet and Rupert Fielding was out for most of the next few days. Becky waited for him to return, and filled up the time by working on the accounts and then, with Ruth, going into the third bedroom and seeing what needed to be done. But the relationship between them was different. Ruth was uncomfortable whereas before they had worked together quite happily. Becky was in charge now, the daughter of the house and after a few hours of silent, awkward work in the room, she left Ruth to finish off the windows and mirrors and went back to her own bedroom.
After washing her hands and face, changing back into the green dress and tidying her hair, she sat on the bed, looking out of the window and wondered about life. She had to wait for Joseph to do what he had promised. A house somewhere. Their home. And slowly it came to her yet again, like warmth filling a cold body, that this was what she longed for, to be caring for her home, cooking for Joseph, sleeping with him in a small, cosy bedroom beneath the thatched roof.
She watched the sun slowly fade as it slipped down towards the far horizon, and with its light her smile also faded. What if Joseph didn’t return? If he couldn’t find them a house? If he failed to find the job that would sustain him through the rest of his working life? And then even worse, what if he were injured in the coming fight? It took all her strength to stop thinking such black thoughts. Then there were horse hoofs outside in the yard and Tom’s voice, so she hurriedly left the room and went downstairs in search of her father.
She must find out what he had arranged about the fight. She hated the thought of it, but of course she must be there, watching, hoping and praying. All her strength would be needed, and, leaving the house, and raising her head defiantly, she knew that somehow she would find it.