‘Poor old devil!’ Jos thought as he rode back from the funeral. ‘I guess in a way I’m slightly responsible for his death too. Is there a spell on me? Is there?’
His thoughts were a web of logical reasoning and suspicious invention. After all, he told himself, the Squire was an old man and it was obvious that George’s death had just precipitated a natural end. The old man had died peacefully in bed which Jos considered a fine way to go. What worried and upset Jos was the fact that people, and especially Mayos and their kin, seemed to die where he went.
‘Did old Joseph put a spell on all of us Howards that day? He killed John. I’ve killed George—what comes next? Does Peter kill Jon? God forbid!’
The Mayos were just too big to forget. Even in their poverty they were still the largest landowners around. Why is it land gives power, he wondered.
‘I’ve only fifty acres. I could do with more land but where can I get it? Certainly never from Mayo’s and now the Squire’s dead all that land goes to Mayo’s too!’
What would Sarah have advised? How Jos wished he could talk to her. At times, he was acutely lonely. He had no spiritual friend to consult or who could console him. If Peter were bigger—he sighed to himself.
Just where did he go from here? Business was going to boom. He knew that. The demand for good horses was fantastic and here he had vision and skill. He knew he could make money. Lots of money to hand down to Peter and that was the only thing to count now. Peter! He must settle down, erase these weird thoughts and bring up a fine son to make a splendid man.
* * *
Which is exactly what he did. Even Jos had to admit to himself that he had done a splendid job. At twenty Peter Howard was Jos all over again. A great, upstanding man with a gentle nature, honest face and popular with everyone. Especially the girls.
But Peter had no intention of being hurried into anything. He went out with the girls. Called on them and danced attendance enough to satisfy any girl’s heart but no further would he go.
Jos watched in amusement. Peter was the catch of the county. He had been given a fine education at one of the lesser public schools and his schooling had been finished off with dancing, fencing and shooting. Peter could hold his own anywhere, Jos thought with pride. He wondered idly what Ann would have thought about their son.
What had happened to her he never knew and cared less. Peter was his product. Often he forgot that a woman had been involved in the boy’s creation.
‘What are you going to do now, son?’ he asked one evening after dinner.
‘Do? Why, work here with you and breed even better horses!’ Peter replied in surprise. He had an excellent relationship with his father.
‘And marriage?’
Peter grinned. ‘Plenty of time for that. When I marry it’ll be to the best only!’
With that, Jos had to be content, but even he began to feel some alarm as the years passed and Peter still lived a single life. Wasn’t he ever going to settle down? Ferndale must have an heir apparent.
So when Peter brought his Jane home Jos was almost speechless with surprise and delight. She was a pretty, vivacious girl full of mischief and Jos could see the couple were head over heels in love with each other.
At twenty-six Peter had kept his word and chosen only the best. Jane Evans came from a respectable family in the Midlands and was the only daughter among a brood of boisterous boys. Jos gathered that his son had met his fiancée on one of his frequent journeys around the country delivering the valuable greys for sale.
Peter married his Jane in a burst of celebration which had the house thronged with friends and family. Ferndale exploded into new life.
Jane was a small, dark-haired girl with thin, delicately chiselled bones which gave her face an elfish look. She had deep brown eyes which twinkled and her lips seemed to twitch constantly with joy at life itself.
She had a mischievous nature and, at times, was just a little girl as she sped through the house like a miniature and likeable storm. She was not above playing tricks on her two men as she called them and she so bubbled with vivacious life that from dawn until bedtime her chuckling laugh echoed around Ferndale.
Peter adored her. She was his jewel of life. She could do no wrong and Jos was perfectly well aware that this imp of a girl could twist him around her little finger with consummate ease. Once he tried to act the crusty father-in-law but she saw through him in a flash, ruffled his hair and ran away entirely unimpressed with his mock sternness.
It was a happy year. The family was small but Jane’s spirit welded them into a tight-knit little group and it was a debatable point who was more excited when she became pregnant.
To Peter his jewel of a wife became even more precious and, given the chance, he would have coddled her in a cocoon of absolute safety but Jane laughed at him. She had no fears about her condition. With a commonsense unusual for those days she told her worrying Peter that such an event was normal. She was well: she brimmed with life and health. If she did not worry—why should he?
For men who bred animals it was somewhat astonishing that they did not appreciate the smallness of Jane’s pelvis. The danger to her in childbirth was something that neither man perceived. Perhaps they were too happy, their joy blinding them to danger.
When the tragedy came it was sudden in its onslaught. Her pregnancy had been normal but when she went into labour Jos had his first presentiment of danger. He sent for a doctor from Bristol. One of the grooms being despatched at top speed and told to ride the horse into the ground if necessary but to get a doctor back quickly.
When a hot, tired doctor finally arrived Jos told him his new fears. After an examination the doctor rejoined the older man and confirmed what Jos had expected.
‘She’s very small and it’s going to be a big child. She’s strong but not that strong.’
‘Do something! Anything, but save her!’ Jos told him knowing as he uttered the words what would happen. The doom-feeling was so strong in the house that he shivered as if it were mid-winter.
When Jane eventually died, worn out after an appallingly long labour, Jos and Peter were shattered. They were unable to comfort each other but just sat in opposite chairs each man deep in his own thoughts.
Jos thought his heart must break now. He had lost the sweet girl he loved so much. His friend was gone forever—but what was his grief compared to Peter’s? Peter had never dreamed this would happen. Right to the very end he had hoped and prayed to no avail. Even the birth, at last, of a fine son had failed to touch him. All he wanted was his Jane. His tears of anguish had driven Jos to leave the room and stagger downstairs.
Peter Howard never did wholly recover from the loss of his beloved Jane. Very slowly he changed to a sombre man who rarely smiled. He hardly ever mixed now and he never again showed a lot of interest in another female.
With the passing of the years Jos had hoped that he might marry again. Peter was a fine catch. Many a girl rolled her eyes invitingly at him. To be Mrs Howard was something indeed. Ferndale was a very prosperous stud but Peter was disinterested in marriage again. A vital spark had left him. His only interest was in tending to the property and rearing his son Robert.
‘It’s queer, thinking back. Our family only ever seem to produce the one living child. I wonder why?’ Jos asked himself one fine evening on his sixtieth birthday.
As usual he was working on his diary. He peered again at the last page, covered with his sloping handwriting. Every night, since just after Jane’s death, he had written down the day’s events. As he had vowed so many years ago, his son Peter should know his full history and so must Robert. It was only right and proper.
Jos had started his diary with the events of his father’s death. The young John Mayo in 1816. Often he thought about the early days. Of old James and Sarah. Everything he had been told had been faithfully recorded. The pile of papers was thick and kept in a leather box whose cover Jos had skilfully carved himself many winters ago.
Jos leaned back in his chair. Slowly he let his eyes roam around the room he loved so deeply. Over the years the cottage had changed drastically. It was a comfortable, warm and cosy home, strictly masculine in appearance despite his housekeeper’s attempts to instal items of femininity. Both Peter and Jos scorned frilly cushions and fancy curtains. It might have been different if Jane had lived.
Jos knew that the men looked a trifle askance at him. They respected him. They admired him but they did not like him. There was about Jos the aura of tragedy and death. To be friendly with Jos Howard was not easy and with Jos’s life story common knowledge men were inclined to be wary with him.
They sympathized with Peter Howard. He treated them well. Their wages were above average and he had the men’s loyalty and affection. Something Jos knew would never be his. Not that he minded. Ferndale was Peter’s now in everything but name. Jos did not care a damn whether men liked him or not. At sixty years he was extremely fatalistic.
His great joy was Robert. What a boy! He was eleven now. A bright, mischievous imp of a lad with laughing eyes and cheeky grin. He was worshipped by the men and utterly spoiled by their wives. Already he could ride a straight line over country on his pony and Jos had promised him a grey for his next birthday.
‘The future rests with Robert and it seems bright,’ Jos told himself thankfully.
Robert was quite horse mad and vowed, when he grew up, he was going to be a rough rider like his Grandpa had been.
Sometimes the boy’s questions had hurt as he probed back into the past.
‘But Grandpa, if my great-great-grandfather was James Mayo doesn’t that mean we are all relations to the Mayo family?’ he had once asked.
Jos had nodded slowly, wondering what was coming now. ‘Well, in that case, why don’t they like us then?’
Jos had sighed wearily. ‘I’ve told you, Rob,’ he started patiently, ‘There’s been lots of trouble between the two families long ago. They sort of blame me for all of it.’
The boy had puzzled about this. ‘But why?’
‘Look, Rob! It’s all written down in my diary. You’ve looked at it before!’
‘But I don’t understand all of it,’ the boy had said slowly.
‘Well, in that case, leave it until you’re grown up and then you’ll understand. This will all be yours one day and Rob, look after it!’
The boy’s mind had changed direction. ‘I know they don’t like me but I like them—or at least—one of them. I like Giles very much,’ he had confided.
Jos smiled at this. It really was a wonder any Mayo liked a Howard after the past years of Maud’s bitter teachings. Jon had been brought up under a rigid hate-Howard-code. Even old Sarah would have admired it.
For years Mayo’s had been a mess. When Maud finally died, worn out with her vituperation, Jon had quickly and quietly married Julie Coleman, a very distant cousin. She brought with her a substantial dowry which Jon put to immediate use. Slowly, over the long years, Mayo’s had started to better itself and become a productive farm once again.
Julie gave Jon three children in quick succession then, after two miscarriages, decided enough was enough and produced nothing further. James was born in 1863 followed by Mary in 1864 and Giles in 1865. The three Mayo children were incredibly different almost as if they had been bred from alien stock.
James was a firebrand and, Jos suspected, inclined to be rather spiteful if he couldn’t have his own way. Mary had a sweet and pensive nature. Giles was a rock. Solid, determined and reliable. Jos approved Robert’s selection. Giles was the best of the Mayo bunch though, being the younger son, what good that would do he had no idea. The odd thing though was the resemblance that Robert and Giles had for each other. Facially they could have passed as brothers.
Jos knew that Jon hated him every bit as much as had George which, after growing up under Maud, did not surprise or worry Jos in the least. What did concern him though was the future behaviour and relationship of the next generation.
Robert seemed without hate for anything at all. Peter had been so engrossed in Ferndale since Jane’s death that to a large extent Jos himself had brought Robert up. Of the Mayo children Mary was too sweet a child to harm or hate any living thing. Giles, tough, square and solid, was a boy not given to making any hasty decisions but whatever he did finally decide would be final. James though was a different kettle of fish entirely. Already James was aware of his position in life and inclined to be cocky and play the young master. There was just a little too much of George in James.
Jos did not learn this all at once. Gossip was natural in the country and took the place of newspapers in an age when many still could only read a little. Although he did not fraternize a lot Jos was able to acquire any information he wanted when in Chipping Sodbury taverns and indeed even in Bristol.
With the growth of Bristol itself the surrounding Gloucestershire villages had also developed. More schools sprang up and thus Robert and the Mayos had little to do with each other to Jos’s thankfulness. He suspected that, once or twice, Robert and Giles had met and even fought though nothing was ever said outright.
Ferndale thrived. Sarah would have been so proud, Jos acknowledged, though even then he guessed she would still have been crying out for the return of their land. The property was a shade small for the amount of business the Howards now did.
Long ago Jos had foreseen the danger of steam. He had sold all his carriage horses and concentrated instead upon fine riding animals. Others less astute had clung on to the glory of the coach and lost everything.
‘If only we had a bit more land,’ Jos had said one evening to no one in particular. ‘Ferndale is too small for us now.’
‘But what chance have we of getting land around here?’ Peter had asked him while Robert watched both adults. Saying nothing yet missing nothing either.
‘That’s the trouble. No Mayo will ever sell us land. James can break the entail when he comes of age, if he wants, but he’d die before he sold to us.’ Jos had explained slowly. All the Mayos had been brought up to the creed never to part with one square foot of valuable land especially to a Howard. Jon had seen to that.
This all made Jos more than a little uneasy for the future. How long could Ferndale run and support itself on its present lines? The thought of horses having to be sold because of lack of land, appalled him. He knew, though, this might happen in the future. He had often thought that if machines could be invented to cut corn and transport people on rails might not the day come when horses were not required—it was a horrific thought.
‘At least I’ve lived in the heyday of the horse,’ Jos told himself thankfully. ‘And it’s been a grand life too—even with the bad times.’
Jos realized he had been musing back over the past for nearly an hour. Robert was long in bed while Peter was out doing evening stables with their stud groom.
He stood after adjusting the flame of the oil lamp. Jos’s hair was quite grey now. His once straight back had the stoop of age. Even now though, on this his sixtieth birthday, he was still a giant of a man.
Jos sat down in his chair. At times he did feel his age and lately there’d been a pain in his chest and left arm which he had kept to himself. He closed his eyes and started day-dreaming. As always his mind went right back to those very early days. To wonderful, little old Sarah. To hard, ruthless James. They had been good days, in a way but the best, the most wonderful day of them all, had been when he first rode a Mayo’s grey with his Grandfather’s arm around his waist.
‘All right now, hang on!’ said old James touching with his heels.
Jos yelled as the stallion burst into a gallop, straining against the bit, wanting to go faster. This was incredible, this speed and power. Great shoulders slid under a satin skin; strong, clean legs whipped backwards and forwards, tendrils of white mane flowing before his eyes. He could feel the almost awful power from the hocks as they drove the grey body into even faster propulsion.
Jos roared with excitement, waved his hand—and fell out of the chair, dead from a heart attack. On his old face was a peaceful smile. His outstretched arm, with the fingers tightly curled together, meshed in a thick white mane was rigid.
Peter found him when he returned from the stables. He bent over and gently hunted for a heartbeat then stood and looked down at his dead father. He noted the peace and joy on the lined face; he studied the arm and hand.
‘God bless you old man! You’ve been a grand father. I’m only hoping I can do the job as well now you’re gone. You’ve gone as you’d want to go. Riding a grey in a wild gallop!’
Peter saw the diary, read the last entry and carefully placed the pages back into the box. He sat and wrote the last entry in his own bold script.
‘There, that’s finished it. If you want to know your heritage, young Robert, it’s here ready for your eyes. Until that day comes, this diary can be put safely away.’
Jos Howard’s only true friend had been a grey horse and only he could contrive to die in such a satisfactory way.