Sons and Daughters (20 page)

Once more, it was Georgie who brought laughter back into the room.

The following morning, Miles went again to Buckthorn Farm. This time, he entered by the back door and was greeted by Edward, Mary and Peggy like an old friend.

‘So,’ he asked, ‘how is she this morning?’

‘Better, sir, thank you. She’s had some breakfast and – ’ Mary glanced at Edward – ‘she’s going about her daily routine as normal.’ Miles hid his smile as he interpreted her words as meaning Charlotte was at her desk in the farm office. But he gave no indication that he knew and Peggy turned away lest her face should betray her.

‘We don’t know how to thank you, sir, for helping us yesterday,’ Mary went on. ‘If you hadn’t come, goodness knows how long she might have stayed locked in her room.’

‘Would she see me, d’you think?’

‘Best not try today, sir, if you don’t mind. She’s still embarrassed about it all.’

‘Mm. Very well, then, but will you tell her from me that if she needs any help – any help at all – she’s only to ask?’

‘I will indeed, sir.’ Mary smiled. ‘And thank you once again.’

There was nothing more he could do and Miles drove home feeling disconsolate that he’d not been able give Charlotte some practical help. He was the sort of man who, faced with a problem, was happiest if he could take some positive action to solve it. If he couldn’t, the matter lay heavily on his mind. And the thought of Charlotte was beginning to fill his waking thoughts and trouble his restless nights.

The matter of the vicar’s dismissal was more easily remedied. As he’d promised, Miles wrote to the bishop and received a friendly letter in return:

Miles folded the letter away and put it in his drawer. Later he would ride over and give the good news to the young man.

Perhaps, after all, Charlotte could do worse than become a vicar’s wife.

Charlotte attended church the following week and took up her Sunday school duties once more. During the week no one, except the household staff and Joe, had seen her. The bruise had faded and was scarcely noticeable and it was to the credit of those closest to her that no one else knew the cause of her absence.

The Thornton boys – as they were becoming known throughout the neighbourhood – had been sworn to silence by their father. Even little Georgie had said nothing to his playmates. So, on the morning of her return, the villagers were fulsome in their concern for her.

‘Have you been ill, Miss Charlotte?’

‘We’ve missed you – and so have the children.’

If they’d looked closely beneath the brim of her close-fitting cloche hat, they might have seen the telltale yellowing mark. But no one did. The hat – borrowed from Peggy – was the closest Charlotte had ever come to wearing something remotely fashionable. But the plain, single plait down her back looked absurd beneath it, though the villagers made no remark upon it. Only the local dressmaker with her eye for fashion noted it and felt a rush of pity for the girl.

Charlotte smiled and thanked them all for their concern and assured them she was quite well, thank you. As she sat in the pew behind her father with Mary and Edward beside her, she kept her head bowed, her gaze fixed on the floor, and never once did she meet the vicar’s gaze. He, too, it seemed, was at pains to avoid her. After the service, having said his goodbyes to his parishioners in the porch, Cuthbert scurried back to the vestry and then to the vicarage.

He did not, for the first time ever, visit the Sunday school to inspect its progress and take part.

On his return home Georgie couldn’t wait to tell Miles.

‘Did you see, Papa, that Mr Crawford walked straight past the vicar after the service? He didn’t even shake his hand. And
then
,’ he added dramatically, ‘he – Mr Iveson, I mean – didn’t come into the Sunday school class at
all
. And he
always
does.’

Miles laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Now, you mustn’t speak of it to anyone else, Georgie, there’s a good boy.’

The boy shook his head. ‘I won’t, Papa. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Miss Charlotte. Not for the world.’

Miles smiled to himself. Well, he thought, Charlotte has one champion, even if he is only six years old.

‘D’you know, Miss Charlotte,’ Georgie told her solemnly after Sunday school the following week, ‘Tommy, Sam and Mikey can’t play with me this week.’

‘Oh dear! Why not?’ she asked, suddenly afraid that there’d been yet another falling out.

‘Because they’re going ’tatie picking.’ Charlotte hid her smile as the boy added, ‘D’you think Papa would let me go, too?’

‘I don’t know, darling,’ she replied as seriously as she could. ‘You’ll have to ask him.’

The following day, Charlotte was amused to see the four boys, wearing warm coats, with a piece of string tied round their waists, Wellingtons and flat caps that were several sizes too big, solemnly marching into the fields at Buckthorn Farm, armed with baskets and buckets.

‘Where d’you want us to start, Miss Charlotte?’ Tommy, taking the lead, asked.

‘You can all work a row each near me.’ She smiled.

By midday, Georgie was white-faced with tiredness and wincing with backache. As Mary and Edward appeared at the gate into the field carrying baskets of food and drink for the workers, Charlotte called a halt to the work. She turned to the boys. ‘That’s enough work for you boys today. Thank you for coming. Now, go back with Mary and Edward and they’ll find you some scones and lemonade.’

‘Oh but, Miss Charlotte . . .’

Forestalling the argument, she said firmly, ‘See you in the morning. Eight o’clock sharp, mind.’

She watched them cross the field, trailing wearily after each other, and marvelled at how the youngsters had stuck doggedly to the backbreaking task, not wanting to be the first to give in. But she’d seen the relief on all their little faces when she’d called a halt.

‘Can I go an’ all, miss?’ Jackson mimicked a child’s high-pitched tone. ‘I like lemonade and scones.’

‘You most certainly cannot, Jackson Warren.’ She laughed and bent again to her own labours.

As the last load of potatoes trundled its way from Buckthorn Farm to the railway station in Ravensfleet, Joe said, ‘That were a good ’tatie harvest this year, miss. For us, any road.’

‘Mm. We’ve been lucky. And now we’ll have to start planning what we’re going to plant for next year.’

‘I was talking to some of the farmers in the Mucky Duck last night . . .’

‘The Mucky Duck’ was the local nickname for the White Swan pub in Ravensfleet.

‘. . . And some of ’em are thinking of growing sugar beet. There’s a new sugar beet factory planned for Bardney. All being well, construction’ll start next spring and they reckon it’ll be operatin’ by October for next year’s crop. Now if we—’ Joe broke off as he saw the smile spreading across Charlotte’s face. ‘What, miss?’

‘Funnily enough, I’ve been reading up about sugar beet. It seems it’s a very good crop to rotate with wheat, barley, potatoes – all the things we grow. It helps the soil, so’ – she linked her fingers together – ‘how about we grow a few acres for next year? And even if the Bardney factory isn’t ready, there’s one at Spalding, isn’t there?’

‘There is, miss, but the others reckon we could send our crop by train from here to Bardney.’

‘Really? That’d be excellent.’ She thought a moment then said, ‘What do you think about five acres as a trial the first year?’ When Joe nodded, she added, ‘I must check up when’s the best time to plant sugar beet.’

‘Er – ought you to run the idea past his lordship? Oh, begging your pardon, miss.’ Joe coloured at his slip of the tongue, but Charlotte only chuckled.

‘No, let’s just do it.’

On Christmas Eve, an unexpected visitor arrived at the manor on foot, but leading a horse. There’d been a light scattering of snow and the ground was icy.

‘It’s Miss Charlotte,’ Georgie cried excitedly, seeing her coming up the drive. He ran to the front door before Wilkins could reach it and flung it open, rushing to meet her, slipping and sliding down the steps.

‘Miss Charlotte, Miss Charlotte! You’ve brought Midnight.’

The horse shied a little and Georgie stopped abruptly, aware that he was frightening the animal. Charlotte patted the horse’s neck and quietened him with a soothing word. She smiled down at the excited boy. ‘Come and stroke him.’

Though the animal was still a little restless, and there was wariness in his eyes, Georgie approached him fearlessly. He reached up and stroked his neck. ‘There, boy, there,’ he murmured.

‘That’s good, Georgie. Very good. Now, is your father at home?’

‘Yes, I’ll fetch him.’ He turned away and walked a little distance before he began to run. Charlotte smiled, watching him go. At least one of the Thornton boys was learning how to treat a nervous animal.

Only a moment later, Miles was coming down the steps, his feet crunching on the snow, Georgie skipping beside him. He held out his hands towards her. ‘Miss Charlotte – this is a pleasant surprise. You must come in and have some mulled wine. We were just trying it out ready for the party tonight. You are coming, I hope.’

Charlotte blinked at him.

‘Ah,’ Miles said, understanding at once. ‘You didn’t receive my invitation?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I – I’m sorry, we – we can’t have. It must have got lost in all the Christmas mail.’

If only that was the explanation, Miles thought grimly. He’d had the invitation delivered by hand but, he realized now, he’d made the mistake of addressing it to Mr Crawford. Hence, the girl knew nothing of it.

‘Then if you are free this evening, I do hope you will come.’

Now he’d embarrassed her, for she blushed and avoided his gaze. ‘I – I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ll be able to.’

‘No matter.’ Miles smiled, trying to ease her discomfort. ‘Perhaps at New Year?’

She smiled weakly and nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Don’t let’s stand here getting chilled. And you, Georgie, out here without a coat. Dear me, Lily will have a ducky fit, as she calls it.’

‘I’ll take Midnight round to the stable yard, shall I?’ Charlotte said.

‘Yes, yes.’

Whilst Mr Thornton and Georgie returned inside, Charlotte led the horse round the side of the house. As she rounded the corner, she almost bumped into Philip and Lily, hurrying, hand in hand, in the opposite direction.

‘Oh!’ Lily cried and snatched her hand from Philip’s, blushing a bright pink. ‘Oh, miss. I—’

But, smoothly, Philip covered her embarrassment. ‘Lily is going home for the afternoon as we’re having a party tonight and she’ll be here over Christmas too.’ His eyes challenged Charlotte. ‘I was just making sure she doesn’t slip and fall.’ Now he turned to Lily. ‘You’ll be all right now. I really should get one of the men to clear the path from the back door round to the front.’

‘Yes – I – er – thank you, Master Philip.’

With her hat pulled down low and her scarf covering the lower half of her face, Lilly hurried away.

‘Take care, now,’ Philip called after her before turning his attention back to Charlotte and to the horse she was leading. His face darkened. ‘So, you’ve brought that creature back, have you?’

Charlotte regarded him with her head on one side. ‘He’s rightfully still yours. Your father wouldn’t let me pay for him, so, I thought now that he’s had a little training, it’s only right that you should have him back. He’ll be fine now – if he’s treated properly.’

Philip’s face was thunderous. ‘How dare you speak to me like that? Who do you think you are?’ His mouth curled. ‘I suppose,’ he drawled sarcastically, ‘you think that one day you’ll be a woman of property because Buckthorn Farm will be yours when the old man dies. Well, let me tell you, Miss Charlotte Crawford’ – he thrust his face close to hers – ‘you won’t inherit a penny. Not – one – penny. Not one blade of grass. The whole lot’s coming to me.’ He struck his chest. ‘Me!’

Charlotte’s face was white and she clung to Midnight’s reins to keep upright. ‘I – don’t understand,’ she whispered at last. The boy must be unhinged. She feared for his sanity. He was given to uncontrolled fits of temper. She’d seen that with his treatment of Midnight. And now she wished fervently that she’d not brought the horse back. Her sense of fairness had made her make the offer. But now she regretted it heartily. The horse might have been tamed, but she doubted the boy ever would be. The preposterous idea that he – a comparative stranger – was to be her father’s heir, astounded her. Was it really possible that her father would do such a thing?

Philip’s next words confirmed her worst fears. He’d plunged the knife into her heart and now he twisted it with vicious delight. ‘He’s taken a liking to me. He looks upon me as the son he’s never had. And – ’ he sneered, ‘you are, as he says himself, “neither use nor ornament”.’