For The Sake of Her Family (6 page)

While enjoying the tea and biscuits that Faulks laid out before them, Alice tried to portray the inhabitants of the dale. She told Nancy about the shopkeepers in Dent, the comings and goings of
merchants, the various characters who frequented the market, and how most of the farmers did their deals in the bar of the Moon Inn rather than through the local fairs. She mimicked some of the
locals and passed on the latest gossip of the dale, the general chit-chat that made up everyday life. So engrossed was she in trying to convey the smells and sights of the dale, she quite forgot
where she was. In fact, the time went so quickly she could hardly believe it when she realized it was lunchtime already.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep talking this long. You must be weary of my voice,’ Alice apologized.

‘Indeed I am not – I have enjoyed your company immensely,’ protested Nancy. ‘My brother was right: in you he has found someone to entertain me. However, you must forgive
me, Alice, but I am getting a little tired. I usually have a midday nap. Would you mind leaving now, and I will see you in the morning. I shall look forward to carrying on our conversation
tomorrow.’

Though things had gone better than she could have imagined, Alice nevertheless breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the bedroom door behind her.

‘Would you like a bite of lunch, Miss Bentham?’ Mrs Dowbiggin asked as Alice joined her and Faulks in the kitchen.

The butler, no doubt remembering how she had spoken to him the previous day, maintained a deadpan expression as he studied Alice in silence.

‘There’s just enough for a little one.’ Mrs Dowbiggin’s smile seemed genuine as she motioned to the near-empty stew pan.

‘That’s very kind, thank you,’ said Alice. ‘I am a little hungry. I missed breakfast this morning.’ In truth, ‘a little hungry’ was an understatement.
She was ravenous, having been too much on her best behaviour to do more than politely nibble at the biscuits served with tea earlier. The stew smelled so good, her mouth started salivating at the
thought of it.

‘You can sit there.’ Mrs Dowbiggin ushered her to the chair at the end of the immaculately scrubbed pine table. ‘Here you go – you will all the better be for having that
in you. My, you’re a little ’un. Isn’t she a dot, Reggie? So slim.’

‘It’s not my place to say. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better take Miss Nancy her lunch before she has her nap.’ Faulks rose from his chair, donned his jacket and
picked up the tray, which was all laid out in readiness, then strutted from the kitchen like a prize cock.

‘Stuffy old devil,’ muttered Mrs Dowbiggin. ‘Thinks hisself God’s gift! Still, his heart’s in the right place, once you get to know him.’ She ladled stew into
a dish and added a huge chunk of freshly baked bread, then placed it in front of Alice. ‘Here, you set to and eat that – it’ll fill you for the day.’ Looking on approvingly
as Alice ate, she sank into the chair opposite and sipped her cup of tea. Obviously delighted to have someone to talk to, she leaned across the table, her ample bosom heaving as she quizzed the
newcomer on the morning’s events: ‘She’s behaved herself, then, Miss Nancy? She has good days and bad days, you know. I reckon it’s the pain from her scars.’

‘Forgive me if I’m talking out of turn, Mrs Dowbiggin,’ said Alice, ‘but do you know how Nancy got the scars? She must have been a great beauty; it’s a pity her
face is marked so.’

‘Well, dear, it is a cruel story. It happened before Master Gerald and Miss Nancy came to Whernside, back in the days when the family lived in Russia. You know where I mean?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of Russia.’

‘From what I hear, Nancy was very young at the time and Master Gerald was in his late teens. Their parents owned a mine near Moscow – in fact, Master Gerald still has involvement in
it, but that’s another matter.’ Mrs Dowbiggin paused to draw breath. ‘Anyway, the workers in Russia decided they’d had enough of toiling long hours for a pittance of pay and
so they went on strike. Very soon the trouble spread all over the country and things began to turn nasty, with workers out to get their revenge on employers. Unfortunately, the Franklands being
English, they came in for a lot of resentment and the troublemakers accused them of raking in a profit at the expense of poor Russians. One night a mob of them set the Franklands’ mansion
alight, burning it to the ground. Master Gerald was spared, being at school here in England at the time, but Miss Nancy was found the next day, wandering in the garden in a terrible state. Poor
girl must have seen some frightful things. Both her parents died in the fire, nothing left of them but ashes. And Nancy’s face and shoulders were so badly burned it took ages for the skin to
heal.’ She paused and took a long, deep drink of her tea. ‘Terrible, terrible times. So it’s understandable why she’s the way she is.’

‘Gossiping again, Hilda?’ Faulks had sneaked in through the kitchen doorway unnoticed. ‘Don’t let Master Gerald hear you – he’ll have you out of the house as
fast as you can say “Eggs is eggs”.’ Giving both women a haughty glare, he resumed his seat.

‘Oh, what’s it to you, you old misery? The lass has to know how the land lies if she’s to work here. It’s only fair she knows what she’s up against. Aye, and while
I’m on the subject, you’d best steer clear of Master’s gambling mates, Alice. Some of them are not to be trusted.’

‘Hilda, that’s enough! I will not have gossip in my kitchen.’

‘Since when did the kitchen become yours? I’ll have you know this is
my
kitchen and I will gossip all I like in it. In any case, it’s not gossip; it’s giving good
advice to a young, vulnerable lass. Now go and get me the brasses from out of the parlour so I can give ’em a polish.’

With a baleful look, Faulks grudgingly left the room.

‘Sometimes he gets ideas above his station, that one. Have you finished your dinner, dear? And is there anything else I can tell you?’

Giving Alice no time to answer, Mrs Dowbiggin whisked away the empty plate and began getting the brass cleaner out and spreading newspaper on the kitchen table, ready for the afternoon’s
polishing session.

‘Would you like to give me a hand, dear? I hate this job and there are so many brasses to clean. If you’ve time, I’d appreciate the door knocker, bell and letter box being
polished. That’d give me ten minutes’ peace before I have to start preparing this evening’s meal.’

‘I’ll do all the outside bits for you, Mrs Dowbiggin, but then I have to go home. I’ve to make dinner for our Will and my dad. Thank you for telling me about the family
history.’ Alice picked up the tin of Brasso and two orange cloths: ‘Are these to be used for polishing?’

‘That’s it, lass. Much obliged, that’ll help a lot.’ Mrs Dowbiggin turned away and began taking the copper pans down from the shelf in readiness for their clean.

Resolving to do the front door first, Alice set off in that direction. The huge lion door knocker had caught her eye yesterday as she had nervously stood on the huge steps. Now here she was,
part of the manor. How curious that twenty-four hours could alter things so quickly.

She had just finished smearing Brasso liquid on the features of the lion and was about to start polishing when she heard Will calling her name. He sounded agitated.

‘Alice, Alice – for God’s sake, leave that alone! It’s Father – they’ve found Father!’

The yard of the Moon Inn was crammed with curious onlookers, all trying to peer into the dark orifice of the beer cellar.

‘Back now, get yourselves back!’ Arms out wide, Uriah Woodhead was frantically trying to steer the crowd away. ‘Give the doctor some room now.’

Moments later, the doctor emerged into the light, his wiry old body struggling to climb the cellar steps. He was shaking his head.

‘Well, Dr Bailey, is he . . . is he dead?’ Uriah Woodhead pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. The sweat was pouring off him. Ever since he’d made the
gruesome discovery, he’d felt as if he was having a heart attack.

‘Aye, he’s dead, all right. Looks like he tumbled down your cellar steps and dislodged one of the barrels. When it fell on top of him, it broke his neck clean in two.’

The crowd gave a gasp of horror. Poor old Bob Bentham: what an awful end to his life. What would become of his family?

His voice rising above the murmurs of sympathy and concern, Uriah was anxious to absolve himself of any blame: ‘I told him to get hissel’ home. Silly old bugger, I thought he’d
gone. How was I to know he’d go creeping around in my yard?’ For all his protests, Uriah was feeling guilty. He’d meant to close the cellar doors before the evening rush got
underway, but in the event he never got round to it. By then it was too dark to see Bob lying at the foot of the steps. It had given Uriah a terrible shock when he went down at lunchtime and
stumbled over his body.

‘Don’t you fret, man.’ Dr Bailey patted him on the shoulder. ‘You had no way of knowing that this was going to happen. He’d not been coping well since losing his
wife last year. It’s a shame for his family, but at least Bob’s at peace with hisself now. I’ll class it as death by misadventure, but I’ll have to tell the local constable
what’s happened, to make it official. All right with you if I go into the Moon to make out the death certificate? I could do with a tot of brandy . . .’ Seeing that his heavy hint had
fallen on deaf ears, Dr Bailey added: ‘Medicinal purposes only, of course.’ Still no response from Uriah. Reluctantly admitting defeat, the doctor left Uriah and went into the bar.

No sooner had the doctor gone than the sound of running feet reached them from the cobbled street. The villagers fell silent when they recognized Will and, a hundred yards behind him, his sister
Alice. Both were breathing heavily, their faces taut with anxiety, as the crowd parted to let them through. Uriah Woodhead immediately stepped forward to intercept Alice, drawing her away from the
cellar entrance.

‘You want nothing of looking down there, Alice. Come inside, lass. My Annie will take care of you.’

Will glanced sharply at Uriah, then descended the steps. A lantern illuminated his father’s lifeless body, lying among the beer barrels. Falling to his knees, Will took his father’s
limp hand and clasped it to his chest. He wanted to rant and rave at the old fool for letting it come to this, but then grief overcame him and his shoulders heaved with dry sobs. He was still
bending over the body when Ernie Batty arrived.

‘Leave him to me now, lad.’ The portly undertaker patted him gently on the back. ‘Let’s have him out of this dark place, eh? Mrs Batty and I will see to him, don’t
you worry.’

Wiping his nose on the sleeve of his corduroy jacket, his eyes full of tears and his nose running like a tap, Will climbed the cellar steps. He emerged to find the crowd had gone –
dispersed by the local bobby, they’d all hurried off to their homes, the gossips among them eager to spread the word and discuss the Benthams’ misfortune over a cup of tea.

A lone figure was waiting in the yard: Uriah. ‘Now, lad, come into the pub. My missus is looking after Alice. I can’t tell you how sorry we are for the both of you.’ The
landlord wasn’t good with words at the best of times; knowing what to say under these circumstances was beyond him. Putting an arm around the boy, he led him into the snug. Alice was already
there, hands shaking, eyes red with tears. Annie Woodhead sat by her side, doing her best to console her.

‘Well, is it him? Tell me, our Will, is it him?’ she pleaded. ‘Happen this lot have got it wrong; happen it’s some passing tramp that fell in, not knowing the hole was
there.’ Alice didn’t want to believe that in the space of four months they had lost both parents.

‘No, Ali, it’s Father . . .’ Will wished he could say something to ease his sister’s grief, but in his state of shock, words failed him.

Numb with pain and looking for someone to blame, Alice jumped up from the bench, eyes blazing, and turned on Uriah. ‘You killed him! It was you who killed him! You’ve even pinched my
mother’s clock – it’s right there on the mantelpiece.’ She motioned to the carriage clock that had been her late mother’s most cherished possession, occupying pride of
place in her parlour.

Uriah, his face flushed in a mixture of embarrassment and anger, felt compelled to defend himself against the accusation. ‘Now wait a minute, Alice. I’m as shocked as you are about
this. I thought your father had gone home. The only way I’m responsible is that I left the cellar door open overnight. As for the clock, well, he traded it for beer. I only took it because I
felt sorry for him – that’s my biggest sin; happen I did encourage him to drink. God knows, I wish I hadn’t now, but a man’s got to make a living.’

Alice, spent after her angry outburst, had collapsed in a sobbing heap. Wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair, Will said in a low voice, ‘Shh, our Ali, you’re upset.
Uriah’s not to blame and you know it.’

‘I’ve spoken to Ernie Batty. He’ll put your father in the chapel of rest until you’ve arranged a date for the funeral. I’ve told him I’ll pay.’ Uriah
considered himself an honourable man, at least in business, and the last thing he wanted was the death of one of his regulars on his conscience. Drawing up a stool, he sat down opposite the
grieving youngsters. ‘If there’s anything that me and the missus can do for the pair of you, let us know. Your father was a good man; he just couldn’t cope with life without your
mother.’ He reached out a hand and patted Alice’s arm as she sobbed into the jacket of her brother.

‘Thank you, Mr Woodhead, that’s good of you. I don’t know how me and my sister would have managed to pay for a funeral.’ Will got to his feet, gently drawing his sister
with him. ‘We’d best be off home now. It’s a lot to cope with, today’s happenings. We need a bit of time to ourselves.’

With quiet dignity, Will helped Alice through the door and into the evening air. Jack was waiting in the lane with his horse and trap. The moment he saw them, he dropped the reins and reached
out to Alice. Thankful for the presence of a friend, she ran to him, burying her head in the warmth of his tweed jacket, clutching him tightly as if she were clinging to a rock, afraid of being
swept away if she released her hold.