For The Sake of Her Family (7 page)

‘Shh, I’m here. Don’t cry, Alice,’ he soothed, wrapping his arms around her. He wanted to squeeze her and tell her everything was all right, that he would always be there
for her and that she would never need anyone else, but he was mindful of Will’s presence and didn’t want him to think he was taking advantage of the situation. While Will settled things
with Ernie Batty and thanked Uriah Woodhead once more for agreeing to pay for the funeral, Jack held on to Alice, lovingly stroking her long blonde hair, which smelled like the wild thyme that grew
on the fellside. Her blue eyes brimming with tears, she looked up at him.

‘Take us home, Jack . . . although I no longer know where home is. What are we going to do? No parents and no money – whatever are we going to do?’

He helped her up into the trap, whipping the horse into action the moment Will climbed aboard. They rode in silence, broken only by the alarm call of a nesting blackbird, disturbed from her nest
by the sound of the horse and trap. The piebald, familiar with the trail to Dale End, needed no words of guidance from Jack as it carried its grieving load homewards.

Kneeling by her father’s grave, Alice removed the previous week’s flowers and set a freshly picked posy of white dog daisies in their place. Rising from her knees,
she looked around her. The graveyard was set on a gently sloping hillside, with views all the way up to the head of the dale. The scurrying clouds cast shadows on the flanks of Combe Scar, which
was covered with the white balls of fluff of grazing sheep and their lambs. She took in a deep breath of the clear air with its smell of peat and sphagnum moss – how she loved that smell. Up
here, surrounded by the graves of her kin, with the warm spring breeze on her face and the sounds of birdsong and the lamenting bleat of a distant lost lamb in her ears, she was reminded at every
turn of her deep and abiding attachment to Dent and the surrounding dales. She wanted to carry on living here, until it was time for her to be laid to rest in this churchyard in the company of her
parents and grandparents and generations of her kind; she only hoped that someone would love her enough to mourn over her.

‘Paying your respects, Miss Bentham?’

Startled from her reverie, she turned to find Lord Frankland staring at her. He doffed his hat in acknowledgement.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you behind me. I was lost in my thoughts . . .’ Alice hesitated, uneasy in his company as usual. She was never sure how to address him or
whether she was supposed to curtsy. After the death of her father, Gerald Frankland had been nothing but caring and considerate, insisting that she need only attend the manor one day a week. That
was bound to change, though, now that all the sheep had been lambed and normality had returned to Dale End.

‘Nancy is missing you, Alice. Indeed, Nancy’s not the only one who is missing you. I swear Mrs Dowbiggin is just about begging me to ask you to become a member of our live-in staff,
and even Faulks asked after you the other day – now that surely is a miracle!’ He smiled at her, then continued. ‘What’s more, it’s time that a decision was made with
regard to that farmstead of mine. The place isn’t big enough to support the pair of you, and Will is too good a worker for me to let go. So, I shall come by this evening and speak to you
both, if that’s convenient?’ Without waiting for Alice to reply, he turned and set off along the churchyard path towards the kissing-gate entrance.

Alice almost took to her heels in pursuit, but thought better of it; she had her pride, and she wasn’t going to be seen begging the right to live in the farm. Will would sort it tonight.
He’d tell Lord Frankland that, with her help, he could manage to do his job and still keep the farm on. Besides, now that she was finished at the graveyard she was off to see Uriah Woodhead,
who’d promised her some work at the Moon Inn. In all their discussions on the subject of what was to be done, both Alice and Will were in agreement on one point: it was not good for the two
of them to be dependent on the manor. Better not to have all your eggs in one basket, as her mother used to say. A day at the manor and a few days’ work at the Moon would keep the wolf from
the door. As for the tenancy, she was sure Will would sort something out.

True to his word, Lord Frankland arrived in the early evening. Things got off to a civil enough start, but for the last half-hour the sound of heated debate had filled the
kitchen of Dale End as Gerald Frankland’s voice was raised in disagreement with young Will Bentham.

‘I tell you, Will, that’s simply not possible. These are difficult times, and I must address my assets. This cottage will be sold and the land amalgamated into the manor’s
estate, and that’s final. I’ve got to generate income from somewhere – the import of Italian marble is affecting my profits; the stuff we produce at the marble works is
practically worthless nowadays. I think you’ll find my terms are more than generous. I’m offering accommodation and full-time employment for both you and your sister . . .’

Will, red in the face and befuddled by talk of addressing assets and amalgamating land, stared dumbly at Lord Frankland. The last thing he wanted was for his sister and him to be beholden to the
manor, twenty-four hours a day. ‘Never be a bought man’: the words of Uncle Will – his namesake who returned a hero from fighting in the Crimean War – kept running through
Will’s mind.

‘. . . what’s more, I’ll guarantee you a good price for your stock. So there you have it: we can either do this the gentlemanly way, or I can evict you. Let’s face it,
what would the pair of you both do without a job or home? And how much do you think you’ll get for your stock with the market the way it is? See sense, man!’ Gerald Frankland
hadn’t come to Dale End with the intention of making threats, but he was fast running out of patience with the stubborn young whipper-snapper.

Will rubbed his head. He knew that he was in no position to haggle a bargain for himself, but at least he could make life easier for Alice.

‘All right, you can have our farm back and we’ll sell you the stock. I will even come and live at the manor, in the room above the stables. But not our Alice – she’s not
moving into the manor. Uriah Woodhead has offered her work and accommodation at the Moon. She can still come and befriend Miss Nancy one day a week, but she’ll spend the rest of her time
working for Uriah.’ As he spoke, Will studied his employer’s reaction: was it the farm he wanted, or was it his little sister? So far as Will was concerned, the look on
Frankland’s face told the real tale.

Having been warned by Will to keep out of the way while he and Lord Frankland conducted their business, Alice was sitting on the stairs, eavesdropping on the conversation. Tears filled her eyes
as Will finally submitted to Lord Frankland’s demands. Her beloved home! She loved living halfway up Whernside, away from everyone, with a view from her bedroom window that extended right
down the dale. Her new home would be the attic bedroom of the Moon; all she would be able to see from there would be the rooftops of the village houses. Perhaps a room at the manor would have been
better, but Will had been adamant that she should not live under the Franklands’ roof and be forever at their beck and call.

‘Good! I’ll get someone to value the stock, and let’s say a month’s notice on the house.’ Lord Frankland’s voice took on a less satisfied tone as he
continued: ‘I don’t think you are being fair to your sister. She’s worthy of something better than being a serving girl in a hostelry. I could offer her comfort and security in my
employment.’ Lord Frankland tapped his walking stick sharply on the ground and stared intently into young Will’s face.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I reckon she will be best suited to living in the village. She can come and visit Miss Nancy anytime she pleases, in addition to the day we have agreed to. You
have my word on that. But she’ll be staying at the Moon Inn.’ Will may not have been able to save the farm, but he would continue to look after his little sister’s best interests;
he owed her that.

‘Very well. We’ll leave it that way for now. Perhaps you’ll change your mind in time.’ Setting his hat hard upon his head, he turned towards the door. ‘As for your
own future – I have great plans for you. Once this business with the farm is sorted out, I’ll be taking you up to Stone House. I have a little job for you at the marble works.’
Without so much as a backward glance at the worried look on Will’s face, he was gone.

Hearing the door close, followed by the clatter of hooves, Alice hurried downstairs to find Will. He was sitting in what used to be their father’s chair, head in hands.
At the sound of the bottom stair creaking with Alice’s weight, he looked up.

‘I’m sorry, Ali. I’m so sorry. I tried, but you can’t argue with the man who holds all the cards. And now the bastard is going to make me work at Stone House. I
don’t want to go up there. The men there are a bunch of foul-mouthed old navvies, left over from building the railway, and the foreman is the worst of the lot – drunk nine times out of
ten and doesn’t give a damn about anyone’s safety. There’s an accident at the marble works nearly every week. What am I to do?’

Alice sat on the edge of the chair and put an arm around her brother. She’d never seen him in such a state; no matter what they’d had to face, he’d always remained strong and
cheerful.

‘It isn’t your fault, Will. You did your best for us. We may not have the farm, but as long as we’ve got work and one another, we’ll survive. Just promise me you’ll
not leave me. I’ve no one else in the world but you. Promise me, Will – promise me!’ Her face was set; she wanted her brother to know that she was in deadly earnest and this was
not a promise to take lightly.

Will lifted his head, eyes red with tears. For all that he was a grown man of nineteen, it was hard fighting battles that he could not win, leading a life that he had no control of. Meeting his
sister’s gaze, he felt his resolve strengthen. ‘I promise, Ali. I’ll always be here for you.’ He gave her a shaky smile. ‘Besides, who ever gets the better of Jack and
me? As long as you are safe at the Moon with old Uriah and his wife, we will be all right.’

‘That’s better, Will. We Benthams never give in. Why, before you know it you’ll be running that marble works. And I’ll meet a rich gentleman who’ll keep me in a
manner befitting my breeding.’ She smiled and dropped a mock curtsy. ‘And then we can both tell old Frankland where to shove his job!’

In her heart of hearts, Alice was deeply troubled. It had been hard enough losing their parents, but now they had lost their home, the one thing that had kept them together. From now on it was
going to be a battle to survive. But she had no doubt whatsoever that she would survive, come hell or high water, because she was a Bentham and a Bentham never gave in – not as long as she
had breath in her body, anyway.

Will Bentham wiped the sweat from his brow. It was almost time to go; just one more job remained to be done, and then he would have to turn his back on his family home. His
heart was heavy: the last job was the one he was going to hate the most.

He looked down into the trusting eyes of old Jip; he’d been a good dog, long in the tooth but faithful to the end. He threaded the string that was to hold Jip to the wood stock tight, so
that he couldn’t move his head. Then he patted him and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, old mate.’ Tears filled Will’s eyes as he raised his gun and fired at the farm’s
most-loved animal. The dog slumped to the ground and Will untied him, making sure he was dead, and then lovingly carried him up the path to a place where he had seen him sitting in the past,
surveying his kingdom. There he had dug a hole just big enough to hold Jip’s body. Laying the dog tenderly down, he slowly filled in the hole, fresh earth and salty tears falling upon the
black and white fur until the body was covered.

‘I’m sorry, old lad, but you’d not have worked for anyone else – you were too old for anyone to want.’ He stood tall and looked out over the valley. ‘I hate
that bastard Frankland. I’ve lost everything, even my bloody dog.’ He wiped his nose and spat, then lifted the spade onto his shoulder and set off down the hill, the dusk closing in
around him.

The attic bedroom of the Moon Inn was squat, to say the least; the only source of light was the skylight and that was overshadowed by the pub’s tall chimneys, which spent
nine months of the year belching smoke. The few possessions that Alice had brought with her from Dale End looked strangely out of place in her new home. And was it her imagination or had the
Staffordshire pot dogs’ smiles developed a downward tilt? Now ensconced on the small chest of drawers in the corner, they certainly looked much sadder than they had on the mantelpiece in her
mother’s parlour. Still, the woollen blanket that her mother had knitted brought a splash of colour, as did the posy of meadow flowers she had picked that morning before leaving home. They
brightened up the black iron fireplace where she had placed them, nestled in a vase that had belonged to her grandmother.

‘There, Alice, I’ve brought you a jug of water for your morning’s ablutions. I thought you might like this too.’ Mrs Woodhead handed Alice her mother’s carriage
clock. ‘It’ll only get broken down in the bar, so let’s have it back where it belongs. Your mother would have wanted that.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Woodhead, that is very thoughtful of you.’ Alice was too choked at this act of kindness to say more. Her hands held the clock lovingly, fingers tracing the outline of
its face. Seeing it brought back sweet memories, but also reminded her of everything that had been lost.

‘Nay, lass – it’s got a double purpose. You’ll need to know the time if you’re working for us. I want you up bright and early, lighting fires and making breakfasts
for Mr Woodhead and any guests that’s staying with us. No use having a dog and barking yourself, is there?’ This was accompanied by a laugh that sounded to Alice very much like a bark.
‘So let’s have you down in the kitchen at five in the morning. Oh, and one other thing: when we are alone, you may call me Annie, but in front of residents and Mr Woodhead, I think we
had better be more formal.’ Briskly adjusting her mob cap, which was struggling as usual to confine the abundance of auburn curls, a legacy of her Scottish ancestors, Mrs Woodhead bustled
from the room.