Authors: Freda Lightfoot
Mary always took the children up to bed, but tonight
Ella offered to tuck them in. ‘I could tell them a fairy story.’
‘Tha’ll not feed lies to my childer,’ Amos sternly informed her.
Ella looked at her husband, outraged. ‘Fairy stories aren’t lies, they’re lovely, imaginative, magical tales with happy endings.’
‘I don’t hold with magic, nor other devil practices.’
‘There’s no harm in a little magic, and
Cinderella
is my favourite.’ She turned to Tilda, at just five she was a small, round-cheeked child with large brown eyes. Really quite adorable. Surely she must be interested in fairy stories. ‘Wouldn’t you like me to tell you a story of a beautiful princess who fell in love with her Prince Charming?’
‘No, she wouldn’t,’ her father answered for her, before the little girl had time to even nod.
Ella was cross, and for once allowed her feelings to show. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Amos, don’t be such a
spoilsport
. Is it so wrong to believe in love and happiness?’
There was a telling silence and she could see at once that she’d said the wrong thing. It went on for quite some time, broken only by a loud snore from Mrs Rackett, who was pretending to be dozing by the fire.
‘You’ve made it clear what your views are of love, that it should be freely given.’
‘Amos, please…’ glancing anxiously at the children, ‘…this isn’t the moment. And don’t change the subject.’
‘“Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.”’
Ella flushed with embarrassment and caught a glimpse of Tilda’s little face as she turned to slowly climb the steep stairs. She looked so sad and disappointed, revealing that the child would indeed have loved a tale of magical nonsense with a happy ending. Perhaps she was as tired of dry biblical quotations as herself. Ella longed to protest further, but bit her lip and said nothing more, afraid Amos might twist that too. She did, however, manage to offer the little girl a smile as Tilda made her way upstairs, as if secretly promising to return to the subject another day.
Why was the man so cold, so cruel? What was his problem? Had she merely exchanged one tyrant for another?
Breakfast, like every other meal at Angel House, was filled with tensions. The breakfast room itself, with its panoramic views of the distant fells and mountains beyond, was scented with the lavender wax polish applied by a diligent housemaid who rose at five to clean out fire grates and beat the dust from cushions and rugs. The table might look a picture of respectability with its pristine starched linen, sparkle of glass and pretty vase of violets, but the air positively bristled with undercurrents of emotion. Beneath the superficial gloss of good taste and civility, resentment and hostility simmered.
This particular Monday morning, Kitty, the parlour maid, entered in something of a flurry and set a dish of smoked kippers on the sideboard. She was late, having been held up by cook scolding her for not having warmed the butter, which meant it was too hard for the family to spread on the soft fresh rolls.
Mr Angel demanded long hours and high standards from his servants, but he loved his kippers, insisting
upon them for breakfast every Monday morning. Yet another task for Kitty: finding time to scurry over to the fishmonger by seven sharp to buy them. She checked that everything was as it should be, bobbed a curtsey, and fled before he could give her another telling-off.
Fortunately Josiah didn’t notice the shortcomings of his maidservant on this occasion as Maggie had still not come to the table, a crime set to put him in a temper before ever the day had begun.
He sat glowering at his watch, drumming his fingers with impatience upon the table, refusing to allow the kippers to be served until Maggie arrived. Worse, when she finally did come rushing in, looking pale and distressed, she didn’t seem to have any appetite and turned up her nose at the fish.
Josiah was not amused. ‘You cannot begin the day on an empty stomach.’
Maggie glanced at the greasy kippers and felt her stomach heave. It had been doing that quite a lot lately, which was most unsettling. ‘I shall ask Kitty for a lightly boiled egg, Father. I really can’t face fish this morning.’
‘Kippers have been provided and kippers are what you will eat. Livia, serve your sister some breakfast.’
Livia did as she was told, although she was concerned, sensing Maggie was suffering from some malady, otherwise she would never have dared to defy him. For all she’d never been fond of fish, even as a young girl, her younger sister was ever the appeaser, the one forever urging them to do as their father bid them. Josiah viewed sickness as a sign of weakness and a self-induced
affliction. He certainly did not consider ill health a cause for sympathy.
Maggie was so gentle that if anyone should say something unkind in her presence she would look at them in startled surprise, her rosebud mouth falling slack with dismay.
Apart from her dislike of fish, there had been times in the past when Father had been known to stand over her when she baulked at the strong gamey taste of pheasant, or a slice of rare meat that pooled blood on her plate. Livia knew that her youngest sister would never hurt a soul, nor could she bear the thought of any living creature being hurt. If only Livia knew what it was that was hurting her now.
‘Perhaps Maggie has eaten something that disagrees with her.’
‘Stuff and nonsense! She eats the same as everyone else in this house, and I will not have good food wasted.’
Livia couldn’t help but smile. ‘No food is wasted here, Father. The servants finish off every scrap we leave, we all know that for a fact.’
Josiah looked outraged. ‘I don’t work my fingers to the bone to feed lazy servants, or recalcitrant daughters. Do as you’re told, girl. Eat!’ Taking her obedience for granted, he proceeded to tuck into his own fish with gusto.
Livia picked half-heartedly at her own food while watching with pity as Maggie made a valiant attempt to eat the now cold kippers. She did her best, uttering not one word of protest, only too aware, as was Livia, that if she didn’t eat the blessed things they would be brought before her yet again at lunch, and at dinner,
until every scrap had been consumed.
Unfortunately on this occasion she’d barely consumed more than a couple of forkfuls when, realising she was about to be sick, she slapped her hand to her mouth and made a dash for the door.
Josiah flung back his chair with a roar of fury, reaching her before she’d even set foot on the stairs, and dragged his now weeping daughter back to the table. ‘You leave when I say you may, miss, and not before.’ He thrust her, still trembling, back into her seat, and taking up her fork attempted to shove a portion of fish into her mouth. Maggie began to cry. Livia was on her feet in a second, protesting vigorously.
‘Stop that, Father. Leave her alone. She’s clearly ill.’
The words were no sooner out of her mouth than her sister vomited all down the front of her father’s grey silk waistcoat.
Josiah’s rage was incandescent. Grabbing his daughter by the hair, he marched her up the stairs with Livia racing breathlessly behind in a desperate bid to secure her sister’s release. It was quite impossible, of course. He paid not the slightest attention to her protests, and, on reaching the landing, Josiah flung Maggie into the tower room and locked the door.
‘You’ll stay there, madam, until I say you may leave! You’ll get no lunch today, nor any dinner, if that is the way you treat good food.’
Maggie lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, sobbing hysterically.
Livia was in despair. This was certainly not the happy
family breakfast she’d hoped for, nor the moment to ask him any questions about what he might have done with an alleged illegitimate daughter.
Livia was deeply thankful when her father finally left for the store, much later than his usual time, and at once hurried upstairs. She tapped on the door.
‘Are you all right, Maggie?’
The reply was muffled, but as on previous occasions when one or other of the Angel sisters found themselves locked in for one reason or another, Livia wasted no time. She ‘borrowed’ the spare key from Mrs Snape, the
cook-housekeeper
, and within minutes was by Maggie’s side, offering what comfort she could. If her darling sister was to be forced to spend all day incarcerated in her room, then Livia would share the punishment with her.
She soothed her brow with rose water, read to her, and even held her head when she was sick again. By late morning she was feeling better and Kitty sneaked up the back stairs to smuggle in a sandwich for them both.
‘Is there something wrong? Are you ill?’
‘No, of course not. It’s as you suggested. I’ve eaten something that disagrees with me.’
Over dinner a few evenings later, the moment Maggie retired early to bed, again claiming to feel unwell, Livia determined to grasp the opportunity to speak to her father. She wanted to ask about Mercy, if he’d seen the girl and what had happened to her? She longed to demand that she be allowed to work at the store, but she’d tried
that before and never got anywhere, and this wasn’t the moment to do battle. Jack had warned her to exercise caution, fearing that if they didn’t tread carefully, Mercy might be the one to suffer.
Livia had made up her mind that the only way to placate him was to seem to agree to his terms, then he would stop watching her every move and she would be free to investigate this mystery unchallenged.
Even so the words seemed to stick in her throat. ‘I have decided, Father, that I am prepared to reconsider Henry’s offer of marriage, after all.’ It was bribery, pure and simple.
Josiah, momentarily silenced by this surprising reversal, allowed a nervous Kitty to serve the apple pie and custard. Wild as his eldest daughter was, he clearly hadn’t lost his ability to control her.
‘I’m glad to see that you’ve come to your senses at last.’
The instinct to refute this comment was strong, yet somehow she managed to smile with a degree of serenity. ‘You could say that.’
‘Excellent! I will report to Henry that he can start planning your wedding. We are agreed then?’
Livia swallowed the protest that leapt intuitively into her throat, smiled into her father’s eyes and nodded. ‘That would be perfectly splendid.’
She only hoped she could find the answer to this puzzle quickly, and that in the meantime the girl was safe, wherever she was.
* * *
Maggie set aside her diary which she’d been writing to stare at her sister, aghast. ‘How could you agree to such a thing? You told me that wild horses wouldn’t be enough to persuade you to marry Henry Hodson. What’s happened? What has Father done to make you change your mind?’
‘Nothing.’ Livia turned away from her probing gaze to stare out of the bedroom window at her favourite view of the town. She could just make out the tip of the church tower, and the lazy curl of the River Kent beyond.
‘Don’t lie to me, Livvy. I’m not blind. I did notice the cuts and bruises on your face the other day. If it’s me you’re protecting, then don’t, I’m fine, just a bit off colour, that’s all.’
‘I’ll admit we did have a bit of a barney the other morning, and Father let his fists fly, as usual, but nothing I haven’t had to put up with a thousand times before.’
Accepting this comment without question, Maggie asked, ‘So what else has happened? What has made you change your mind about marrying Henry?’
‘I’ve just told you, nothing. This is all a ruse, a pretence.’ Livia came over to kneel by the bed and grasp her sister’s hands. She had no wish at this juncture to discuss the real reason behind her decision; to tell Maggie about the girl who might be their illegitimate half-sister who had gone seeking a job from their father, and apparently disappeared off the face of the earth. It might upset her, and worryingly she had this morning again claimed not to be feeling well. It would be soon enough to tell Mercy’s story once the girl herself had been found.
‘I have absolutely no intention of going through with this marriage, I swear. But I’ll promise anything if it means he keeps his fists to himself, at least until I find a way out for us both. I’m not the patient sort like you, Mags.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ Maggie laughed as her sister went back to her pacing, pausing to glance out of the window, or to cuddle one of Maggie’s favourite dolls and soft toys arranged on her window seat, then to rearrange the ornaments on the mantle shelf. Restless, fidgety, discontented, and yes, always impatient. ‘But what about Father? He won’t take kindly to being fooled, or lied to.’
Livia shrugged. ‘We won’t tell him.’
‘So what happens when Henry finally discovers that you’ve led him on? You can’t seriously allow the man to start planning a wedding and then turn round and say it was all a
ruse
to stop father bullying us, and that you never meant to go through with it?’
Livia turned bleak eyes upon her sister. ‘I could say that I’d changed my mind, got cold feet or something.’
‘Ice cold, I should think. More like hypothermia.’
Both girls giggled, then Livia flopped on to the bed beside Maggie to wrap her arms about her. ‘Let’s not worry about all of that now. One day at a time, eh?’
She was determined to find out what misfortune, if any, had befallen poor Mercy Simpson, and to protect her sister, no matter what the cost.
Amos suggested that Ella learn to spin. Most evenings, after supper, he would work his loom, often propping his Bible against the frame so that he could read at the same time. And Mrs Rackett would sit by the fire and spin, saying nothing very much as usual.
‘Farmers have been involved in weaving ever since there were sheep,’ Amos explained when Ella cast him glances of astonished disbelief that a man should be engaged in such a task. ‘Happen we produce sturdy cloth, rather than fine, but it’s none the worse for that. And we make it more for our own pleasure these days than for commercial purposes, but thee might find thyself less bored of an evening if thee were to join us in the task.’
Ella looked down her nose at the old woman seated on the settle, her spindle rhythmically spinning, needing only a pointed hat to complete the image of a witch. ‘I have plenty of work to do, thank you very much, without adding any more chores. Besides, I’m tired.’
‘Thee might find thee enjoys it.’
‘I would also be obliged,’ Ella said, in her clearest, firmest tones, ‘if you didn’t constantly address me as thee, or thou. I find it very…very discomfiting, and really rather archaic. This is the twentieth century, after all, not the sixteenth.’
‘I beg thee… I beg your pardon.’
Ella was surprised to see his cheeks flush bright red, though whether with embarrassment or anger, she wasn’t quite certain.
Mrs Rackett sent him a sideways look of concern, stopping her spinning for a moment to speak with unusual firmness to Ella. ‘He means no harm by it. It’s just his way, so you mind your manners, young lady.’
Did the old witch expect him to fly off the handle because she’d dared to criticise him? Ella found she was clasping her hands very tightly in her lap, half expecting him to turn and slap her for refusing him, as her father might have done. But he made no move to do so, and slowly, after several tense moments, she relaxed.
Yet Ella still burnt with resentment. Did she have no say at all over her own life? How dare he expect her to work every hour of the day? Was that the only reason he married her, in order to acquire a skivvy?
And he might not care for criticism himself, but he was quick enough to chastise her if he thought she had transgressed in some way. He’d been cross when she’d declined a request to become involved in arranging flowers in the small church, or setting out the hymn books before a service. Ella had insisted it was too far for her to walk, and she really didn’t have the time.
Amos accused her of being un-Christian, which had stung.
The fact she might quite have enjoyed helping the other ladies, since she did like arranging flowers, only made it worse. When would she have time to walk four miles there and four miles back on top of all her other chores? Her days were full as it was. Like all men he was thoughtless, and utterly selfish. Just like her father.
Even more petty, the other day he’d pointed out that her petticoat was showing beneath her skirt by the merest fraction of an inch. She’d yanked at the waistband, tried to right matters but only succeeded in making things worse and been forced to apologise.
‘Sorry, but this slip is rather long for the skirt, I’ll admit, but it’s the only one I have clean at the moment, thanks to our primitive wash conditions.’
It was Mrs Rackett’s task to scrub floors and clean windows, to help with the cooking and wash the clothes. She would boil the sheets and shirts and the combinations Amos wore in a large pan that hung from a hook over the fire. She’d scrape in a few flecks of soap then stir it with a long stick from time to time, until the sheets billowed and bubbled.
Ella would watch in amazement as she would then carry the scalding hot pan outside to the pump to rinse the sheets with cold water. Finally the old woman would wring them out with her large capable hands and hang them over a hawthorn hedge to dry. She didn’t have a mangle, nor even a washing line. And if it was raining, as it so often was up here in this damp valley, then they
would have wet sheets dripping from the clothes rack above the fire for days on end.
Because of the difficulties involved, Amos was encouraged to make one shirt and one pair of combinations last for the entire week, and Ella was allowed one blouse, one petticoat, and one nightgown. It was all most unsatisfactory, a long way from the efficiencies of the laundry at Angel House where nobody would have dreamt of laying down such restrictions.
Even worse, the very same pan in which Mrs Rackett did the washing, she would then use for making broth or boiling a shank of bacon, not necessarily remembering to scour it out first, which would give the resulting dish a somewhat soapy taste.
Ella grew weary with nagging the woman to be more hygienic or efficient. Where was the point in arguing when it never got her anywhere? And much of the time she was too exhausted to do battle, wanting only to get the hated chore out of the way so that she might find five minutes alone to put up her feet and rest.
Spinning indeed. Flower arranging. Didn’t she have enough to do already? Ella thought she would never get used to this life, never!
Life continued to be tough in the dale and Ella felt perpetually tired, worn out by an endless succession of chores: feeding the geese and ducks, the chickens that scratched in the dirt around the farmhouse, and the calves. The farm cats, too, seemed to be constantly demanding saucers of milk.
Ella deeply resented the fact Amos expected so much of her. He’d even demanded she help with the sowing of the oats and barley, traipsing up and down the meadow for hour upon hour scattering seed from a basket. Did he think she had the stamina of a donkey? And she’d made it clear from the outset that she didn’t like cows, was really quite nervous of them, yet he insisted she go with him into a field full of them to collect a calf he could perfectly well catch by himself.
‘You need to get used to the beasts, Ella,’ he told her, ‘and they need to get used to you.’
Then there were the black cattle, huge, ugly animals that glowered menacingly at her whenever she passed by. He seemed to find her dislike of them amusing.
Oh, how she hated the farm, and the dale.
Ella felt as if she were working from dawn to dusk, with scarcely a minute to herself. She would sneak an hour or two off in an afternoon, true, for a rest or a walk in the fresh air, even if she did hate the oppressive silence of the mountains looming down at her. But she surely deserved this precious time to herself?
Her day never varied.
After breakfast Amos would take a tin bottle of tea and a hunk of bread and cheese and go off over the fells to tend his precious sheep, or down to the pastures to see to the cows, or mend his dry stone walls. Ella wouldn’t see him again until late in the day when he returned for his supper, thankful that he didn’t come home for a midday meal as she had more than enough to keep her occupied.
There was a small vegetable garden behind the house and it was apparently Ella’s responsibility to tend it and keep the family supplied with potatoes, onions, cabbage and green beans. Surely a hopeless task. Ella had never done a day’s gardening in her life.
Cooking had to be done on an open fire and the boiler beside it kept constantly filled with water. Mrs Rackett would make a thin oatmeal porridge each morning, which they would all eat after the milking, followed by plain bread and butter. Breakfast never varied and Ella longed for a taste of raspberry jam. It might even be worth working the garden, she supposed, if she could grow some raspberries, which were said to do well in these hills. Or rhubarb and blackcurrant perhaps? Gooseberry pie was delicious. Ella began to make one of her lists, planning what plants she would like for her garden. She had several of these, all waiting for that much longed-for trip to town.
Unfortunately, with Amos still convinced she meant to run off with her lover, this was still a distant dream. Serve him right if she wrote to Danny and ran off anyway.
Ella was collecting some feed from the barn one morning when she thought she saw something move out of the corner of her eye. ‘Tilda, is that you? Are you hiding in the straw?’ Surely not. It was a Monday. Hadn’t Amos already taken all three children back to their aunt’s house, ready for school?
And then, perhaps startled by the sound of a human voice, a nose and whiskers emerged, sniffing the air.
Ella stepped closer, wondering what it was, when suddenly a rat emerged from the straw and ran across her feet.
Ella screamed. Dropping the bag of feed all over the floor she fled out into the yard and ran pell mell straight into Amos. He caught her to him as she flung herself into his arms. ‘What is it, Ella. What’s happened?’
‘It was a rat, a rat! It jumped out at me. Oh, it was awful.’
He began to laugh. ‘There are always rats in the barn. They go after the animal feed.’
‘Well this one came after me.’ Cheeks flushed, Ella struggled to free herself from his grip, but for some reason he held on to her arms, not willing to let her go. ‘You must do something about it, Amos. I refuse to go in there again until you do.’
‘Oh, Ella, have you any idea how very delightful you look when you are cross?’
‘I am not
cross
, I am furious!’
‘Of course you are. I think I rather like thee furious,’ and suddenly, quite out of the blue, he kissed her. His arms were tight about her waist so there was no hope of escape. He hadn’t shaved yet this morning and the bristles on his chin rubbed quite painfully against hers, but the kiss itself was astonishing, not at all what she might have expected from such a quiet, serious-minded man. His mouth moved over hers in a most demanding, exciting manner, stirring something deep within her that she’d thought quite dead. And it was over far too soon, leaving her breathless.
Amos grinned down at her. ‘I promise I’ll see to the rats, just as soon as I can spare the time.’ Then he walked away, still laughing. Ella put trembling fingers to her lips and wondered what had just happened to her.
The mere that had given Kentmere its name, and was once found in the lower dale between Kentmere Park and Green Quarter, had been drained over fifty years ago by the Victorians. In its place had been built a reservoir to provide water for the bobbin mills and paper-making industry in the villages of Staveley and Burneside in the valley below. High and remote, it must surely be the loneliest spot in all of England. Merely to stand within the amphitheatre of those mountains and look upon the steel grey glimmer of its surface brought a chill to Ella’s heart. The silence of the place was profound, with not even the call of a lark or rustle of a leaf in this treeless setting. She avoided it like the plague. If she walked out at all, which wasn’t often these days, she went down the dale, her feet instinctively leading her in the direction of the village and civilisation.
With her husband, it was quite the opposite. He preferred the tranquillity of the upper fells, could stride up Froswick as if it were a mere anthill and not a mountain of over two thousand feet with steeply forbidding slopes.
Most of all he loved the river. A mere infant when it entered the reservoir, it rapidly grew into a rushing force as it gathered pace down the dale, and having served the local mills, would rush through Kendal and onward to Arnside, bursting into the sea at Morecambe Bay.
Amos claimed that the tarn must once have been a fine spot for fishing, and he rather regretted never having experienced its charms. Nevertheless, there were other places on the river in this part of Kentdale where he loved to fish.
One morning, as he packed his tea can and ham sandwiches, he informed Ella that he would not be on the fells with the sheep today as he intended to go fishing. He hoped to bring home a fat trout or salmon. She was only half listening, being far more concerned with the length of time the kettle was taking to boil when she was desperate to wash her hair.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs Rackett give him a jab with her sharp elbow, whereupon a strange invitation burst out of his mouth. ‘I were wondering if thee – if you would care to join me. It’s a bonny day, not too much sun for fishing, but warm and pleasant all the same. I’ve put up enough food for two.’
Ella looked at him in amazement. ‘Fishing. You want me to come fishing?’
‘You might enjoy it.’
‘I don’t think so.’ She laughed, and then wished she hadn’t as she saw the old woman’s mouth pinch into a tight line of disapproval and saw again that betraying flush on her husband’s cheeks.
‘Thee could… I meant for you to watch. I thought happen you might enjoy a change of scene. But if you’d be bored, forget it. Anyroad, I’d best be off.’ Draping his bag across his shoulders, he picked up his rod and tackle and was striding out the door in a second.
‘You daft happorth,’ the old woman snapped. ‘He were only offering you an hour or two off from the work because you’ve been complaining about having too much to do. Why won’t you give the lad a chance?’
Ella realised with a small shock of surprise that she was right. He’d been attempting to be kind by suggesting she accompany him, even offering to share his picnic. Now she’d said the wrong thing and it was too late to back down.
Mrs Rackett spat in the fire in disgust, her spittle hissing on the coals. ‘Sometimes, madam, you’d cut off your own nose to spite yer face.’
Ella ruefully remembered her own mother saying much the same thing.
Later that day, after she had washed her hair and bathed herself in the tin bath, which Mrs Rackett thought she did far more often than was rightly called for, Ella found herself walking along the lane towards the spot where she knew Amos had gone to fish. The great hump of Ill Bell, dark against the silver blue of the sky, was at her back. Ahead was the smooth sweep of Kentmere Pike, to her right Rainsborrow Crag rising from the green earth like a giant fortress fashioned by God’s hand.
Ella kept on walking, for once almost savouring the silence, watching with interest as puffy white clouds bounced like soft bags of wool before the wind. She heard the lone cry of a curlew, spotted a tiny shrew disappear among a heap of larch and pine needles, no doubt seeking seeds for its supper.