Mr Farrow stopped a few yards away when he saw Daisy and called to her. ‘Go and tell me missus we’ve got company for dinner.’
Daisy hurried through to the back.
‘Well, who is it, then?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Farrow. He’s tall with dark hair on his face and wearing a very smart hat. Don’t let him take me away, will you?’
‘Why should he want to do that? He’s not the constable, is he?’
Daisy chewed on her lip and shook her head.
‘Well, set him a place at table and give the pewter tankards on the dresser a rinse while I draw another pitcher of ale.’
Daisy set out the tankards. Mrs Farrow inspected the table and said, ‘He’ll be one of them commercial travelling men that stay at the Reddy Arms. Put on a clean apron and be on your best behaviour, lass.’
Mr Farrow came into the kitchen with his guest. ‘Come and meet my good lady, Mr Shipton. You will take your dinner at our table?’
‘That is very civil of you sir,’ the stranger replied. ‘I had planned to call on you later, when your working day is finished.’
‘And you say you are acquainted with my wife’s brother at Kimber Hill Farm?’
‘I know him from my dealings at the beast market in town.’
‘You are a farmer yourself, sir?’
‘I own a farm in the Dales, sir, but I have found my vocation as a dealer in stock. The number of people moving to the towns is growing so fast that local farmers and butchers are hard pressed to keep pace with demand for meat.’
‘Yes, my son has talked of this. But he has a ready market for his fat stock up at the Abbey.’
‘I understood that the Abbey had its own farm.’
‘Aye, but more folk live up there than they do in this village. They take a lot o’ feeding. Talking o’ feeding, we have mutton for dinner. Are you partial?’
‘Indeed I am, sir.’
‘Excellent! We’ll take a pipe o’ baccy afterwards and talk of our business then.’
Daisy placed the pitcher of ale on the table and pulled out a chair. ‘Will you sit here, sir?’ She avoided looking at him but he stared intently as he walked round the table.
‘Is something wrong, sir?’ Mrs Farrow asked.
‘Not at all, madam. Forgive me, your – your daughter reminds me of – of someone I know.’
He sat down smiling, apparently to himself, and seemed to lapse into thought. Daisy froze to the spot. He had come from Father! She didn’t remember him but clearly her face was familiar to him. Mrs Farrow raised her eyebrows and Daisy noticed her exchange a puzzled glance with her husband.
‘This is Daisy, sir,’ Mr Farrow explained. ‘She is our maid but she is as good as a daughter to us. She dines with us.’
Daisy was so overcome by a warm feeling of belonging that she forgot her discomfort with the stranger for a moment. Although her tasks were gruesome at times, the Farrows were kind to her and had welcomed her as they might one of their own from the outset. But she had not realised until now that they thought so much of her. A small thrill buzzed through her and she cheered. If the stranger saw she was settled in a position he might only demand her wages for her father. That would be a small price to pay for staying
near to Boyd. She hoped that the Farrows would not mention Boyd in the conversation.
After dinner, Mrs Farrow helped Daisy in the scullery leaving the men to talk business over their tobacco pipes. But Mrs Farrow ear-wigged at the door as she dried the pots.
‘He wants our son to raise some new stock for market,’ she relayed. ‘He wants a new breed that puts on more lean. I ask you! Where would we get our tallow for candles? Poor folk can’t afford beeswax. And the new breed don’t have horns! They won’t taste the same, you mark my words.’
Daisy placed an empty bucket under the drain hole in the scullery sink to catch the dirty water. ‘It’s getting dark, Mrs Farrow. Won’t Mr Shipton miss the carrier back to town?’
‘I heard him say he’s staying at the inn. Anyway, he’ll be on horseback, I expect.’
Daisy was relieved that he had not quizzed her during the meal, although he did stare at her once or twice. She said, ‘He didn’t say who I reminded him of.’
Mrs Farrow laughed and nudged her with an elbow. ‘Well, I hope it isn’t one of his new breed of sheep,’ she said and Daisy giggled.
‘Where do all the folk come from, Mrs Farrow?’
‘His lordship has pit villages scattered right across this part of the Riding.’
The week before Christmas was busy. Mr Farrow shifted a whole ox, three pigs and, as well as Mrs Farrow’s cured hams, a whole barrelful of brined beef from the cellar. Daisy was up in the dark at five in the morning and Mrs Farrow showed her how to cut joints to serve at an outside counter in the front of the shop. She ate her porridge standing outside in lamplight and didn’t stop until ten o’clock at night except for tea and cold mutton at eleven and a hot meat pie at five. Mrs Farrow’s own salt beef was the most popular choice. It was kept in a barrel of brine by the counter and Daisy had to cut, weigh and work out the price of each joint. She preferred the customers who chose a piece that looked the right size for them. But those who wanted ‘about 3 pounds, me ducks’, and expected just that, were the most difficult.
She had to guess how much to cut and if it wasn’t right it had to go back in the barrel for another customer. Mrs Farrow didn’t like waste so Daisy aimed to cut a piece under rather than over and when she gave the price they were usually satisfied. Her hands became as cold as the icy brine and she feared that she might cut off one of her own fingers by mistake and not even notice.
Poultry and game were popular choices too: hare, rabbit, all manner of fowl selected by Mr Farrow from local farmers and hung up in rows on a rack outside the shop. Buyers picked out a brace and took them inside to pay Mr Farrow.
As daylight strengthened, an intermittent loud bang rang around the village.
‘What is that noise, Mrs Farrow,’ Daisy asked when she came out to bring her a mug of warming broth.
‘The old forge on Redfern Hill has reopened. It’s been shut for years. The last time I walked that way, there were a tree growing through the roof. In the old days it had a waterwheel turned by the stream that runs into the cut. But Mr Stanton from the Abbey has put in one o’ them steam engines and a great big drop hammer to beat the iron. That’s the noise you can hear.’
‘Oh! I thought it was from a quarry.’
‘Nay, lass. Blasting doesn’t sound like that. Coal and steam are our future, my youngest lad says. There’ll be a railway through here before long, you mark my words. I read in the news-sheet they’ve even built a ship that has steam engines.’
‘That sounds daft to me. Why buy coal when the wind is free?’
‘Don’t ask me, lass. Ask them who does it. One thing’s for sure. They wouldn’t do it if they couldn’t turn a profit.’
Mr Farrow paid Daisy every week and she saved most of
it to buy a gift for Boyd. He was occupied for long hours at the stables and, although he was relieved she had found a position and had brought over her box, he had had little time to talk. She told him about Mr Shipton and asked if he had been to the Abbey looking for them. He had not but Boyd said he would look out for the stranger.
She would see Boyd properly at Christmas, though, and Daisy eagerly anticipated the traditional church services and hunts. She spent all her spare time at the draper’s lingering over a pair of leather riding gloves for him but could not afford them and chose instead a skein of wool to knit him a neck muffler for the cold mornings.
Daylight hours were short and the nights frosty. By the evening of Christmas Eve customers were dwindling and Mrs Farrow came to the front door. ‘I’ve not much left to sell now. Take it down the cellar, Daisy, and wash the outside counter. Mr Farrow will bring it indoors.’ She raised her voice and called over her shoulder. ‘What have you kept back for our Christmas dinner, Mr Farrow?’
‘The biggest goose you’ve ever seen, with plenty o’ sage and onions.’
Daisy’s mouth watered at the prospect. ‘Shall I pluck and draw it for you,’ she volunteered.
‘Not this one, lass. I don’t want you losing any feathers or tearing the skin. I want him to look nice when he’s cooked. I’ll need to get him on early though.’ She turned to address her husband again. ‘Can you manage with just Daisy tomorrow morning?’
‘Aye, I’ll shut up well before dinner time and we can enjoy our Christmas Day together. Is the fire lit in the little parlour yet? I’ve got a grand Yuletide log for it this year that’ll keep going through to Twelfth Night.’
‘I should hope so, Mr Farrow,’ his wife said. ‘We don’t want any bad luck in this house.’
‘I have that bottle of sherry wine Mr Shipton left us an’ all. Has young Daisy ever tried sherry?’
She shook her head yet the mention of his name took the sparkle of anticipated pleasure from her eyes. Mr Shipton was a very civil gentleman, she thought, but she was suspicious of him nonetheless.
‘It will be nice to have another body at our Christmas table this year,’ Mrs Farrow commented. ‘There’s hot water in the boiler, Daisy lass. Go and have a wash and put on your good gown for the late night service. We want to be early at the church to get a seat.’
Mrs Farrow had helped Daisy with a velvet ribbon trim for her best gown and bonnet and even given her some white cotton tatting that she had kept from an old bodice to make a fresh collar and cuffs. The mirror in her chamber was small and spotty but Mrs Farrow was not mean with her tallow candles and Daisy was pleased with her finished appearance.
She carried her cloak downstairs and opened the door that led to the kitchen. Mr Farrow was lighting a lantern in the back yard and she heard him call, ‘Are you two womenfolk ready yet?’
‘Eee, Mr Farrow, come back inside a minute and take a look at this little lass.’ Mrs Farrow took her cloak from her and laid it over her arm. She tweaked the velvet bonnet ribbons tied under her chin then stood back with a fond expression on her face. ‘Isn’t she a picture, Mr Farrow?’
Daisy was pleased to see a similar look cross his florid features. She did not want to let them down when the whole village would be there to see.
‘Aye, she is that, Mrs Farrow. She’s right lovely.’
‘Thank you,’ Daisy beamed and turned to let her old cloak, now also trimmed with velvet ribbon, drop over her shoulders.
She followed Mrs Farrow and her husband out into the chilly night air, through the backyard gate and down the side of the house to join clusters of other well-wrapped folk hurrying towards the church path. Mr and Mrs Farrow slowed as the incline increased. Daisy had once reflected to Boyd that churches were built on hills so that worshippers would be nice and warm when they had reached them and their feet wouldn’t grow cold as they listened to the sermon. He had laughed and said that it made them too hot in summer. Ah yes, she had replied, but churches were always chilly so you soon cooled off, and he had laughed again.
Daisy was thinking fondly of this past exchange as she climbed the track through the churchyard. Lanterns ducked and bobbed in front of her. Normally she wouldn’t have dared cross the graveyard at night but tonight it wasn’t ghostly at all. The hushed murmurings she heard were from village folk that she knew by name, whose breathing turned to steam in the frosty air. A warm feeling spread through her veins as some regular customers greeted her with obvious pleasure and complimented her on her pretty bonnet. They clustered around the church door waiting their turn to shuffle into the high ceilinged, cavernous interior.
In fact, Daisy was surprised to see the church so well lit with extra lamps and candles, as well as the villagers’ lanterns which were placed on any convenient surface. Her eyes darted backwards and forwards over old and young faces with nose tips and cheeks reddened by the cold until she spotted Boyd quite near the front. He raised his arm and beckoned her.
‘May I sit with my brother for the service, Mrs Farrow?’
‘I don’t see why not. What do you say, Mr Farrow?’
Mr Farrow nodded. ‘He’s that Higgins fellow from the Abbey stables, isn’t he? Where is he? Oh yes, I see him. Off you go then but don’t keep us waiting to go home when the service is over.’
‘No, I won’t, Mr Farrow. Thank you ever so much.’ Daisy hurried forward, only to be held up by folk in the aisle looking for a pew space to squeeze into. As she hovered impatiently behind them she heard Mr Farrow say, ‘He’s a fine grown fellow, isn’t he. D’you think the lass’d like him to come over for tea one Sunday?’
‘Oh how kind of you, Mr Farrow. I am sure she would.’
‘In the New Year, then. Is there enough room in this pew, Mrs Farrow?’
‘Plenty, my dear. Oh look, there’s the rector now. His lordship must be outside.’
Redfern’s ageing rector had acquired his living through his late mother who had been a cousin of his lordship’s late mother. He stood in front of his congregation as they shuffle d and crushed together in the pews, or resigned themselves to standing next to the walls.
Boyd was indicating a space next to him and Daisy stood at the end of his wooden pew smiling expectantly at the row of masculine faces beside him. She wondered if they would behave in the same way as the young gentleman had in the stables and her smile faltered. But they were Abbey servants and they were in church, so three of them filed out into the aisle and she gathered her cloak closely to sit by Boyd.
‘You look very pretty tonight, Daisy,’ he said.
She wanted to take his hands and lean over to kiss him but did not wish to embarrass him. ‘Do you think so?’ she responded.
‘I know so. Have you settled well at the butcher’s house?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve got used to the blood and guts and smells and Mr and Mrs Farrow are very kind. They treat me like one of their own.’
‘Can you get away tomorrow afternoon?’
‘They are taking the trap to visit their son’s farm after dinner.’
‘Come to the stables and I’ll give you a riding lesson.’
She nodded excitedly.
‘Hush now, his lordship’s here.’
The congregation stood quietly as Lord Redfern was pushed in his Bath chair by a liveried servant down the central aisle. The wheels squeaked and rattled as they bumped over the uneven flags. Daisy stretched her neck to catch a glimpse of him and was shocked to see a tiny wrinkled old gentleman wrapped in fur, apart from his head which was thinly covered in wisps of white hair over a scalp splashed with liver spots. He seemed barely alive and she considered he really should not have left his bedchamber. Another servant followed carrying his fur hat and Daisy thought that God wouldn’t have minded if he’d kept it on his head just this once. Dear heaven, she thought, he had not been well since the harvest supper and ought not to be out of doors in this cold weather!