Authors: Joan M. Moules
She came from the dairy one morning and found him
standing against the wall outside. He seemed to be leaning on the wall for support.
‘Tom, what’s the matter. Are you all right?’
For a moment he didn’t answer, then he looked at her, and for a second she saw the gleam in his eyes and backed away.
‘I’m bad,’ he said, ‘feeling rotten. Master sent me back to rest.’ Instinctively she reached towards him, then she said quietly, ‘Too much sun. Best get to bed for an hour. You’ll be fine by morning.’
‘Reckon so.’ His eyes held hers for a moment. ‘I’ll be on duty tomorrow,’ he said, and his voice faltered slightly. She turned from him and went across the yard, then she heard a strangled sort of cry and looking back saw him slumped by the wall of the dairy.
All wariness gone she hurried back and helped him up. With her arm supporting him, he walked into the kitchen. She pulled a chair out from beneath the table and eased him into it. He rested his head on the table. She went to the larder for the
earthenware
pitcher of water she kept on the stone floor after drawing it from the well earlier. She dipped a beaker into it and hurried over to him.
‘Here, sip this.’
‘You’re very kind, missus.’ When she didn’t reply he said quietly, ‘I’d best get over to my bed afore I faint again.’ Her natural instinct was to help him, support him, yet there was something not quite right here. His voice sounds weak she thought, but his eyes … what was it she saw there, not frailness certainly, more like excitement.
‘Yes,’ she said, adding, ‘I’ll send some food over for you later.’ He went slowly, as though every step was an effort, and she watched through the window until he was out of sight round
the corner by the stable. There was no one around to send with food so she took him some bread and cheese after she had set their own meal on the table. She climbed the steps to the loft, laid the plate on the top one and tapped the door. Then she hurried away because she had recognized the look he had given earlier and it took her right back to the market-place and the men’s lustful eyes as they assessed her. She was back in the kitchen before Daniel and Jim came in for their meal. Later that afternoon she mentioned the incident to Daniel.
‘Yes, he came over queer. I sent him back to the stable to rest. He didn’t come here, did he?’
‘I saw him and took some bread and cheese over just before we had ours.’
‘Was he all right?’
‘Don’t know. I thought he’d be resting so I left it on the step outside.’
‘No use to us unless he can work,’ Daniel said. ‘I’ll check on him before I go over to the field in a moment.’
He kissed her tenderly before returning to work. Was it her imagination, she thought, as she worked in the dairy during the afternoon. Or had she seen that look in this particular
farmhand’s
eye, the look which said
you are a beautiful woman and I want you.
Had he feigned illness to get her alone in the kitchen?
Tom appeared on the farm the following morning ready for work. He came into the kitchen midday with Jim and tackled his bread and cheese with gusto. Jim rose silently as usual at the end of the meal and returned to his beloved cows. Tom lingered until Daniel said, ‘Get moving then, there’s work to be done out there.’ He left for the fields himself soon after and Betsy began clearing the crocks from the table.
A few days later when Betsy was working around the house
she heard a noise downstairs in the kitchen. Daniel always called out. ‘It’s only me, Betsy,’ if he returned to the farmhouse during the day, but this time there was no such greeting. She came downstairs to find Tom standing by the scrubbed wooden table, his hand casually resting on the back of a chair. Her thoughts flew to Daniel: had there been an accident?
‘Tom, what’s up?’ Her voice was sharp with anxiety and when he didn’t answer but simply looked at her a tremor passed over her body. ‘Mr Forrester – is he all right, what’s happened, Tom, tell me.’
She was half-way out of the door when she heard him behind her. ‘He’s all right,’ he said, ‘’Tis me. I come over queer again. Need some water.’
‘Go and sit down while I fetch it.’ She was trembling as she moved towards the larder and he stood perfectly still watching her.
‘Go and sit by the table,’ she said again, warning bells ringing throughout her being. She intended to wait until he had moved before filling the mug she took from the shelf, but he suddenly clutched his chest and staggered in her direction. Grabbing hold of her he murmured, ‘I’m so dizzy …’
As she dragged him towards the chair she was conscious of his closeness, she could feel his breath coming in short little gasps and wished Daniel was around to help. Suppose he died on her. She had never had anything to do with death and illness and this was the second time in a week that this lad had been stricken. They reached the chair and she practically pushed him on to it. He clung to her, moaning softly, and as she tried to move his grip tightened and he pulled her closer until their faces were almost touching. One of his hands slid down her thigh and began pressing her to him. Jerking herself away
sharply she delivered a stinging slap to Tom’s face.
‘Get yourself back to the stable this minute,’ she said. He went without another word. She was still flushed with anger nearly an hour later when she was preparing the evening repast. If they were not so short-handed she would tell Daniel about it and she knew Tom would be through the door faster than a shaft of lightning. But they had to gather the corn before the weather broke and they
needed
the extra pair of hands. Another couple of weeks and all would be harvested. Surely she could avoid being alone with Thomas Shooter for that short time. In any case she could defend herself against the lustings of men like Tom.
She knew now why the girls in the kitchen at her first place had been so mean with her, but at the time she had not fully understood. They were jealous because the master never looked at them. Why did she have this devastating effect on the male sex?
She had thought her husband hard-featured and less than
handsome
when she first saw him, yet now she noticed his strong bone-structure and not his swarthiness. She knew his
tenderness
as well as his temper and, strangest of all, she loved him. She enjoyed their lovemaking and her greatest wish was to have his child or children. A spasm of sadness passed through her as she wondered yet again if this would one day happen.
Twice now she had miscarried. Daniel hadn’t known about the second one because it was such early days and he was at market when she had this tremendous pain and struggled to the closet outside. She went to bed for a while afterwards to regain some strength but in spite of slapping her cheeks in an effort to put some colour back to them Daniel had said when she placed
his meal in front of him that evening, ‘Are you well, Betsy? You look tired, my love.’
Smiling, she assured him she was fine and began to ask about the market and whom he had met and talked to there.
It had been frightening for her and she felt awful for days afterwards, but she was glad Daniel had not known. When things settled down maybe she would try to find out why this was happening to her. Perhaps she should speak to her mother, as Daniel wanted, but for a reason different from his. Maybe she could tell her if it was something that ran in the family, whether anything had happened to her when she was a baby to prevent her carrying her own babies to full term.
A slight noise outside shot her mind back to her present problem, but it was only Dumbo tapping at the window to come in. She let the cat inside, fed him, then went to the bedroom to wipe a cool cloth over her burning cheeks before Daniel came home for his tea.
She had no further trouble with Thomas Shooter during the next few days. If anything he seemed to ignore her presence, except for a brief ‘Thanks’ when she put his food on the table at midday. The harvest was nearly finished now and soon he would be on his way. She felt sure his dizziness had been put on and she shuddered as she realized the implications it could have. However she was glad she had said nothing to Daniel about the young farm-hand’s advances. He was young, strong and apparently a good worker. Nevertheless she would be glad to see the back of him.
The harvest supper was fun to prepare, enabling Betsy to meet some of the other farmers’ wives, and she was looking forward to the evening, not least because Tom Shooter would be on his way the following day.
Betsy noticed Tom watching her from across the long
trestle-tables
set up in the barn at Redwood for the traditional supper, and she refused to catch his eye. She stayed close to Daniel for most of the time, but inevitably they became separated as people moved around afterwards. It was then that Tom crept up behind her.
‘Missus,’ he said quietly, ‘can I talk to you for a moment, it’s very important.’ She swung round to face him.
‘Go on then.’
‘There’s far too much din in here, I can’t shout this out. ‘Twill take two moments only. If we just step outside—’
‘No. If you have anything to say do so here.’
‘All right. But you won’t like it. This will be better said in private.’
‘Have your say and be done with it,’ she said, ‘then we can get on and enjoy ourselves.’
‘That’s what it’s about, enjoying yourself. It can’t be much with him, your husband,’ he spat the word out with contempt, ‘he’ll take anything female and you are too beautiful for that. What did he do, buy you in the market-place?’ Her hand seemed to move of its own volition as she slapped his face, leaving a red stinging patch on his cheek. Then she walked away. She was trembling so much, with anger and humiliation – she knew not which was the dominating feeling – that she quickly escaped to the door and stood there for a few moments, fighting for control. She dared not risk going outside for he would surely follow her and in his present mood he was strong enough to overpower her easily.
The throng moved around her, laughing, happy, full of food and drink and the knowledge that it had been a good season and the harvest was in. Amazingly, no one seemed to have
noticed the little encounter and Tom had quickly taken himself off.
After a time she returned to the centre of the room and helped in the clearing away. Then she joined in the dancing and merriment, but part of her felt dead. This should have been a joyous celebration, but for her, now, it was an ordeal to be got through.
She took the last of the crockery across the yard back to the farm kitchen while Daniel saw off the rest of the revellers as they made their way back to their own places. When she heard a noise behind her, she whipped round and saw Tom emerging from the pantry. In two strides he was there, beside her, both hands gripping her shoulders and marching her into the spacious shelved pantry, he kicked the door closed.
‘No one treats Thomas Shooter like that,’ he muttered as his hands went up her skirt, ‘I’ll have you, my lady, one way or another.’ She beat her fists against his chest and his hands slid from her garment as he fought her off and tried to restrain her. But she was frantic and as he eventually managed to grip her hands and hold her at arm’s length it gave her the chance to distance herself sufficiently to lift her leg and aim for his groin. With a cry of pain he abruptly let go and Betsy wrenched open the door and fled, leaving him doubled over and groaning in agony.
She longed for Daniel to come and take her to the safety of their home. Yet as she ran back to the barn the thought came to her that Daniel would kill him if he ever found out what he had tried to do. She knew Tom was staying one more night in the loft over the stables, but thank heaven he would be leaving now that the harvest was over. Best surely to say nothing to her husband.
After breakfast the following morning Tom said to Daniel, ‘I’ll come by next year at harvest time,’ then, looking directly at her, ‘Goodbye, missus. Thanks for everything.’ His hand touched her thigh as he slipped past.
When she went over to the dairy fifteen minutes later he was hovering near the wall. In the far distance she saw her husband walking towards them. Tom obviously saw him too, for he moved away.
‘You’ll pay for this,’ he muttered as he drew near to her, and without stopping walked off down the lane.
F
or a few days after Thomas Shooter left Redwood farm Betsy was jumpy. There had been something almost sinister about the lad. Fair-skinned, clean-looking, oozing with freshness and vitality and yet … His words about making her pay for her rejection of him kept coming into her mind, but what could he do? He had left the farm now, left the area and was on his way to new adventures and new women.
She shuddered and thought once again how wonderfully things had worked for her. The best thing that could have happened was when George Hatton sold her to Daniel. She was still filled with shame that such a thing should happen to her or any woman, but she knew that in her case it had led to such happiness.
She was totally in love with her husband now. Ayear ago she would not have thought it possible to love a man so much that she was willing to let go some of the ideas she felt passionate about.
She was often surprised by her husband’s patience because he had a temper that erupted like a volcano sometimes, but she noticed it was mostly when he was convinced someone or something was completely wrong. He had tremendous patience
with the animals and a calmness when he was amongst them or working on the land he loved.
Daniel had taught her so much about many things too. He had a good mind and as a boy had attended the village school regularly, whereas she had almost no learning until Mrs Wallasey took her in hand. But he admitted to her that he had no ideas of fine living, and she had because she had witnessed and been part of it in her first employment.
‘Oh Daniel, that doesn’t matter. What matters is being together, working for what we believe in.’
‘That women will one day rule the world,’ he said
affectionately
. They were sitting together on the old settee and his arm was round her shoulders.
‘Only if they have the intellect to do it. Then they should have the chance alongside men. Mrs Wallasey used to say …’ she hesitated and his laughter rang out.
‘Go on, then, tell me what this wonderful person used to say.’
‘Now you’re laughing at me. It’s fine for you, men have had it their way for so long, but men and women were born with a brain, some greater than others, and it should be used. In the Bible it says we must use our talents and we all have them.’
He pulled her towards him, ‘I’m not laughing at you, my darling. But you must admit that most of those wenches standing in the market with you had very little brain.’
‘It isn’t their fault, they’ve had no chance.’
‘Maybe, maybe. But you are different. You are special, Betsy. You have something many do not have and it isn’t just intellect.’
She moved slightly and turned to face him. ‘Beauty can be a curse,’ she said.
‘Yes, you are beautiful, but that wasn’t what I meant. I
sometimes
wonder …’ he broke off in mid-sentence.
‘What do you wonder, Daniel?’ Her tone was gentle.
‘How it is you love me, ugly little Danny boy.’
‘Is that what
she
used to call you?’
He nodded and for a few seconds she saw clearly the vulnerable little unloved boy whose mother found him ugly.
‘Oh Daniel, my darling,’ she said.
Daniel bought the locket when he went into Canterbury. It was gold and heart-shaped with a scroll of delicate leaves on one side but plain on the other. It had been a good harvest and for some while now he had wanted to buy Betsy something really special. These days he often thought how blessed he was to have such a wife. He knew she was often sad about the baby she had lost. If he was honest with himself he accepted that it hadn’t affected him in anything like the same way.
When she was first pregnant he had been glad that they were going to have a family, and for a while after her miscarriage he felt a spasm of disappointment when he thought about it. But he was much more concerned that Betsy herself was all right. Her unhappiness in the immediate aftermath was something he could only dimly imagine and it seemed that however hard he tried to console her she turned further from him.
He had been a little bothered too when Tom Shooter seemed to be always hanging around the kitchen, lingering after his meals … after all the lad was a shining Greek god compared to himself. He had noticed how Tom watched her at the harvest supper. And I was jealous, he thought now, jealous of his youth, his fair beauty, his tall, fine physique. He saw them talking together at one stage, Betsy’s face was flushed, her eyes sparkling blue fire and the pang of envy that shot through his body was something he had never before experienced. What if
she went off with the lad. After all, she’d had no choice when taking him, but if the opportunity presented itself, would she go with the younger man?
Surely not, she loved him, Daniel Forrester, she had often told him so. Yet, seeing them standing together, he knew a
devastation
of emptiness that made him feel sick. Oh Betsy, if I could I would lock you up where you saw no one who could tempt you.
He knew that was impossible. She was his, not through choice, but because he had bought her, and the wonder of it all was that she gave herself and her love to him generously. In any case he loved her independence. He had never known a woman like her before. His mother was strong, but manipulating. The women he had bedded, and there had been a few when he was a young lad, were pitiful compared to Betsy.
Her strength of will, her intelligence, her sense of the
rightness
of things, all these he loved, but more than anything she set his pulses and heart racing when she looked at him with love in her own eyes. Love for him. His thoughts returned to the harvest supper and that glimpse of his wife’s animated face as she stood with Tom Shooter. People had moved in front of him while he was watching and when they moved away and he looked to where he had seen them talking both Betsy and Tom had disappeared from his view.
Daniel gave her the gold locket a few evenings afterwards and as he fastened it around her neck she whispered softly, ‘It is too beautiful for me, Daniel, it must have cost so much.’
‘Nothing is too beautiful for you, my darling, you have brought such happiness and love to my life. I would give you anything you wanted if I could, I love you so much.’
Tears filled her eyes as she thought that the one thing she
desired now was a child of their own. He could give it to her but she seemed incapable of birthing it. But Betsy said nothing of this to her husband; she simply touched the locket and hugged him tightly to her breasts.
Two weeks later word came that Betsy’s mother had died. They set off for the funeral on a mellow September morning. Betsy did not pretend a sadness she didn’t feel, only an
annoyance
that she would not now be able to find out if there was any reason for her miscarriages that her mother might have known about.
Afterwards Daniel took her back to the house for the funeral meal with the rest of the family. He felt very strongly that they should go. ‘We do not need to stay long but it is right and proper that you should be there, Betsy,’ he said, ‘but as soon as you say the word after the meal is over we will leave.’
It felt strange being back in the old kitchen where she had toiled away while her brother and sisters seldom did any work. Certainly not any dirty work. She looked at the floor she had scrubbed so many times, remembered the scrubbed kitchen table and the uncomfortable stool where she had sat to peel potatoes and slice and wash vegetables.
She thought of her life after she left to work for Mrs Wallasey and of her life now in her own pleasant kitchen and around the farm with Daniel.
Her body was alive with the injustices she had suffered as a child, she even ducked out of the way when her brother walked in; she half-expected him to take a swing at her as he always used to. At first she had tried to fight back but it was an unequal contest and he made so much noise it always brought her mother along to side with him and clip her daughter’s other ear, so in the end she gave up and simply endured it. Well, her mother would
never again side with her brother, and she had Daniel to stand with her against them all. The only emotion she hadn’t felt since returning here this morning was sorrow for the mother she had never loved and whom she was sure had never loved her. Her mother had not said so, like Daniel’s mother who had
undermined
his confidence so cruelly, but it had been obvious by her attitude. Betsy had been just a servant in this house, a servant to them all. She had fought against the injustice of it but Daniel, in his childhood, had accepted and bowed down beneath it.
She seemed to hear her beloved Mrs Wallasey’s voice saying, even as she had in life, ‘We are all different, that’s what makes humans so interesting Betsy – no two people ever tackle things in the same way.’ Certainly she and Daniel had reacted quite differently to their environments and treatment.
Standing next to her mother’s sister Agnes, Betsy thought,
well Aunt Agnes hasn’t changed – she looks as sour as ever.
Agnes was her mother’s only sister, the other three of that generation being boys. Even as a child Betsy had felt miserable whenever Agnes was present. The boys, her uncles, were mostly cheery men, but Agnes seemed to bring an aura of darkness with her. Once Betsy had left home she seldom thought about her aunt, but now, seeing her again the old feeling returned.
‘So, you have a husband, eh? With your looks I would have thought you could have done better than
him.
What did he do – buy you in the market-place so he could parade a young and beautiful wife? Are your children like you or him?’
Determined not to be drawn into losing her temper on this occasion Betsy turned slightly as though she hadn’t heard, but Agnes touched her arm and pulled her round so that they were face to face. ‘You’re like
him,
of course; not a touch of the Saldens in you.’
Agnes lowered her gaze first, as Betsy stared unbelievingly at her aunt. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ she said, fixing Agnes with the midnight blue of her eyes.
Ignoring her question her aunt said, ‘He looked at me with your eyes once, until that night, crazy with drink, he bedded her.’
‘Who? What are you talking about?’ She gripped her aunt’s arm until she made the woman wince.
‘Get off. You’ve inherited his temper too. I don’t know why you’ve come back here today, you never had time for any of us before—’
‘What did you mean about his eyes and the Saldens? What are you hinting at?’
In her frustration she pinched her aunt’s arm even harder and the woman pushed her roughly away. ‘He was mine until she let him have his way with her. Just that once and I’ve
hated
you ever since.’
Wrenching herself free Aunt Agnes turned her back and went out of the room. Betsy stood perfectly still, a thousand thoughts chasing themselves around her mind.
Not a touch of the Saldens in you … the night he bedded her …
Who? Her mother. The venom in Agnes’s voice made her shiver. Did that mean she had a different father from the others? Is that why she was always treated so badly?
She hurried after her aunt, determined to find the truth. She caught up with her in the kitchen. Everyone else was in the other room, chatting and reminiscing with each other as they ate and drank. ‘You must tell me – you’ve said too much not to finish now. Who was my father, why did my mother hate me so?’
With her back to the door in an effort to prevent her aunt’s escape, her breath suddenly coming in short sharp bursts and her lovely eyes glittering with passion, she faced Agnes.
‘Keep away. Keep away from me or I’ll scream and they’ll all come running. They know what he was like and you’ve inherited it. You’re not one of us, you never have been.’
Betsy took a step closer. ‘Go on.’ It didn’t sound like her own voice and Agnes looked round, but they were completely alone.
‘All right. I vowed never to say but you’ve asked for it. Your father was
my
lover before he was hers. He took her one night in a drunken stupor. She did everything she could to lose you but nothing worked. When you were born she made us all promise not to tell the truth of the affair. You were her last fling – you were forced on her and she never forgave you or him. Now let me out of here.’
‘One more question, then I will,’ Betsy said with authority in her voice. ‘Who was he? What was his name?’
‘I can’t – I won’t tell you.’
‘You
will
tell me. I have a right to know.’ She took a step towards her aunt.
‘All right, all right. His name was Choicely. He was the son of Sir Benjamin Choicely of Eccleton.’
Betsy realized that she was holding her breath and she let it go now in a rush of release. Moving from the door she waited until Agnes had scuttled through, then she sank on to the nearest chair.
Daniel found her there a few minutes later. ‘I wondered where you were,’ he said, ‘suddenly I couldn’t see you anywhere in the room. Are you all right?’
She grabbed his hand, ‘Yes, I’m fine, Daniel, but let’s go home now. I’m tired.’
He looked at her closely, but she turned her gaze away from him and stood up. Hand in hand they left the kitchen. She refused to return to the parlour where her brothers and sisters,
aunt and uncles and cousins were. The din they were making was so great that none heard or saw Betsy and Daniel as the horse and cart rattled across the cobbles.
‘Do you want to tell me what’s happened?’ Daniel said once they were moving gently through the countryside.
‘When we’re home. I can’t talk about it now,’ she managed before lapsing into silence. He whipped the horse into a trot, anxious to get her back.
She told him that evening. He held her close and said it didn’t matter, she was Betsy, her own woman, that she had everything he had ever wanted. She looked at this man who had bought her in the market-place, and knew now that if things had been different he was exactly whom she would have chosen to spend the rest of her life with.
In the early hours of the morning Betsy felt a great need to go to the lavatory. As she stumbled from the bed the movement woke Daniel and when she hadn’t returned after ten minutes he went after her.