The change in young Joss did not go unnoticed. His mother saw the small things at first: how he washed more often at the pump, how his head was always stuck in a borrowed book. He attended chapel school with more fervour than any of her other boys and she wondered if he had ideas of being a preacher.
He laughed, saying his mind was not set on such holy things, being more a plough boy than a scholar. He cajoled his father into making changes around the farm: to breed more stock and get better prices for their wool; to oversee the building of stone out barns to store the fodder for winter. He was all for overwintering cattle with the newfangled notions of feeding them turnips, fussing over which tup to set on the ewes for the best quality wool. He nagged the men to tidy up the yard and keep the milk cows clean, and began inspecting their cheese-making, fussing over machinery.
‘What’s gotten into you, lad?’ Mother snapped.
‘This is 1822, a new century. The Boney wars are over. There’s money to be made in these hills if you know how to go about it. I hear old Collins up at Malham Water House mines coal, copper, lead and lime off his own land. I am thinking of opening up a seam or two. There’s more to farming than sheep and cows.’
He stood there in the prime of his life, nineteen years old, tall, broad-shouldered and handsome in the Snowden sort of way.
‘It’s about time you found a wife to keep your feet on the ground,’ Mother answered. ‘And what’s all this talk of you going to St Oswald’s of a morning worship? Is it to see if that Carr girl’s back from her wanderings?’ She laughed, seeing him go scarlet. ‘Mercy preserve us, don’t go looking in that direction, Joss. Thee’s getting above thyself.’
The spies had been out and about, and someone had seen him in the back pew of the church ogling the squire’s pew for signs of the girl’s return. He had caught a brief glimpse of Susannah once, walking out through the side door, erect and proud. It was she who had taken his eye and he would not be dissuaded from this path.
This thoroughbred filly wore a short velvet jacket and big bonnet, dressed as close to town fashion as to make all the other village girls look plain in their homespun finery. He had perused the pews, hoping some spark of passion might be aroused by one of the village girls but there was none. Susannah had grown into a thing of beauty, dazzling all others out of his fancy. There was a spirit in her gait and boldness in her eye even if she didn’t recognise who he was when she drove past him in the street. She was to him a strange mixture of wildness and calm, like a summer’s day brewing a storm. He must make a fortune and fast, raise his standing in the district if there was to be any hope of wooing her. To wed a Carr was aiming higher than most would have dared. To achieve this would mean a long and hard campaign but he was no shirker from hard graft so he set himself the goal of making the most of every penny he earned to improve his income, his profit and his land. His parents stood back and watched his efforts with wonder and not a little fear.
To this end he made himself available to the parish worthies for any duty no one else wanted to take on. Joss Snowden was a byword for reliability. He took dancing lessons secretly in the town, but however nimble his footwork in the cotillion steps there was no entrée into the hallowed Bankwell House Assemblies.
When his intended was in residence he made sure that he was busy close by. There was a rhythm to Susannah’s charitable expeditions into the village that wasn’t hard to gauge. He took note when she rode abroad, hoping for another chance to rescue her, making sure he wore his best jacket and waistcoat and brown hat, but none ever came.
Of course, he guessed that she was destined to marry well and secure monies for the estate, whose walls were not in such fine fettle as his own. That was always a giveaway as to how well managed and prosperous a man’s land was. There was talk that Edward Carr had expensive tastes in thoroughbreds and his vintner’s bills went unpaid, and that shopkeepers in Scarperton despaired when fresh orders were demanded for Bankwell. Rumours of that sort of shortfall galloped up the dale and in the cattle marts. The Carrs were not now so high and mighty as they would like to think, not among the locals. Perhaps there was hope.
At Christmas he made an excuse to visit the house on parish business but still had to go first to the back entrance, not the front porch. He hovered around, hoping for a glimpse of Susannah, but of course there was none. Then the freezing weather came and the mill pond froze, and everyone took to the ice for fun, careering around arm in arm. He hovered out of sight, watching Susannah skating while her maid sat on the bank with her hands in her muff. If only he could have dazzled her with his prowess, but he was hopeless on blades.
Sometimes Joss thought he caught her staring in his direction but that was all. He hoped he cut a dash in his corduroy jacket and worsted breeches, his boots polished to glass. His mirror told him that his figure was lean and long-limbed, his shoulders were broad and his hips well tapered. He would be a catch for any of the farmers’ daughters who eyed him eagerly when dancing a jig. He was honest and hard-working but too low born to turn this one particular head in his direction. In his despair he turned to Parson Simey, whom he knew had the ear of old man Carr. It was after a parish poor law meeting that he sat sipping port in the parson’s small study.
‘What ails thee, young Joss? You’ve been hovering around Bankwell of late, like a bad smell. Who is the maid who’s captured your heart?’
Joss took his courage in hand and declared himself.
‘I have a great affection for Miss Susannah Carr. She’s caught my eye with her beauty, her horsemanship and kindness to the poor.’ He galloped it all out in one breath. ‘I’d like to make my intentions plain to Squire Carr.’
The parson shook his head. ‘Oh, dearie me, this is bad news. What gives you the notion that he would ever entertain the idea of his daughter being passed on to some twopenny farmer from up the dale?’ He eyed Joss keenly for a response.
Joss was not cowed by these words. ‘I don’t intend to stay in this station for ever,’ he argued. ‘I’ve got plans to buy more land, renew our stock with finer breeds, and remodel the farmhouse in a grander design with rooms suitable for any lady; a parlour with sea-coal fireplace, bedchambers, a little park outside with a walled garden away from view. My eye is so fixed upon her I will do anything to set her like some precious jewel in a grand setting.’
‘Will you now? Thy plans are ambitious indeed, but have you spoken to this jewel of your intention?’ asked the parson, sucking on his pipe with interest.
‘Nay, no … sir. It would not be seemly without her father’s consent. I’d not presume such boldness for although I may not be a gentleman by birth, I will behave as such.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, young man, for I fear you will face a grievous disappointment. Edward Carr will not waste his daughter on sons of the soil. She’s destined for higher men than you, but I admire your courage. Without dreams, Josiah, we are nothing. Aim for the stars and you might reach the sky but don’t overreach yourself in that direction. She must marry a man with money and estate and soon … however her heart may be fixed.’
‘But if you could but speak on my behalf to the squire, and tell him I will do exactly as I promised, plus mend his walls and see to his broken barns, perhaps that will help …’
The parson laughed aloud. ‘Oh, Joss, go find a farmer’s daughter of your own sort. The Snowdens and the Carrs are stations apart. Don’t be a fool!’
‘Not in my great-grandfather’s day, they were not. Were not the Carrs and Snowdens equals in Cromwell’s day and are we not all equal in the sight of the Lord?’
‘That may be so but I don’t think our squire sees it in such a light. I will make such delicate enquiries that are befitting a humble man of the cloth. Better to set your sights lower and you’ll do better for yourself. It doesn’t do to stir up the proper order of things. Be content with your station and all will be well.’
Thus was Joss dismissed and denied hope of furthering his cause with the family, but the Snowdens were by nature a stubborn stock, no quitters in affairs of the heart, and he rode back under the stars all the more determined to win his heart’s desire whether he had the squire’s consent or not.
He lay in bed composing the most delicate letter to Miss Susannah, brimful of all the admiration and praise he could muster, enclosed with a special poem he had copied to plead his cause. Perhaps if she knew of his regard, she might give him some sign of hope. He asked her if she still kept his guilty secret safe. The missive was delivered in the dead of night and was duly ignored, lost or undelivered, he knew not which.
Undeterred by the deafening silence Joss decided that, come what may, he would set about achieving all that he had described to the parson on that winter’s night. He would wait like Jacob for his Rachel, seven years if need be, until the Carr resistance crumbled under the force of his love.
As if to deter him further Susannah was suddenly removed once more to some relative in York to further her education in the seminary. This much was gleaned from servant gossip. But her absence spurred Joss even more to set about the monumental task he’d set himself. When she returned to Bankwell House Josiah Snowden would not be so easy to ignore.
‘Who’s that letter from?’ asked Eliza, peering over her shoulder.
‘No one.’ How dare that silly boy write such a letter to her, thought Susannah as she threw it with disdain almost onto the fire but then drew it back, shoving it into her reticule. It was the first billet-doux she’d ever had, even if it was from that rough cowherd Joss Snowden, who was growing so handsome and strong. How many times through the corner of her eye had she caught a glimpse of him watching her movements? Who did he think he was even to address her in such an intimate manner?
If Papa had known of such impudence he would’ve had him whipped or dismissed, but you couldn’t stop a free man from going about his lawful business, and Joss was no man’s fool. His name tripped off the tongue of many a housemaid as being the finest beau in the village.
If only she could’ve laughed and told them he was ordinary, but the young bucks she’d met in York through Aunt Lydia were silly dumb dogs or foppish mincing minions. Now she was going back to the seminary with its chaperones and dull deportment lessons, soirées and recitals. The city air was rank after the moorland freshness, the smoke and muck brought a different sort of smell. The poor were poorer and more threatening. The hovels they visited were beds of sickness and death. This time they must make an effort and be seen out in good society like prize heifers up for auction to the highest bidder. Papa was expecting a result, but how was she ever going to find a suitor for herself when there was no one that pleased her eye as much as Master Snowden?
She still had the picture of Gunnerside Foss safely hidden in the secret drawer at the back of her writing bureau but it had languished long forgotten, like poor Mama in her grave.
Aunt Lydia was losing patience with her niece for being too particular. ‘There are girls biting at your heels for a chance to show themselves at the Assembly Rooms. You’ve spent too much time up in the hills. It’s coarsened your skin and flushed your cheeks like a dairymaid. A little more restraint at the dancing and the singing, Susannah. A gentleman doesn’t want a milkmaid for a wife but a delicate flower.’
From what she gleaned from back-stair gossip, gentlemen with roving eyes grabbed milkmaids wherever they could after the hunting. There were girls dismissed for carrying bastards or being caught with their skirts high up in the barn. Once in Papa’s library on a wet afternoon she discovered a leather ledger full of pictures that left nothing to the imagination as to how children were begat: Eastern maidens astride men in positions that defied her understanding but stirred her loins strangely. She smiled, thinking about stallions and mares, and then of Joss Snowden and going hot at the thought.
As they bustled through Spurriergate that afternoon, tripping from shop to shop, browsing, sipping afternoon tea, little did she guess how soon her world was to be turned upside down with a letter from Bankwell in the morning’s post that had her aunt in tears.
‘You must return at once.’
‘What’s happened?’ Susannah asked, feeling a stab of fear in her chest. ‘Is Papa dead?’
‘Would that he was … he’s ruined. We are all ruined … You must go back to comfort him.’ With the fearful news came a strange relief. The tall town house was empty and stale. She was safer at home, whatever the outcome. Thoughts of the high fells and the gracious old house were comforting. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to rescue their fortunes after all.
Joss was up on the roof of his new extension, inspecting the slate and the lead flashings, checking that the hired mason had finished everything to his specification. His mother stood back, scratching her head at all the mess cluttering the yard. ‘You’ll beggar us ere long with all this nonsense. Three of us will be rattling around in this empty barn. The laughing stock of Wintergill, you are, with your fancy notions!’
‘Have faith, Mam. I know what I’m about. My overseer says our calamine mine is not exhausted, and the lead seam’s brought us in good brass. I said I’d make us a fine homestead and that’s what I’m doing,’ he shouted down as she shook her head and walked away.
His next visitor had him down the ladder in seconds. Parson Simey was striding past the farm, stretching his legs in the bright sunshine. He waved to his protégé to come down.
‘You’ve done a fine job, Josiah, but I fear all to no avail,’ he whispered. ‘I have kept my ear to the ground on your behalf, as I promised, but the news is not good.’
‘Miss Susannah’s betrothed in York?’ Joss whispered, his heart leaping at this terrible news.
‘No worse, I fear. The Carrs are ruined. The bank has failed and the squire is disgraced,’ said the parson.
‘What can I do?’ Joss cried, stunned at such news.
‘We can do nothing but pray for all those who’ve lost their money. The squire has taken to his bed with a bottle, blaming himself. I told him matters were in higher hands than ours now, and he threw me out of the chamber.’ He bowed his head.