Daughter of the Dales

  DIANE ALLEN

  Daughter of

  the Dales

  MACMILLAN

  In memory of Maurice Allen,

  a true Dales man

  Contents

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  ‘Noel: Christmas Eve 1913’ by Robert Seymour Bridges

  1

  Skipton, Yorkshire, 1913

  ‘Get on, Bess.’ Sixteen-year-old Luke Fox snapped the reins across the back of the exhausted and sweating horse, which he had been told to take care of by Jethro, as he had handed the horse to him. All Luke could think was that he had to undertake the task of telling his mother that his grandmama was near death, as he swept his hair back out of his eyes. He was dreading having to tell her the news, but knew that it was a son’s duty to do so.

  The early summer’s warm sun beat down upon him and sweat was pouring off both him and the horse as they reached their destination, Skipton High Street. He was breathless, exhausted and thankful that he had got there safely, as he fumbled with the reins while he tied the knackered steed to a safe hold along the setts of the High Street. The horse and trap had flown like the wind from his grandmother’s home at Langcliffe to Skipton, a distance of twelve miles, to where both his parents were at work in the family business, Atkinson’s department store. In a bid to tell his urgent news, he had driven the trap too hard and knew it, he thought, as he looked back at the sweating horse.

  As he pushed through the shining glass-and-brass revolving doors, he was thrust into the highly perfumed shop floor of the sprawling and busy Atkinson empire. A young shop girl sniggered when Luke nearly stumbled, and then quickly corrected herself as she seemed to realize who the unsteady shopper was.

  ‘Where are my mother and father?’ Luke asked anxiously, correcting his apparel quickly and blushing at the shame-faced girl.

  ‘Up the stairs, sir. Your mother is taking a fitting and your father is in his photography studio.’ The shop girl pointed through the many rows of scarves and accessories that filled the ground floor of the most prestigious shop in the Dales.

  Luke made his way past all the shoppers in their finery, who were intent on browsing the luxuries that Atkinson’s provided, sniffing at the perfumes and inspecting the latest in fur goods. With his head down, he reached the bottom of the stairs, flushed and anxious to tell his news to his parents.

  ‘Luke, what are you doing here?’ James Fox stood at the top of the stairs and looked down at his son, as he pondered how Luke had got there and why he was on his own.

  ‘It’s Grandmama, she’s dying! I had to come – Jethro couldn’t find Ethan to come and tell you, and he couldn’t come himself because he had a horse foaling.’ Luke had decided to be the bearer of the news instead of Jethro’s son, the stable boy, Ethan, who had disappeared as usual, probably to wander and wonder at the surrounding countryside, a regular occupation of his. Luke’s voice rang out up the stairs to his father, making the shop girls stop in their tracks and the shoppers shake their heads in acknowledgement of the bad news that Charlotte Atkinson, the owner of Atkinson’s, was on her deathbed.

  ‘Quiet, boy. Now tell me: how bad is she?’ James came down and stood at the bottom of the stairs, before placing his hand on his son’s shoulder to calm him down.

  ‘The doctor says she’ll not be with us much longer, and that Mother has to come home. He says Grandmama’s had a stroke. Grandpapa found her this morning – she can’t move!’ Luke looked pleadingly into his father’s eyes, secretly regretting now that he had been so hasty to become the bearer of such bad news and realizing just what his message meant to the family. He hung his head and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He wouldn’t cry; young men did not cry and show their emotions, although his grandmama was the mainstay of the family and he loved her dearly.

  ‘Good man for coming to tell your mother.’ James patted his son’s shoulders. ‘I’ll go and tell her. Go and see to your horse. Take it to the livery stable at the Red Lion and ask for a fresh one to take you home, or ask for someone to take you both.’ He looked around the shop floor, where the staff were trying to go about their jobs, while being aware of the family tragedy unfolding.

  ‘I’ll take Mama home. I can do it, Father, I want to do it. I’ll get a team and leave my horse, then you can ride it home. I’ll be outside, waiting for Mama.’ Luke looked up at his father; he knew his horse was tired, but he wanted to finish what he’d started. To change it would mean wasting time, and his mother would never notice, if he didn’t tell her. He wanted to be the one who took care of his mama, getting her to the bedside of her dying mother as soon as he could. Changing horse would cost precious minutes.

  ‘Very well, I haven’t time to argue. But see to it that you do change the horses. Your mother will be with you shortly.’

  James watched as his son made his way out into the blazing early summer’s heat. He quickly made his way up the three flights of stairs to the fitting room with the news that would change everyone’s world.

  He glanced around the fitting room at the young bride, who was flushed with excitement as Isabelle – the owner of Atkinson’s and his wife, and Luke’s mother – swiftly made adjustments to the beautiful bridal gown, while Isabelle’s assistant held a measuring tape. The bride stood admiring her own reflection in the full-length mirrors that surrounded the walls of the room, as tucks and pleats were added.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid I have some grave news. Isabelle, my love – our Luke is here! He’s come to take you home. Your mother’s been taken ill.’ James took the box of pins out of his wife’s hand and placed his hand round her waist. ‘Your father woke up to find her barely able to move this morning. The doctor says she’s had a severe stroke.’ James looked at his wife and watched as she struggled to take in the news. He glanced apologetically at the crestfallen bride-to-be.

  Isabelle caught her breath and James could see tears welling in her eyes. She glanced quickly at her assistant. ‘I’m sorry, I must go. My poor mama, I must go to her.’ She looked again at the young bride for whom she had been taking a fitting, and then thrust the box of pins into the hands of Madge Burton, her new seamstress.

  ‘Luke is outside – he’s waiting with a horse and trap. I did tell him to change his horse for a fresh one from the Red Lion, as he insists he will take you home, so I hope he’s done as I bade him. Take your parasol; the sun is so strong today. Don’t worry about anything here. I’ll see to closing the store and will be with you as soon as I can. And, Isabelle, be strong; be there for your father, as he will need you before this day is over.’

  Isabelle could feel her body trembling as her husband helped her down the stairs and half-heard the bride-to-be complaining that she had been promised Miss Isabelle for her fitting, and that being left with her understudy was most unsatisfactory. Stupid woman, she thought. Had she not heard: her mother was dying! Her dear, darling mother, who had been there for Isabelle every day of her life; the least she could do was be there for her now.

  The shop floors were hushed as Isabelle was escorted quickly past the concerned shop girls, the bad news spreading rapidly as they watched with empathy their employer join her son.

 
; ‘Give my love to your mother, Isabelle, she’s very dear to me.’ The aged Bert Bannister caught Isabelle’s arm just as she stepped out into the blazing sunshine. He was bent nearly double with arthritis and his steps were laboured, but he insisted on working a few hours a week, ‘just to keep my hand in’.

  ‘I will, Bert. I only hope I’m not too late, as she sounds seriously ill.’ Isabelle smiled wanly at the concerned man. He had been her mother’s prop, from the time when she first set up her chain of department stores. If it hadn’t been for Bert, Charlotte Atkinson would never have dreamed of owning a string of shops. He had insisted that he would work for her until he dropped, but now it looked as if it was going to be the other way round.

  James kissed his wife tenderly on her cheek. ‘Give her my love – I’ll be thinking of you all. I’ll be home as soon as I can.’ He watched as Isabelle stepped down the stairs of the busy store, unfurling her parasol to shade her from the ferocious heat of the early summer’s day, walking quickly to the trap and horse with Luke, their son, at the reins. Once she had climbed in, he turned and went back into the store to give support to Madge and the disgruntled bride-to-be.

  ‘I thought you were never going to come. I seem to have been standing here for an age, and the horse here is getting hotter and hotter.’ Luke looked at his mother as she climbed up beside him in the lightest trap, which Jethro had advised him to take, for speed. ‘Even though I’ve changed the horse, it’s not liking the heat and standing out here,’ he added quickly.

  Isabelle looked at her son and then at the horse, which she instantly recognized as Bess, Jethro’s most relied-upon trotter. ‘Luke, do you think I don’t know my animals? This is Bess, from Windfell. You’ve not changed the horses, as your father asked. I love my mother dearly, Luke, but I don’t want Bess to drop down dead on the way home. Now what are we going to do? My mother wouldn’t appreciate the waste of a good horse, for the sake of seeing her on what could be her deathbed. You should have taken your father’s advice, or perhaps borrowed a horse and carriage from the Red Lion, for we do have an account with them.’

  ‘I wanted to take you home and look after you,’ replied Luke, scowling.

  ‘I know, but there’s no need to kill the horse for the sake of it. We could have been with my mother sooner, if you had listened to your father. I suppose the doctor and my father are with her, but I should be there as soon as I can.’ She continued looking at her son. He was so stubborn, but she understood why he needed to prove himself to her; he was only showing his love for her. ‘Now, if you are not about to change her, just let her trot home at a comfortable pace, and then Jethro or Ethan will cool her down when we reach home.’

  Isabelle sat back and said nothing more, as Luke trotted Bess and the trap down the High Street of Skipton, with a surly look upon his face. Local business people and shoppers tipped their hats in recognition of one of the wealthiest shop owners in Skipton and beyond, as they made their way down the heavily used road, passing the church and heading out to the Dales beyond. Once outside Skipton, Isabelle let her feelings begin to show. The more she thought about her mother dying in her bed, the more she wanted to urge Luke and Bess on, but she was right – it was no good flogging the poor beast. Luke had obviously done that in order to reach her, by the look of the sweating animal. She should have made him change it, she thought, as she regretted not being firmer with her son. She bit her lip and fought back the tears and gazed around her over the white drystone walls at the blooming meadows. They were filled with buttercups, clover and daisies, a sea of yellow in the bright summer’s sun. How could anyone die on a day like this? she thought, as she looked up into the clear blue sky. It wasn’t right that her mother might be taken from her on a day like today.

  ‘Are you alright, Mother? We will get there in time.’ Luke dared not glance at his worried mother as they entered the fast-expanding railway village of Hellifield, with the echo of Bess’s hooves filling their ears as they passed under the railway line that meandered south into Lancashire. They were getting nearer to home; another few miles and they would be through Long Preston, and then it would be Settle, and home.

  ‘I know, you are doing well.’ Isabelle smiled at her youngest. He really should not have been sent for her. He was so like she was and, at sixteen, he’d never known anyone close to him die. He really knew nothing of life yet. ‘Is Jane alright – is she comforting your grandfather?’ She thought of her seventeen-year-old daughter and hoped she was bearing up. Jane worshipped her grandmother. In fact Isabelle sometimes believed Jane thought more fondly of her grandmother than of her, which was not surprising, given the similarities in their personalities, which were more than noticeable when they were together.

  ‘Aye, our Jane was organizing tea and sympathy as I left. She was there for Grandfather this morning. You’d have been proud of her. As soon as Ethan knocked on the door of Ingfield, to tell us Grandmother was ill, Jane organized us all. She can be so bossy, can our Jane,’ said Luke.

  ‘She’ll only mean well. She likes to take control.’ Isabelle smiled at her son; there was a healthy rivalry between her children, with both being a little jealous of the other. She sighed as they reached the outskirts of Settle. How she wished she was standing on the steps of Windfell, instead of passing her current home of Ingfield House.

  ‘Nearly there, Mother.’ Luke took the corner sharply as he passed the River Ribble and the Christies’ cotton mill, worrying slightly that the horse was starting to become flecked with sweat along its shoulders.

  Isabelle looked up at the open scars of the limestone quarry half a mile down from Windfell and knew she was truly home. Her heart beat fast and she felt sick; would she arrive in time to find her mother still alive?

  Turning into the drive, they saw Ethan waiting for their arrival. His father, Jethro, stood in the shadow of the stables. Ethan grabbed Bess’s harness and then held his hand out for Isabelle to dismount from the trap.

  ‘Thank you, Ethan. I’m afraid Bess needs your assistance more than I do,’ Isabelle said apologetically.

  ‘Don’t worry, ma’am, you get into the manor and see how it is with your mother.’ Ethan smiled at the worried-looking woman and then led the horse and trap to where his father stood, while Luke climbed down.

  ‘Sorry, I was a bit hasty and asked a little too much of her,’ said Luke, as he took his cap off his head and rubbed the sweat on his brow with it.

  ‘Not to worry, we’ll look after her now. You look after your mother, and pray for your grandmother.’

  Jethro looked at the knackered horse and swore under his breath, as he unfastened the harness and led her into the stables. He knew it was partly the hot day that was to blame for Bess’s exhaustion, but the lad had no feeling when it came to animals. He should have insisted that Ethan go. After all, Ethan had only been fishing in the nearby Ribble, but Jethro hadn’t said so, as his son could be caught for poaching. But Ethan knew how to get the best out of a horse without breaking it, and he would have had sense to change horses at Skipton, with the day being so close and muggy.

  ‘Ethan, draw me some water – let’s cool Bess down. You pour and sponge her down with it over her withers, and then I’ll scrape it off, and we’ll repeat that until she’s cooled down. The main thing is to make sure that she doesn’t go into cramp.’

  Ethan ran to the water trough outside the stables and watched as Isabelle and Luke entered the manor. Coming back with loaded buckets, he stood next to his father. ‘If I’d have brought the horse back like that, you’d have brayed me.’

  ‘That I would, lad. But Master Luke insisted that he went for his mother, and they’ve enough on their plates today. There’s a storm coming, in more ways than one. I can smell it on the air, and look at how those beech leaves are twisting and turning in a near-breathless sky – a sure sign that a storm is on its way. My father taught me that, when I was knee-high. Bess will soon cool when the storm comes, and hopefully she will be alright; unlike the mistress.’


  Ethan glanced at his father. He knew better than to disbelieve him, but right now the day was as hot as the new oven in Windfell Manor. It was common knowledge that his father was part gypsy, and he was invariably right when it came to reading nature’s signs.

  Isabelle plucked up her courage as she turned the brass door handle of Windfell’s front door, not knowing what to expect as she stepped into the hallway.

  ‘Thank heavens you are here, Miss Isabelle, your mother is failing fast,’ said Mazy, the housekeeper. ‘Dr Burrows was praying that you’d be here in time to say goodbye before she departs this earth. Thank heavens it is Dr Burrows who has attended. Your mother has always trusted him despite his age – he should be retired by now.’ Mazy was nearly in tears as she took Isabelle’s parasol, and tried to smile reassuringly at Luke as he followed his mother up the grand, winding staircase. She shook her head before disappearing below stairs, where all the rest of the staff at Windfell awaited the impending bad news.

  Isabelle opened her mother’s bedroom door, with Luke close behind her. She looked around the room and at her mother lying listless in her bed, rasping for breath. Archie – her father, and the man Charlotte had loved all her life – sat by her side holding her hand, his face tired and full of pain as he felt each shallow breath that his beloved wife took.

  Dr Burrows patted Isabelle’s hand and shook his head as she went and sat down at the bottom of the bed, next to her stepbrother Danny, who smiled at her and put his arm round her as she started to cry.

  ‘I’m glad you are here, Izzy. Mother would be happy that we are all here together,’ he whispered.

  Isabelle smiled and wiped back the tears that trickled down her cheeks. She loved her mother so much – how could she carry on without her?

  ‘No, tears, our lass, she wouldn’t want you to be sad.’ Archie looked across at his daughter. ‘She’s had a good life; she’d be the first to say that.’ He bent over and kissed her mother Charlotte on her brow and ran his hand around her pale face. ‘She hasn’t felt right this last week or two; she knew her health were failing and she hoped that she wasn’t going to be bedridden.’ Archie looked over at his dying wife. ‘I’m right, aren’t I, lass – that wouldn’t be for you?’