The Mistress of Windfell Manor Read online

  ‘No, he can’t be – he was only dancing a minute or two ago. You’re wrong.’ Charlotte pushed past the doctor and knelt down next to Lucy. She brushed her father’s grey hair with loving care, looking into Lucy’s eyes for reassurance that her father was only sleeping and that nothing was wrong.

  ‘He’s gone, Miss Charlotte, we’ve lost him,’ sobbed Lucy, holding both Charlotte and Wesley tight.

  ‘What am I going to do? I loved him. Where can I call home now, with my father dead? He was always there for me.’

  ‘I know, Miss Lottie. I loved him too, the silly old bugger. Why has he left us?’

  At the back of the crowd Joseph Dawson watched his wife grieving over her dead father. Dora stood at his shoulder and quietly whispered into his ear, ‘Have faith in the Lord, for he will provide.’ She looked hard at her brother, who was now married to a rich farm owner. His money worries had, hopefully, just been answered. ‘Charlotte looks fine in that old dress of May’s. It was always your favourite on her, when she was on your arm,’ Dora smirked.

  ‘Shut your mouth, woman. People can hear.’ Joseph scowled at his sister. She always took delight in other people’s misfortunes and never knew when to keep her mouth closed. She wasn’t as refined in her actions as he was, and the coldness of her heart frightened even him on occasion.

  The gaiety of the Christmas season was lost at Windfell Manor, as the dark mists of a death in the family hung around all the rooms like a sneaking spectre. The day after New Year’s Day had been set by the Reverend Richardson for Wesley’s funeral at the little village church of Austwick. He would be buried next to his wife Isabelle, in the small churchyard surrounding the ancient church, which was the last resting place for generations of the Booth family and their descendants.

  ‘Are you alright, my dear?’ Joseph offered Charlotte his hand to help her climb into the coach and horses, which waited patiently outside the entrance to the manor.

  Charlotte nodded and stifled her tears underneath the black veil shrouding her eyes from her husband’s gaze.

  ‘Be strong, my dear. It will soon be over. The graveside’s the worst, as you know, and I’m here for you.’ Joseph sat next to his sobbing wife and then instructed the coach driver to whip the team of black funeral horses, which he had hired from the livery stable to match the plumed team that carried Wesley’s body from Crummock Farm to the church. The show of the funeral had cost him a pretty penny, but that mattered little, with the farm soon to be his.

  As arranged, the cortège met at the bottom of the lane leading up to Crummock Farm. The black horses, with their heads of feathery plumes, chomped on their bits and jangled their harness as Charlotte and Joseph’s coach lined up behind the hearse carrying Wesley. Mrs Cranston and Mary, the parlour maid, stood behind it. Mary had her arm around Mrs Cranston’s waist, while she sobbed beneath the black shawl that covered her head.

  ‘Lucy, come and join us in the carriage. You too, Mary – we have room.’ Charlotte could hardly say the words as she leaned out of the carriage window and looked down at the crumpled, heartbroken face of Lucy Cranston.

  ‘Nay, I’ll not bother, Miss. I’d rather walk behind him – it’s our way. He was nobbut a farm lad really; he’d not think owt of a grand funeral like this. Not that he wouldn’t be grateful for it, of course. I don’t mean to offend, sir.’ Lucy looked up into the sober face of Joseph.

  ‘Then I’ll come down to you, and we’ll walk together.’ Charlotte leaned over to undo the catch on the coach door.

  Joseph put his hand on hers, stopping her from turning the catch. He looked angrily at her as she resisted his force.

  ‘I have to, Joseph. It’s tradition to walk behind the one we have lost. Look at all the people waiting with bowed heads for us to pass by their houses. They are paying their respects and will probably walk with us to the church.’ Charlotte turned the catch and climbed out of the carriage, battling with her long black skirts as she joined Lucy and Mary.

  ‘Damn it, woman, why do you always defy me?’ whispered Joseph as he climbed out of the carriage to join his defiant wife. ‘Take the team to the water trough next to Austwick Hall; it seems I’m walking to the church with my wife,’ he instructed the groom and coachman, before joining the gathering throng behind the hearse.

  ‘Thank you.’ Charlotte sobbed as she stepped out meekly, walking slowly past the shuttered windows and bowed heads of the respectful people of the small village.

  The innkeeper of The Gamecock, Richard Goodwin, joined the gathering as the mourners made their way down the street to the crossroads where the village church stood. ‘I’ve put on a spread, like you requested, Lottie. I’ve done him proud. He was always a good customer, was your father.’

  Charlotte nodded and fought back more tears as she thought of her father’s favourite corner in The Gamecock, where he’d often been found sharing the gossip or playing dominoes.

  ‘I’ve made sure the back parlour is empty and all and is private, away from prying eyes, like you said. You’ve just to say if you want owt else, lass.’ Richard caught Joseph’s black look and decided he had said enough, and to walk a little slower as they neared the church gates.

  A funeral tea at The Gamecock had not been to Joseph’s liking. It was not grand enough, in his eyes. But when Wesley’s grovelling solicitor had suggested that the man’s last will and testament be read there, directly after his interment, Joseph’s mind had soon changed.

  The carriage came to a standstill and the pallbearers slowly lifted Wesley’s coffin onto their shoulders. The shocking blond mop of Archie Atkinson shone like a halo, as he bore some of the weight of Wesley’s body. He caught Charlotte’s eye as she bowed her head and slipped her arm through Joseph’s. This was the worst day of her life; she was burying her father – the only man she had truly loved.

  12

  ‘My condolences, Charlotte, your father was a good man – he’ll be missed, here in Austwick.’ Charles Walker was a solicitor from Walker & Preston, the local solicitors. He shook her hand and then offered his hand to Joseph, who shook it before pulling a chair out for a sobbing Charlotte to sit on.

  ‘Could we not do this business elsewhere and on another day? I think Charlotte has been through enough.’ Joseph patted her hand gently, while keeping his secret thoughts to himself. Just how much had Wesley Booth been worth?

  ‘Wesley requested that his will be delivered here and now, and it is my duty to do so.’ Charles Walker pulled his chair out and sat down promptly, across from the man he had heard so much about, but had never had the pleasure or misfortune (whichever was to prove the case) to meet.

  ‘I’m quite fine, please continue. Joseph, don’t worry: I’d rather know where I stand with my father’s estate. I’m more upset at seeing so many friends and family gathered to show their respects. He was, as you say, well respected in the community. However, no amount of crying and sobbing is going to bring him back, and I’ve to face the future without him.’ Charlotte’s hands shook as she blew her nose and then composed herself. She smiled wanly at both men as they looked at her, surprised by her strength of character on such an occasion.

  ‘Very well, then I will read the will. It is short and to the point, with only two beneficiaries.’ Walker opened the parchment and looked at the couple before him: a farmer’s daughter, and the mill owner whom her father had grown to dislike over the few months that he had witnessed the marriage.

  ‘So, Charlotte, Crummock Farm is now yours. However, with your recent marriage to Mr Dawson, I am afraid it is by law your husband’s. I’m sorry, Charlotte, this may come as a blow to you, as I know you love Crummock, but I’m sure Joseph here will look after your family home.’ Walker watched as Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears and Joseph breathed in deeply.

  ‘You say that there are two beneficiaries. Who is the other?’ Joseph leaned on the makeshift desk and stared at the solicitor.

  ‘It is Mrs Lucy Cranston. She is to inherit all of Wesley’s wealth, on
his bequest. Quite a considerable amount, if I may say so. I’m afraid I’ve not been able to notify her as of yet, so it will come as a surprise to the poor woman.’ Walker smiled. ‘On the proviso that she pays any of his outstanding debts. But your father was a careful man, so I’m not expecting any. If he couldn’t pay for it, he didn’t buy it – as is taught to all us Dales folk, as we sit on our mother’s knees.’ Walker sat back and looked at Charlotte, whose tears ran freely down her cheeks.

  Joseph swore under his breath and clenched his knuckles until they were white with rage.

  ‘He loved Lucy; he should have married her, the silly old fool, and he shouldn’t have listened to local gossip.’ Charlotte sobbed. ‘I’m glad that he’s been right with her.’

  ‘This way he’s looked after both the women that he loved. And you, Mr Dawson, have a wealthy landowner as a wife – a most attractive asset, if you don’t mind me saying.’ Charles leaned back in his chair and looked at the dark-haired, high-cheekboned man, who didn’t look at all pleased with his lot.

  ‘Do we have to honour Wesley’s wishes? And have you included the stock in his assets?’ Joseph had no way to hide his feelings. That bloody common cook had come between him and a small fortune.

  ‘The stock is included in his assets, and so belongs to you and Charlotte. When it comes to Mrs Cranston, surely you would not want to go against Wesley’s last wishes?’

  ‘A bloody cook with all that money, it’s not right!’ Joseph pushed his chair back and paced around the parlour.

  ‘Joseph, I’m just happy that we have Crummock – be content with that. Lucy’s been like a mother to me, and I’m happy that father has made her last few years bearable. You saw how heartbroken she was.’ Charlotte sobbed, not daring to look at her ungrateful husband.

  ‘Aye, well, I’m not! What am I going to do with a bloody farm? I’d rather have had his brass than some acres of land that are not worth a lot,’ Joseph snarled.

  ‘Sir, I’d hold your tongue and remember that we have just buried your wife’s father. You’d be surprised at how much the price of land is. However, I would advise that you sell in the autumn, if that is your plan.’ Walker looked at the disrespectful man and bit his tongue from saying exactly what he thought of the blaggard that stood before him. ‘I’ve already spoken to your father’s farm lad, and he’s willing to stay on at Crummock until he’s told otherwise. Providing you are willing to pay him, that is? However, lambing time will soon be upon you and you need someone else in place by then – he won’t manage on his own.’ Walker looked at the young woman. He knew she had a good business head and was proud of her roots.

  ‘That will be Arthur, Joseph. I don’t want you to sell Crummock; the farm lad must stay – that will give you time to grow to love Crummock as I do. Perhaps you could rent it and then you will have some extra income?’ Charlotte turned around and looked pleadingly at Joseph.

  ‘Damn you, have you no sense?’ Joseph walked over to the small window, leaning on his arm, blocking the light in the room as he swore under his breath at not getting his way.

  ‘Sir, be careful, I will not abide language of that sort within a lady’s presence.’ Walker’s hearing was as sharp as a bat’s and he was not impressed with Charlotte Booth’s choice of husband; he was definitely no gent.

  ‘My husband is not a farmer, Mr Walker; he doesn’t have a love of the land, like I do.’ Charlotte tried to smile and rose from her chair.

  ‘You don’t have to make excuses for me. I just can’t understand why a useless cook has ended up with a small fortune and I’ve drawn the short straw, with worthless moorland and a rambling farmhouse.’ Joseph stood next to Charlotte.

  ‘Wesley knew that Crummock would make Charlotte happy, Mr Dawson. Money is sometimes not everything. I’ve seen the poorest people be the happiest, and the wealthiest be the saddest, most wretched individuals you have ever seen. Your heart and your head should always be your guide, and I’m sure Charlotte is more than happy that you now own Crummock.’

  ‘I am, Mr Walker. It’s the place I love, and I’m grateful to my father for leaving it to me.’ Charlotte rose from her chair and lightly touched the arm of the concerned solicitor.

  ‘He was a good man, your father; we will miss him.’ Walker smiled and squeezed her hand.

  ‘If your business is done, let’s away. I’ve some business of my own that awaits my attention.’ Joseph picked up his hat and opened the door into the inn’s main room.

  ‘How is business, Mr Dawson? I hear there is unrest in America, that the Southern Confederate States have been using their cotton revenue to buy arms and economic power, to build a Confederate nation away from the north. Is it true their strategy is to coerce us in Great Britain to be in alliance with them, by starving us of cotton? That will surely hit your business, will it not?’ Walker looked at the angry face of Joseph and knew he had touched a weak spot. Trouble was brewing across the Atlantic – he’d heard it on all the mill owners’ lips and read it in Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, which was printed in Mississippi and had been full of the news. Lorenzo Christie, the new owner of High Mill at Langcliffe and of Shed Mill, had thrust a copy of the paper in his hand when they had dinner together, and had warned Walker and his accountant that bad times for mill owners were coming, and they would either sink or swim.

  ‘Is this true, Joseph? Is there to be trouble?’ Charlotte stopped in her tracks and looked at her husband.

  ‘Not for us. Richard Todd at the Natchez Plantation warned me in his letter last week and I have secured a full ship’s hold of cotton, just for Ferndale. It should be halfway across the Atlantic as we speak. There is ample stock of cotton on the docks at Liverpool anyway, so don’t worry; these last years the South has oversupplied Britain with cotton. I suggest Mr Christie gets his facts right. Now, if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like you to keep your nose out of my business and not unduly give my wife other worries on her father’s funeral day. Come, Charlotte, I can no longer dally and listen to idle gossip. Lorenzo Christie is just a troublemaker and likes to have a monopoly on all the mills.’ Joseph stood in the doorway and took Charlotte’s hand without even wishing Walker good day.

  Once away from The Gamecock and on their way back in the coach, Charlotte sat quietly, knowing that Joseph was in no mood to be approached.

  ‘Coachman, pull up here. I’ll be away to my mill.’ Joseph banged on the outside of the coach with his silver-mounted walking stick as they passed the lane that led down to Ferndale Mill.

  ‘Will you be home later for dinner?’ asked Charlotte, as Joseph alighted from the coach without making his farewells.

  ‘You’ll be a lucky woman if I come home at all, after today.’ Joseph slammed the coach door and strode off down the lane, without giving a backward glance at his distraught wife as she sobbed in the corner of the coach.

  The coachman flicked the reins and the team trotted on. Charlotte watched Joseph striding out until he disappeared around the bend of the lane. Now that Crummock Farm was in his hands, she had to convince him not to sell it. She might be sobbing with grief and fearful of his temper, but it was her birthright and there was no way that Joseph Dawson was going to sell it – not while she had breath in her body.

  *

  ‘What the bloody hell’s the problem now? You’re always up in that office with that bastard. He’s picking on you, girl.’ Sally Oversby leaned over the railings of the mill race and looked at Betsy’s worried face.

  ‘Oh, Sally, I don’t know what to do, I’m in such a mess.’ Betsy Foster held her head in her hands and wiped the snot from her nose with the back of her hand. She’d wanted to tell her friend for weeks about the hold that Joseph Dawson had over her. But she could keep it back no longer.

  ‘You mean you’ve been giving him it two nights a week for the last two months, for nowt! Bloody hell, lass, he’s seen you coming. If he wants a bit of rough, you should make him pay for it! The bugger’s made of money: charge him sixpence a time, o
r even more if he demands things . . . you know what I mean.’ Sally looked at Betsy and couldn’t quite believe her ears.

  ‘But it was to settle a debt for payments of the rabbits that our Johnny snared.’ Betsy sobbed and wiped her eyes.

  ‘How many bloody rabbits did he snare? All of Craven’s? For lawk’s sake, girl, the parlour maid at Windfell was telling my sister his sleeping arrangements, but I didn’t think that he was with you when his bed was empty.’ Sally looked at the innocence in her friend’s eyes and wanted to educate Betsy on how not to be used by the gentry. ‘Gentry’ – now that was a word to be laughed at. She’d never known any gentlemen, only users; and Joseph Dawson was definitely a user.

  ‘I couldn’t do that, I’d be nothing more than a pros—’ Betsy stopped, not even wanting to say the word.

  ‘A prostitute, a prick-pincher – whatever you want to call it, it makes no odds, but you are one already in his eyes. So you might as well get money for it.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t; he wouldn’t pay.’ Betsy sniffed and looked at her friend, who was more worldly-wise than her. In fact Sally had been with most of the men in the mill and she never went without anything, now Betsy thought about it.

  ‘Yes, he would. You’ve got him by the short and curlies, and he wouldn’t want his precious reputation to be tarnished. Go on, try it! It would keep Johnny fed and shod. Better than a poke in the eye with a shitty stick!’ Sally spat out a mouthful of chewing tobacco and watched the face of her friend lighten as if she had just seen the light.

  ‘I couldn’t – I’m not that sort.’ Betsy shook her head.

  ‘Well, what are you now, then? St Joan? Because believe me, girl, if he can get it for nothing he will. And bugger the job – there’s plenty more. Christie would soon take you on; you’re good at your job, and he’s got cottages at Langcliffe. Bugger, that was a short dinner hour.’ The warning bell sounded out across the yard. ‘You listen to me. Play the bastard at his own game; he’ll soon cough up. He’s had his pleasure, now it’s time to pay.’ Sally picked her skirts up and made her way through the puddles of the cobbled yard. ‘Come on, you, time you enjoyed the finer pleasures of life, for lying on your back.’ She chuckled and put her arm around Betsy. When it came to men, Betsy knew nothing; but now Sally would make sure she’d teach her the subtle arts of seduction.