For The Sake of Her Family Read online

  Walking behind the coffin in the shadow of the four bearers, Alice shed tears for her dead mother. In church, she silently took her seat in the pew, smiling bravely as her big brother squeezed her hand in sympathy. As she gazed through brimming eyes at the rough wooden coffin, a steady stream of raindrops splashed down on it from a hole in the church roof. The light from the candles fragmented and shone like a miniature rainbow in the drips. Anger swelled up into her throat as the congregation sang ‘Abide with Me’. She cursed the world as she looked out of the church window, the trees outside waving their branches wildly in the wind, raging with the same anger as Alice.

  Some day, she told herself, things would be right; they’d have money and a fine house. She didn’t know how, but as long as she had breath in her small body she would fight for her family and never would they have to beg for help again.

  2

  There, that was the parlour dusted; another job done for the day. The sun shone through the small-paned windows only weakly yet, but it gave hope that spring was on its way. During the four months since her mother’s death Alice had been keeping house, cleaning, cooking and helping out around the farm. She didn’t want to admit it, but having more responsibility had turned her from a girl into a young woman.

  Alerted by a random sunbeam to a streak of coal dust that had managed to survive the attention of the duster, she turned to give the edge of the dresser one last going over. It was then that the gap caught her eye . . .

  Not the clock, please not the clock! Alice gazed unbelieving at the space where the little brass carriage clock had stood. Crestfallen and exhausted, she slumped into the one comfy chair that the Bentham family owned. In the absence of the clock, the green chenille mantelpiece cover looked bare, its tassels hanging limp over the unlit fire, held in place only by the two grinning Staffordshire pot spaniels. Her mother had been so proud of that clock, which had been presented to her when she left service at Ingelborough Hall to get married.

  It wasn’t the fact that the clock was missing that made her put her head in her hands and sob; it was the fact that she knew all too well what had happened to it. How could he!

  Anger spurring her on, she surveyed the room for other missing items. What else had he pilfered? At least the paintings were still hanging, the highland cattle serene as ever in the face of her distress. The mock-silver teapot was still on the table, but then it would be – mock silver wasn’t worth much. Hands on hips, mind racing, she forced herself to take a deep breath. If only her worries could be expelled as easily as a lungful of air. Never mind, it was done now. Too late to get the clock back, even though she had a good idea where it was. Besides, the loss of the clock paled into insignificance alongside the real problem: how the hell was she going to cope if things carried on like this? She might be only sixteen, but the seriousness of their situation was not lost on her.

  ‘Ali, get the pot on – we’ll not go hungry tonight!’ Will’s voice rang out, followed by the sound of the kitchen door closing. ‘Would you look at these two!’ He appeared in the parlour doorway, stooping because of the lack of headroom, his gun resting on one shoulder and two very dead rabbits in his other hand, dripping blood onto the clean floor. ‘What’s up, our lass? What’s to do – you’ve not been worrying over supper, have you?’

  Alice turned from the window and smiled. ‘Why should I worry about supper when we have the finest shot this side of Leeds living under our roof? Now get yourself out of this parlour, Will Bentham, before you get blood everywhere.’ She pushed him lovingly out of the doorway. ‘Them rabbits are a grand size, all right. Just you be careful that Lord Frankland doesn’t catch you – he’d have you up in front of the magistrates before you had time to blink.’

  ‘They’re from our high pasture, Ali, honest. Besides, even if they were that bastard Frankland’s, he wouldn’t miss ’em – too busy carrying on with his floozies, from what I hear.’ Will lumbered out into the farmyard, tugging his knife out of his pocket ready to skin and gut his kill.

  ‘You listen to too much gossip, our Will. His lordship’s a gentleman, and he’s always polite to me.’

  ‘That’s ’cos he has an eye for the ladies – I’d watch him, if I was you. And I don’t need to listen to gossip. I know exactly what he’s like because I see him every day, working his charms at the big house. When it comes to what goes on at the manor, what I don’t know isn’t worth knowing, our lass.’

  ‘You talk rubbish, our Will, but I’m glad you caught those rabbits. I don’t know what we’d have had for supper otherwise. Get a move on and skin ’em, then I can stick them in the pot and have everything ready by the time Father returns.’

  Alice busied herself filling the big stockpot and placed it to boil on the Yorkshire range. She’d decided not to tell Will about the missing clock; no need to worry his head when he had enough on already, looking after the farm and working three days a week for the Franklands.

  Besides, she knew who had taken it, and why – and there was nothing she or Will could do about it.

  Uriah Woodhead wiped the pint tankards with a cloth that had seen better days, spitting on the stubborn marks and rubbing them vigorously, before hanging them back on the hooks around the bar of the Moon Inn. At this time of day, the pub was quiet; in fact, he had only one customer. Over the last few months, the man had become his best customer, but it was high time he went home. Soon the place would start to fill with evening drinkers and the last thing Uriah wanted was a non-paying guest sleeping in his snug. Stepping out from behind the bar, he gave the wretched body of Bob Bentham a rousing shake.

  ‘Aye, I’ll have another pint with you,’ Bob slurred, dribble running down the front of his already filthy jerkin as he stumbled to his feet.

  ‘Nay, I don’t think you will. Come on, Bob, you know you’ve had enough. Besides, your credit’s run out – that little clock’s not worth what you’ve already drunk. Only reason I took it off you was because I knew you had no brass; it’s not as if it’s much use to me.’ Seeing that his words were having no effect and the man was about to settle back into his seat in the snug, Uriah grabbed him by the arm and began steering him towards the door. ‘Time you got yourself home, Bob. Your lass will be wondering where you’re at. She’s having it hard, from what I hear.’

  ‘You bastard!’ protested Bob, swinging his fists in an effort to resist the strong arms hauling him over the threshold. ‘You’ve robbed me, you thieving bugger!’

  Dodging the drunken punches with ease, the landlord ejected Bentham from the premises with a final push that sent him sprawling onto the narrow cobbled street.

  ‘Get yourself home and square yourself up, Bob. You’ve a family that needs you.’ With a shake of his head, Uriah closed the door on him. It was sad to see a man go downhill so fast. Sometimes his trade was not the best to be in.

  Bob lifted himself up and, head swimming, stumbled along using the walls of the cottages lining the street to steady himself. His erratic gait and frequent falls soon began to draw taunts from the local children, who abandoned their games to enjoy the spectacle of him sprawling on the cobbles. Their laughter ringing in his ears, he dragged himself out of the village and along the road home. At least it was a mild spring evening; during the winter there had been times when Bob had felt like giving up and crawling into a hedge, drifting off to sleep while the warmth of the alcohol still filled him with a fake sense of well-being, hoping that the bitter cold would do its work and end his suffering, and he would wake up in the arms of his Bess . . . How he missed his Bess. Without her, he was lost.

  He paused to rest his weary body on a seat at the side of the road. From this vantage point he had a wonderful view over the dale. Looking around him, he noticed the first flowers of spring in the roadside bank: delicate wood sorrel and the pale yellow hues of the first primroses. His Bess would have been picking them and bringing them into the house. Bending to take in the sweet smell of the flowers, he lost his balance and toppled into the road, land
ing on his back. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, he lay there for a while, until he became aware of the sound of hooves tripping along the road. A few minutes later, a horse and trap came to a halt inches from his head.

  ‘What are you doing, man? I could have killed you, rolling about in the road in this bad light!’ Dismounting, Gerald Frankland leaned over the dishevelled pile of rags, only to recoil immediately. ‘Good God, you stink! How much have you had to drink? You’re a disgrace, man!’

  Raising himself up and squatting on his heels, cap in hand, Bob dared not look Lord Frankland in the eye. Of all the people to come down the lane, why did it have to be him! He felt a hand pulling him to his feet. Dizzy with drink and stomach churning, he tried to draw himself to his full height. ‘Beg pardon, sir. Didn’t mean to be in the way,’ Bob mumbled, doing his best not to slur his words.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Bentham, pull yourself together. I can’t have my tenants carrying on like this.’ Gerald Frankland studied the swaying figure with a look of disgust. He had heard that Bentham had taken the death of his wife badly, but he hadn’t realized things had come to this. ‘Well, I suppose I can’t leave you here in that state. God knows how you’d get home. Climb in the gig and let’s get you back where you belong.’

  Shoving the malodorous body into the trap, Frankland turned towards Dale End Farm, whipping the horse into a trot. He was going to have stern words with Bentham’s son once he got his drunken father home. Young Will was a fine lad – couldn’t do without him. He’d shown an uncanny knack with horses and was a bloody good shot with that two-bore rifle of his. After last autumn’s pheasant shoot, a number of his friends who’d travelled up from London for the event had told him how impressed they were with the lanky lad who’d made such a good job of running the show. Damn shame about the father, though. If this sort of behaviour continued, he’d have to strip them of the tenancy. Bloody locals, you gave them a roof over their heads and this was how they repaid you!

  Alice stood in the doorway, peering down the lane for any sign of her father. She was both anxious and yet at the same time dreading his return. These days there was no way of knowing what state he would be in, or what his mood would be. It could be anything from sentimental and loving, cheerfully serenading her with music-hall songs, or argumentative and lashing out at Will with his fists. What her poor mother would have made of it, she didn’t know. As dusk descended on the farmyard and the missel thrush trilled its last song of the evening, Alice wished she could be like that little bird: free to sing and to spread her wings and fly away as far as possible.

  ‘Come in, our lass. It might be spring, but it soon gets chilly. He’ll be home in his own time.’ Will had started lighting the oil lamps for evening. The flame flickered as he beckoned for her to come away from the door. ‘The devil looks after his own, you know – and the way Father’s been acting lately, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s possessed.’

  ‘Don’t say stuff like that, our Will, it’ll bring us bad luck.’ Alice closed the door behind her. ‘I can’t help feeling he’s been getting worse lately.’

  ‘I wish I knew where he’s been getting his brass from. Can’t see old Woodhead letting him sup for nothing. Happen he’s doing odd jobs for his beer money. Doesn’t seem likely, though – there’s plenty jobs around here wanting doing, and he can’t be bothered to lift a finger.’

  Alice kept silent. Much as she wanted to tell Will about Mother’s treasured possessions disappearing, she didn’t want to cause trouble between father and son, especially as her father might return in a fighting mood.

  They both stood frozen in place for a moment at a sound from outside: hoofbeats, coming into the yard. Racing to open the door, they were aghast to find Gerald Frankland struggling to get their father down from his trap.

  ‘Don’t just stand there – help me with him, lad!’ Lord Frankland bellowed at Will. ‘I can’t stand smelling him for another minute. Get him washed and tidied up – the man’s a disgrace.’

  Will rushed quickly to the aid of his employer, propping his father up and carrying him into the warm kitchen. His lordship followed, removing his gloves and hat before seating himself next to the fire. Alice busied herself putting the kettle on the range to boil, not knowing what to say and do in the presence of the landlord. Will seemed equally at a loss; having deposited his father in a kitchen chair, he stood over him looking as if he wished the ground would swallow him up.

  Scowling, Frankland leaned back in the Windsor chair and crossed his long legs. With his dark hair and sharp cheekbones, he looked every inch the refined country gent. ‘You’re lucky he’s alive, the drunken fool. I nearly ran him over, lying there in the middle of the road. How long has he been like this? If he wants to stop in one of my farms, he’s going to have to straighten himself up.’

  Will, tongue-tied, offered no reply. Seemingly unperturbed by this, Lord Frankland surveyed the kitchen; it was tidy and spotless, but a little sparse. His gaze came to rest on the stockpot, its bubbling contents filling the room with a herby aroma. ‘I suppose what-ever’s cooking in there has been poached from me.’

  Inwardly, this amused him. He’d known for a while that the rabbit population was being held in place by Will, but had not said anything; after all, in feeding his family Will was reducing the estate’s vermin population.

  ‘Now see here,’ Frankland continued, ‘either your father straightens himself up or I’ll have to consider renting this farm to another tenant. Take this as a warning.’ He rose from his seat and gathered up his gloves and hat as if to leave, but on reaching the door he turned and faced Alice. ‘How old are you, girl? And what’s your name?’

  Alice blushed. ‘I’m Alice, sir. I’ll be seventeen in June.’ She could feel her pulse and heart pounding as she dared to look at the dark-haired lord.

  ‘So, old enough to come and work at the manor. My sister wants someone to attend to her needs. You look presentable enough, and I think you might be suitable. Come and see Mrs Dowbiggin next week. I’ll arrange for her to show you what will be expected of you.’

  ‘But I don’t want a job,’ Alice protested. ‘I’ve enough to do here.’

  ‘She’ll be with you, sir – I’ll bring her myself.’ Will stepped forward, desperate to rectify his sister’s mistake. ‘Our Alice doesn’t think what she says sometimes, sir. We are most grateful, thank you; that’ll be a grand help to us. Say thank you, our Alice.’

  Alice glared at her forelock-tugging brother. She didn’t want to work at the manor and there was no way that she was going to kowtow to the likes of the Franklands. Nevertheless she curtsied, knowing that was expected of her, and then thanked him in a cool tone of voice.

  ‘A girl with spirit, eh! That’s what I like. Right, I’ll see you both next week.’ He waved a glove at the snoring body of Bob. ‘And get him sober. I bid you goodnight.’

  Nothing was said until the sound of the horse and trap faded down the lane. Then Will turned on his sister: ‘How many times have I told you, our Ali – always be right with them at the manor, especially himself. We need this farm.’ Will kicked his father’s foot as he snored, oblivious in his drunken sleep. ‘I was right: the old fool fetched the devil into this house tonight. I never wanted you to work at the manor, but we’ve no option now. You’ll have to watch yourself, lass, and as for Father, he can just bloody well straighten himself up.’

  ‘Don’t be hard on him, Will – he’s missing Mother. And I’ll be fine; I can look after myself. But you want to decide which tune you’re dancing to: either Lord Frankland’s the devil or he’s a saint in our hour of need.’

  Will fell silent. He hated Gerald Frankland. He hated the way he looked down his nose at those who worked for him. The way he leered at the young women from the village – and the fact that, for all his breeding, he was no gentleman.

  ‘Just you remember this, Ali: no matter what happens, keep your thoughts to yourself and never let them know you’re scared,’ Will retorted.
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br />   ‘What do you mean, our Will? I don’t understand.’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough. I’ve heard some tales about him – and his sister. Take it as a warning.’

  Alice had never seen this side of Will, and it worried her. Why did he hate Lord Frankland so much? Could things really be that bad at the manor?

  Alice stood gazing up at the austere grey facade. Whernside Manor was a huge square Georgian building with ramparts running around the bottom of the roof, giving it the appearance of a Gothic castle. The notorious Sill family had built it, using their ill-gotten gains from slave trading in Jamaica. Local legend had it that the house was haunted by a young slave boy who had been beaten to death by the only son of the Sill family. With his dying breath he had cursed his master and the master’s family, proclaiming that none of them would bear offspring and they would all die in poverty. Sure enough, his curse came true: one by one the Sill men died in suspicious circumstances and both daughters died old maids with not a penny to their names.

  It was also rumoured that an underground passage ran between the manor and one of the houses that the Sill family used to own. It had been used for secretive transfer of their serving slaves. Alice shuddered at the thought. Dark days, indeed; she was not proud of the slaving history that tainted her beloved Dales.

  The gravel crunched under her feet as she nervously made her way to the front door of the manor. She hesitated before plucking up the courage to climb the spotless granite steps and rap the polished brass door knocker. Adjusting her hat and smoothing her skirts, her heart beating wildly, Alice waited for someone to answer.

  ‘Yes, what do you want? We don’t encourage beggars here!’ The tall, sombre-faced butler peered down at her, his hand resting on the huge oak door’s handle as if preparing to close it in her face.