Bitter Inheritance Page 5

  Sally’s shoulders drooped. ‘There’s nothing about bank accounts in the desk.’ She had relied on Uncle Samuel to know something about her father’s affairs.

  Aunt Bertha bustled out of the room to order tea for her husband, and Sally looked at her uncle. ‘Aunt Bertha can’t believe it, but I want to stay at Badger’s Gill. I am a farmer, you see. That’s why the money is important, for the business. To pay the rent first of all.’

  The Reverend Samuel Mason stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I know how you feel, in a way. It was a wrench at first for me to leave the farm. Robert would have worked in partnership with me, but I was always set on the Church, you know. I was lucky that the family was able to pay for my education, in fact I feel slightly guilty that it depleted the farm resources. That’s why I feel responsible for you, Sally. And I must admit that it’s been a much easier life here in Ripon. Better social standing, all that kind of thing. Bertha would have hated to be a farmer’s wife!’

  They both smiled at the thought. Sally remembered that her grandfather had sold off some land to pay for Samuel to go through theological college. That was why he wanted to help her now. If only he could see that she didn’t want their help if it meant giving up the farm.

  ‘Well, Uncle, I must ask you to explain to Aunt Bertha how I feel. I’m going to try to keep the farm on. If I can sort out the finances.’ Sally shut her mouth tight, not wanting to say any more about money.

  When Aunt Bertha came back Sally excused herself and Uncle Samuel came with her to the door. His brow was furrowed and she noticed for the first time that he was more stooped and his hair was turning grey. ‘I’m trying to remember whether Robert said anything about money. We Masons are not good at that sort of thing, as I suppose you know. Bertha looks after all ours, of course!’

  Looks after the money very well, in spite of being a woman, with no aptitude. She stifled the thought. ‘Of course.’ Sally beamed at her uncle. ‘Do your best to remember, and please come to see me when you can spare the time.’

  Samuel Mason looked at his niece sadly. ‘I am sorry, Sally. But I believe you have no choice. Your future is here in the vicarage with us. You will get used to it, and used to Bertha in time. I did.’

  Plodding home from Ripon with empty baskets and an empty purse, Sally was almost inclined to believe her uncle. What hope had she for the future? At that moment the outlook was bleak. With no money and no help on the farm she wouldn’t last very long, however passionately she wanted to keep going. Determination was not enough. But how did determined people succeed? Martha could think of nothing to say and so it was a silent journey, the seven long miles back to Thorpe. It was not until they came to the Kirkby Lane end that the older woman stirred in her seat.

  ‘You won’t like this, Sally. But I think you’ll have to consider giving in.’

  ‘No!’ Sally knew what she had to do to find the rent. ‘I’ll have to sell the sheep.’ The Motley Flock would have to go. The creatures she had reared from birth, and planned to keep into their old age, represented vital money. Sally’s vivid imagination saw the pens at the market: a nice shepherd might buy them, or a big, fat butcher might make them into mutton pies. Sally turned to Martha. ‘As soon as I can.’

  ‘It will be sad to see the last Mason leave the village. Your family has been here for a very long time, my dear.’ The vicar took her hand gently, as if it were made of porcelain.

  Sally was startled. They were all trying to talk her into leaving. Convention seemed to hang heavily over Thorpe, especially on Sundays. It was going to be hard to convince her friends and neighbours and even herself at times that she could survive at Badger’s Gill. But surely determination was worth something? It might help her to find a way. She tried to smile at the vicar in a confident, successful way.

  The vicar had been in Thorpe a very long time himself, but not so long as the Masons. Sally could not remember a time when Dr Bentley had not preached the Sunday sermons; he had married her parents and christened Sally herself. He always stood in the porch after the service and made polite conversation with his flock.

  ‘What makes you think that I am leaving, Vicar?’ It seemed the safest thing to say, while Sally pushed the stray curls under her Sunday hat and tried to control herself. The old boy was jumping to conclusions, but she must respect his age and position and not be too impatient.

  The vicar looked round at the departing faithful and sighed. ‘Mr Bartram told me, and I must say that I was quite relieved. I have been most concerned about you since your dear father passed away.’ His faded blue eyes looked concerned, Sally could see that. ‘No doubt you needed time to adjust to – the situation, but change comes to us all, of course. It is often for the best. One or two people thought that you were intending to try to farm by yourself. Now that would be unwise, my dear. Most unwise.’

  Trust Sol Bartram to run to the vicar with his story and to get God’s representative in Thorpe to take his side against Sally. This was convention working against her again. Was it so sinful to be rather unconventional?

  Sally had rushed through the milking in order to get to church in time for evensong; she hadn’t stopped rushing all day. It was the proper thing to do and kept up a show of normality. But she was tired and distraught, although the ancient ritual of the service had calmed her down a little. The last thing she wanted was to take advice from the vicar, unless he agreed with her. She didn’t want opposition. ‘But I remember you taught us that we should … accept the station in life to which it has pleased God to call us. That’s what I want to do!’

  The vicar beamed. ‘Precisely, my dear girl. Precisely my point. A young woman is called to the domestic life, to be a helper, a comfort. Not to compete with men in a man’s world!’ He shook his silvery head. ‘Farming, my dear, will always be a man’s world. But, as I said, we will be sorry to see you go.’

  Sally inclined her head and moved on and the vicar shook the hand of the next villager. It was no use arguing.

  ‘Come on, Sal, supper’s waiting!’ Robin came up and slipped his arm into hers just as usual. ‘Evening, Vicar!’ And he walked Sally down the churchyard path past the graves of Masons long gone. What would they think of her? Sally wondered: Joshua, Benjamin and Samuel Mason … not to mention their wives.

  ‘You’re looking a bit thin, my lass. Ma’s supper is just what you need.’ Robin looked very handsome in his Sunday suit, freshly shaved, grinning down at her. ‘Fancy the vicar telling you to settle down to the domestic life. Not likely!’ His fresh young laugh rang out. ‘Doesn’t sound like Sally Mason!’

  That hurt, much more than the vicar’s conventional comments. Oh dear, Sally thought, I don’t like either of their views of me … what’s wrong with me?

  It was only a few yards down the street to the Scotts’ farmhouse. As they turned into the drive Sally said quietly, ‘You don’t think I’m ladylike enough, perhaps?’ That was the other side of the coin; if she succeeded as a farmer, folks would think she was unwomanly. In fact she would need a certain toughness, not just physical strength but the ability to bargain with men on their own terms, buying and selling. Robin seemed to think that she wasn’t cut out for ‘the domestic life’ and Robin’s opinion was important to Sally. Maybe she should take shorter steps when she walked and try to be more graceful in her movements. It was so hard to remember, busy as she was. She picked up her skirt daintily as she walked down the path.

  The young man paused at the farmhouse door with his hand on the knob. ‘Lord, Sally, don’t be so serious! That’s your big problem, you know. You take everything far too seriously.’ He laughed again.

  Sally wished that Robin were a bit more serious, but she wasn’t going to tell him so. Life at Badger’s Gill had been all too solemn recently. Without realizing it she’d become more serious and thoughtful, as she became more responsible.

  Supper at the Scotts’ was a cheerful affair. Mrs Scott welcomed Sally with a smile and drew out a chair for her at the big dining table. Robi
n’s father handed Sally a plate of thinly sliced cold beef and gave her a kindly look. She took both gratefully; she hadn’t had meat for a long time. The diet at Badger’s Gill was not quite adequate, come to think of it. These days she thought about food as little as possible. Sitting at the noisy family dining-table, Sally was unobtrusive. Robin’s twin brothers were conducting an argument about fishing and it was easy to keep quiet for a while. Still thinking about being feminine, Sally looked down at her black Sunday dress and sighed. It needed some lace at the cuffs and neck to make it less severe. She hadn’t thought about clothes, or how she looked, for months. That was a mistake, it seemed. There was an old lady in Thorpe: gaunt, work-worn with patient, suffering eyes. She wore black dresses like the one Sally wore. In a few years, she’d look just like Mrs Peterson. She’d have the same huge, long-fingered hands and joints swollen with rheumatism from milking. Already her face in the mirror was gaunt, with prominent cheekbones, Sally had noticed. People would soon know that she was poor.

  Deep down, Sally Mason wanted to get married and to have babies. She supposed that every woman had the same dreams. But apart from Robin, she had never got to know a man who appealed to her and it didn’t seem at all likely that he would ever see her as a potential wife. Possibly, no one would ever fall in love with a determined woman who lived on her own and milked cows for a living, unless it was a young man without land who wanted a farm. A few young men on the High Side had ‘married farms’, sometimes taking plain wives as the price of advancement, but Sally was only a tenant and therefore not a good catch. If she owned the land she might find herself surrounded by suitors. But Sally wanted to marry for love, not convenience. Did she love Robin? She rather thought so.

  It wouldn’t do to think of such things, Sally decided. Women who got married and were happy, women like Mrs Scott across the table, were incredibly lucky. Meeting the right person was such a gamble; some people never did. And she herself had quite enough to worry about without including the distant future.

  Mr Scott beamed down the table at Sally. ‘Things going well for you, lass?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ve been wondering whether you know how to keep accounts?’

  Looking down at her plate, Sally said awkwardly, ‘I don’t think Father kept accounts. We just knew roughly how much profit we made….’ she tailed off.

  ‘Not many farmers write things down!’ Mr Scott shook his head reprovingly. Sally thought how much this man knew; he had worked as a legal clerk in his youth and still earned some money from writing legal documents. Part of the Scotts’ success, she guessed, must come from keeping records. She knew that Robin was in charge of pedigree records for their cattle.

  ‘There isn’t much time for records, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I suppose not. Will you take another helping of beef?’ Mr Scott waved the carving knife above the meat. She shook her head and he laid down the knife and leaned over the table. ‘I can give you a ledger, Sally, to start you off. One page for expenses and one for income. Then you will know what pays and what doesn’t. Whether you should keep more cows, or more sheep for example.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Scott.’ It sounded complicated; how did you separate the sheep costs from the cow costs? Sally sighed. She didn’t have time for keeping accounts.

  After the pie and cream the men of the family disappeared and Sally was left with Mrs Scott, sitting comfortably by a small summer fire. The older woman looked at Sally keenly. ‘Sally, you’re getting quite thin, you know. Can’t you hire a labourer for the heavy work? Joe Marsh is looking for work and he’s a good cowman. If you’re determined to stay, that is. It’s going to be tough. I think you need some sort of help.’

  Sally looked down at her hands, roughened with farm work and red with scrubbing to get clean for church and Mrs Scott looked at them too. ‘My dear, let me give you some elderflower cream for those hands.’ She bustled out and Sally relaxed a little, pleased to be sitting down. She tired more easily these days. Was it the poor diet, she wondered.

  When Mrs Scott came back the stream of good advice was resumed. ‘I really think that something should be done. Shall I speak to Joe for you?’

  ‘I know you’re trying to help me, Mrs Scott, and I’m grateful. But I can’t afford to employ anyone. At least not at the moment.’

  Susan Scott looked guilty, as though she hadn’t thought about money. There was a short silence and then she smiled. ‘Of course, that will be a problem. I wonder what you could do.’ She looked into the fire, thinking. ‘The only women I know who make a success of any kind of business – well, they do the planning, the managing. They have people to do the heavy work. I believe that’s the only way for you, Sally. You’ll have to think like a manager!’

  Sally smiled at the thought of Aunt Bertha. ‘My aunt says that women’s brains are not capable.’

  ‘What nonsense! Many a man relies on his wife to do the thinking. Who d’you think runs the Crown? Sol, or Mrs Bartram? Women are practical as a rule, if they’ve been brought up like you have. And they can think of more than one thing at a time. Men can’t do that!’ They both laughed.

  Sally could see the sense of this approach. It would mean that she could be a farmer and still be reasonably feminine. It was impossible to carry on as she was for very much longer. If only she could find some money! She decided to be honest with Mrs Scott. ‘I – I’m going to sell the sheep,’ she said firmly, trying to make it sound like a business decision. She looked round. ‘Should we be talking like this on a Sunday? And I am quite sure that I want to keep the farm. What I need is some way of earning money to pay Joe or someone like him.’ Sally pushed her shoulders back and sat up very straight. ‘But I can’t think of how to get started.’

  A maid came in to clear the dishes and Susan Scott suggested a walk round the garden, which Sally always envied because it was so well-kept. They went out into the fragrant evening. It seemed after a few minutes that Mrs Scott had been struck with an idea. She stood in the middle of the shrubbery walk and laughed. ‘That’s it! Now, Sally, this is what you must do.’ They sat on a garden seat together in the soft evening light. ‘There are a few women in your sort of position – widows mostly, of course. Not many young girls lose both parents so early in life; you’ve been unfortunate. But the point is, some of these women take paying guests. It’s not so hard as farm work, although it can be hard enough. But it can pay quite well. Think about it.’ Mrs Scott sat back, pleased with her idea.

  ‘Paying guests! You mean … lodgers? Keep a boarding house?’ Sally was horrified. It sounded so much like drudgery. And anyway, who would want to board at Thorpe? It was too far from the town for travelling salesmen or any kind of travellers. That much was certain. ‘They might be drunks, or … dangerous people! How could you know?’

  ‘Not at all! Paying guests are genteel. They are often wealthy city people who come to the country for their health, or on a walking tour, or, sometimes a family needs to have someone cared for. You remember Mrs Thackeray on the moor? She looked after a blind man for years, gave him a good home. His family paid her very well for it.’

  ‘Well … it would depend on whether they could look after themselves, I suppose. I’ve too much to do as it is!’ Sally frowned. ‘I could spring clean the rooms and offer very plain food. It would all depend on whether the person, or people, would like to live in the country, on a farm. Some folks wouldn’t care for it, at all.’ She thought of Aunt Bertha.

  Susan Scott jumped up. ‘I will try to find someone for you, Sally. It could enable you to pay a farm worker, to make life easier. A discreet advertisement in the Yorkshire Post is the thing! I will take care of all that.’

  The delicate scent of elderflowers hung in the air and Mrs Scott described how she made the cream, changing the subject tactfully to give the girl time to get used to the new idea. ‘I’ll make you some more while the flowers are out. I prefer the berries for wine making … elderflower wine smells so odd.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Sco
tt.’

  Perhaps she sounded ungrateful, but Sally could not find very much enthusiasm for Mrs Scott’s idea about the paying guests. Had Robin’s mother ever managed with no indoor servants at all? Probably not. A stranger living in her house would be a burden, a great deal of sheer drudgery. Sally thought of carrying endless buckets of coal upstairs for a bedroom fire, endless jugs of hot water for the washstand. There would be extra washing and ironing. And she’d have to think up and then cook different meals every day, to be served on crisp white tablecloths … it was months since the silver cutlery had been taken out and cleaned.

  On the way home, Sally decided it was too late to call on Martha and George. But tomorrow she would have to ask George to sell the sheep for her as quickly as possible. The rent must be paid on time no matter what else happened. Long shadows fell across the grass as Sally went down the gill to say goodnight to the sheep. The flock clustered round as usual, nibbling at the bucket and there were tears in Sally’s eyes as she looked at them. The sun went down but the girl lingered, unwilling to go inside to the dark, empty house.

  I’ll ask if they can be kept together, she said to herself. And go to a good home … and maybe, later in the year … no, it was no good. She would never be able to get the sheep back again.

  The evening sky was a clear green, merging gradually through blue into the pink of the sunset. The air was calm and from the hedge the scent of the elder bush reminded her of Mrs Scott and her kindness. The Scotts had been good to Sally since her father died. From Badger’s Wood an owl called and there was a movement in the grass. Suddenly, there they were, a young family of badgers, tumbling and fighting in a little hollow. Sally held her breath and watched them and the flock watched with her, curious, but quite used to these quarrelsome neighbours. The badgers played for some minutes and then the parent called and they set off in a line, presumably to learn hunting. Sally watched them go with a smile. She did not want to leave this place, ever. And if she had to sell the sheep to pay the rent, that was the price. She stroked Lavinia’s furry ears and walked slowly back to the house.