All the dear faces Read online

  “Do you need anything? Anything at all?" he asked her, begging her to want some tremendous, difficult to come by thing that would stretch him to the utmost to get for her.

  “No, nothing. I am managing very well. My lambs are thriving . . ."

  “I know, I've seen them." He smiled into her hair. "Are you spying on me?" She turned to look up at him, her lips beneath his, and when he took them, she sighed into his mouth with the sheer joy of it.

  “Keeping an eye on you," he said when he could. "You won't let me do anything else for you, or give you anything, not even some trumpery bit of jewellery, so I do what I can by making sure your sheep are as fit as mine. They are grazing together on the same fell after all."

  “Thank you."

  “Dear God, if there was only something I could do to make your life easier."

  “There is.”

  At once he turned her in his arms, straining into her face in his passion to give her the moon, the stars, his own heart plucked out of his breast, any of these easy things but not the one thing he wanted to present her with, his name.

  “What? Say it, anything."

  “My daughter."

  “Yes . . . ?" He leaned back, disappointed, for what was Cat Abbott to him and what could he give to her that would satisfy his obsession with this woman.

  “I want her to go to school."

  “Well, that's easy enough. There is one in Gillthrop."

  “No, she is clever. Charlie has taught her . . ."

  “Goddammit woman, don't talk to me of that man. Have you no heart that you must mention him in my presence?" He stood up, thrusting her from him and his dog and hers stood up with him. All three animals were still uneasy with one another and it took very little to unsettle them. They sensed the tension and anger in him and Blackie raised his muzzle warningly.

  “And you can tell that bloody dog of yours to back off or I'll take my whip to him."

  “You'll do no such thing, Reed Macauley. They don't like your attitude any more than I do. I'm sorry if it upsets you when I speak of Charlie but I thought, unlike the rest of this damned community, that you understood my relationship with him. I have told you before that he and Phoebe are my only friends, except perhaps for Sally Garnett. There is nothing . . . nothing between us. Do you think I would be up here with you if there was? I met him at Rosley when I went to buy sheep since no one at the Keswick market would sell me any. I needed a ram and he helped me. The men there are as pig-headed as those around here and when it was discovered I was female despite my 'disguise' ... " indicating her masculine clothing, "they wouldn't sell to me either. Charlie did it for me, and helped me to bring the tup and the ewes home. And that is all."

  “All!" He stamped up and down, his boots crushing the tussocky grass and a clump of celandine which grew there. The wind lifted his tumbled hair from his frowning forehead and he brushed it back impatiently. His eyebrows scowled ferociously over his piercing blue eyes and it was obvious that peace had gone leaving jealousy, and his own anger at suffering it.

  “Dammit, Annie. You make light of this ridiculous 'get-up' you wear but can you blame men who only deal with other men, when they mistrust it, and you? They don't know what to make of it, or you. They are used to their women in decent skirts and bonnets, keeping their place in the home as they have done for centuries. Then you come along, so obviously female despite this . . . this bloody outfit you wear, and they are distracted from the purpose of their transaction which is to make a profit. Not only are they insulted by what they see as your immodesty, they are seriously affronted by their own need to stare at your . . . attractions. Which, by the way brings me to the subject of how they discovered you were a woman and not a man! Oh, yes . . ."

  “It was my hair, dammit. What do you think I did? Exposed my . . . my body to them? My blasted hat fell off. . ."

  “Fell off ! Fell off! Or did you take if off to show Charlie . . ."

  “What the devil are you insinuating, Reed Macauley? Are you saying . . . ?"

  “Dear sweet Christ, I don't know what I'm saying, woman." Again he twisted and turned in his savage distress. "I only know I cannot bear to think of you living under the same roof with him, with . . . any man. . . no matter how innocent. Yes! . . . Yes! . . ." He held up his hands in acquiescence. ". . . I know it is innocent since I know you well enough by now to understand you would dishonour neither yourself, nor me, nor him. I know you love me, Annie Abbott, I can see it in your eyes. Even now, though your face is furious and you're ready to black my eye for my impudence. Forgive me . . . I cannot help the way I am, Annie . . . my Annie . . . don't let's quarrel . . ."

  “You began it by inferring that Charlie and I were more to each other than friends." She slapped away his placatory hand but he grasped her forearm and pulled her roughly to him.

  “Only because I'm so jealous, dammit. I want you . . ."

  “You could have had me. We were both of us free."

  “Aah . . . don't . . ." He bowed his head in sudden desperation and his hands fell to his side. His stance was one of such hopelessness that at once she put her arms about him, dragging him to her in an agony of remorse.

  “Reed . . ."

  “I know . . ." His words were muffled in her hair. His arms rose again and held her to him. "I know . . . Christ . . . do you think I have not regretted it a hundred times since. I thought . . . you were with him . . . they said you were . . . he was living at the farm . . ."

  “He needed work. I needed help . . . that's all." "He is . . "

  “That is all, Reed."

  “I should have married you when I had the chance but . . ."

  “. . . But I was . . . who I am." Her words were soft and they said she did not reproach him.

  “Do you think that would have mattered? As my wife you would have been accepted no matter what you had done." His voice was arrogant and sure. Was he not Reed Macauley? One of the Macauleys who were 'statesmen', men of standing and wealth in these parts. There would not have been a hostess in the parish who would have shut her door in his wife's face, or if she had, her husband might have found himself in a poor way of business. So many owed him something, money, a favour, a bit of business put their way, and it would not pay them to insult him or his wife. Under his shelter and protection Annie Abbott would have been treated as a young queen.

  “Perhaps."

  “There is no perhaps about it. They would not have dared . ."

  “Does it matter now, my darling? Really, does it matter? It is too late. You are committed elsewhere and I can see no . . . future for us . . ."

  “Don't say that." He clasped her to him in an agony of despair pressing her face into the hollow of his neck beneath his straining jaw line. "Don't . . . don't . . ."

  “How can I help it, Reed? I've . . . been so . . . happy . . . meeting you again up here. It was so . . . unexpected. I did not allow myself to think about what was to happen tomorrow, or next week. It was enough to just be with you, to touch you and hear you speak. I blinded myself to everything else and turned a deaf ear to the voice of reason which whispered that this was madness . . ."

  “If you are trying to say we should not meet again I won't allow it. I will not. We can make some . ." He paused suddenly as though aware that he must tread carefully with his next words.

  She lifted her head and looked up into his strong but vulnerable face. He was unsteady with the tumult which was beginning to overwhelm him. The angle of his hard, fighting jaw jutted ominously and the taut muscles in his throat worked. The flesh of his face was tanned and smooth, but there were tell-tale lines about his eyes and mouth which she had not noticed before.

  “Listen to me," he growled, his truculent jaw threatening anyone who stood between himself and what he wanted. "It's time we talked, really talked about the future. We do have one you know, whatever you might say. I need you. I need you in my life. I want to make a commitment to you. . ."

  “How can that be, Reed?"

&nb
sp; “It could be arranged, if you'd agree."

  “To what?"

  “Well . . . a house somewhere. You and your daughter. She could go to school as you want her to. You would, both of you, be secure. I would look after you and there would be no need for you to slave on that blasted farm.

  You could sell it. Keep the money, as your own . . ." "Thank you." Her tone was formal.

  4'. · · invest it so that you would be independent . . ." though he would not like that, of course since Annie Abbott's total dependence on him was what he was after.

  “Thank you, Reed, but I cannot accept your offer." Her voice was cool and she moved backwards, putting space and air and a certain constraint between them. He loved her. He was suffering because of it and though the day was mild, she felt him shiver beneath the good broadcloth of his jacket. He turned away from her jerkily, his face tight, moving to stand on a flat grey rock, his hands clenched in the pockets of his jacket, his eyes on the lake below. The surface of the water changed constantly, becoming ruffled where the breeze touched it. The sun stretched a path of gilt across it on which, as the water moved, an explosion of diamonds scattered and burst. He saw none of it. Its beauty and the beauty of the hazed peaks which stretched on and on into infinity, meant nothing as Reed Macauley, loving truly for the first time, struggled with the realisation that this was one woman he could not have. She could sense the tension in him even with a dozen feet between them, the tight-clenched pain and the absolute determination to overcome it, and her.

  “Christ, this is bloody ridiculous. You say there is nothing . . . there is no other man in your life and yet you won't allow me into it. I cannot bear to see the way you are treated by the people in the area, nor the struggle you are having to make . . . to turn Browhead into a decent farm. Look at you . . ." He turned violently, his face black and snarling, the menace in him dangerous, his hand raised as though ready to strike her. He passed it across his face. "Look at you dressed like some confounded vagrant, your hands worse than a labourer's and your face as brown as a gypsy. And there's no need for it, Annie. I can look after you. After both of you, even that skivvy you took in. You'll want for nothing – servants, a carriage, fine clothes and jewellery. A house wherever you like . . ."

  “Where, I suppose, you will visit me whenever it is convenient?"

  “Confound it Annie, I can do no more. It would be a good life for you and the child. You could be the widow of. . ."

  “I would be a whore. Your whore."

  “Don't! Don't say that. I love you . . ."

  “. . . and if you stopped loving me? If it should become tedious to get on your horse and travel the ten, fifteen miles, or perhaps more, I would need to hide myself to keep your reputation untarnished, would you say 'Oh, to hell with it, I'll go another day!' Whilst I and any children we may have as a result of this 'arrangement' will sit and wait patiently until . . "

  “No, no, never. You mean more to me than . . ."

  “I would be no more to you than a mistress. Loved perhaps but condemned to a life of secrecy and deceit."

  “Dammit to hell, Annie."

  “No Reed, no! I can't do it. I just cannot do it. Already I am an outcast in this parish, but despite that I am gaining a measure of success. My flock is growing . . ."

  “Less than a hundred sheep." His voice was contemptuous, made so by his bitter disappointed love.

  “Don't sneer at me or my efforts, Reed." She was doing her best to keep her temper, but her eyes which had shown concern for his pain, had begun to glow hotly. "I've worked hard . . ."

  “There is no need for it, Annie." His voice was pleading. "Yes, there is. I want to do this, Reed. I must do it. I . . . I love you . . ."

  “Then let me . . ."

  “I love you and had you . . . well, if things had been different, I would have gladly shared your life though how the good folk of Bassenthwaite would have taken to . . ."

  “For Christ's sake, Annie, don't turn me away. Don't turn the idea down without thinking about it. What about Penrith? No one knows you there." His voice was boyish, shaking in his eagerness, and he grasped her hands, holding them between his own, then bringing them tenderly to his mouth where he covered them with kisses whilst his vivid blue eyes held hers, the love in them as soft and tender as those of a mother gazing at an adored child. He was not a man to beg. His nature was to take whatever he wanted and if he could not take it then he was prepared to pay for it, at his price, naturally. His nature challenged hers, willing her to give in and yet he was making a decent offer to curb that arrogance in himself that demanded his own way in all things.

  “Take me seriously, my darling, for I don't give up easily. If you don't like the idea of Penrith then we could go north, or south. You see I am saying 'we'. We would go together, travel as man and wife. Make a home together. I would come back to Long Beck just as often, and for as long as it was needed, to keep the gossips away from .. . from my wife. I could run my business from wherever we went. And the farm. A factor and half a dozen good shepherds. Bloody hell, woman, do you not see what I am willing to give up for you?”

  There was a long moment of strangled silence, then, with a familiar, defensive growl, he took her by the forearms and shook her.

  “Godammit, Annie. Tell me you agree. I'm . . . I cannot stand this need I have of you. Say you'll come, say it .. say it ... " and he shook her more violently.

  “I cannot." Her voice was soft.

  “You can, you will."

  “No, Reed. I cannot."

  “Why, for Christ's sake, why?"

  “I don't know."

  “That's no bloody answer."

  “It's the only one I can give you now.”

  He threw her from him, his violence so close to the surface it was in danger of breaking through and attacking her. Blackie and Bonnie were ready to fling themselves on him, their muzzles raised warningly, and his old dog placed herself between them and her master.

  “Then there's no more to be said."

  “No.""I shan't give up.”

  Why was she so pleased to hear him say that, she wondered desolately as she watched him click his fingers to his dog and move stiffly in the direction of his mare. She wouldn't change her mind! Ever. What she had feared at their first meeting a few weeks ago had happened. He had not been satisfied with what they now had. He wanted more, as she wanted more so was it to be wondered at? She loved him so much, so much she wanted nothing more than to call his name, to open her arms and hold them out to him. To go with him wherever he wanted to take her, but she couldn't. She didn't really know why since she already had a reputation as a harlot so why not husband stealer, or even worse, but she couldn't.

  He mounted his mare and inside her, just beneath her left breast the pain was unbearable where her heart broke. He did not look back at her as he spoke.

  “I'll make arrangements for the child," he said, then with a soft murmur to his dog, put his heels to the mare's side and threw them both down a length of scree with an abandon so wild and dangerous the animal whinnied in fear.

  Annie sank to her knees and bowed her head.

  Chapter 23

  Why did her body ache as though she had been stricken with some dreadful debilitating illness or as if she had been given a sound beating with a cudgel, her dazed mind wondered as she staggered down the steep hill at the back of Browhead. She seemed to hurt all over, even to the roots of her hair, which was ridiculous really, since it was her heart and soul and mind which had been badly damaged this day. It was hard to put one foot in front of the other and twice she fell as she descended Broad End. The water in Barkbeth Gill was icy cold as it crept over her clogs, when she missed her footing crossing it, and though it was high summer she shivered, the spasms rippling across her skin in cold feathers.

  There was no sign of Charlie in the old shed where once her father had worked on his `swiller's horse'. Lengths of straight-grained knot-free oak saplings leaned neatly against the wall and dozens of l
ogs had already been quartered with the lat-axe prior to placing them in the cast-iron boiler where they would stew overnight. The three of them, Phoebe, herself and Charlie had already fashioned several dozen swills and Annie meant to make the journey to the coastal town of Whitehaven soon to sell them, for the baskets were used in the coaling of ships. Thirty pounds of coal each one could hold, hauled on the backs of the crew, basket by basket until the coal hold was full. In the lull between planting, lambing and harvest, and the sheep fairs where she hoped to sell her unwanted male lambs, they could make many more baskets, selling them wherever there was a need. She was also toying with the idea of producing charcoal from the juniper trees in her coppice wood since she could not afford to wastethe utilisation of any crop which might make her money. The gunpowder manufacturers of Westmorland and Cumberland would buy the charcoal from her, for it was a major ingredient in the making of explosives. Not that she had ever done any charcoal burning, nor even seen the process, but she could learn, she told herself, since she intended to leave no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored in her aim to make Browhead into a successful, profit-making farm.