All the dear faces Page 6

  Her pride in her only son, her only remaining child, was enormous but it was kept well hidden beneath her own snow-white, cruelly starched apron bib where her heart lay. Any physical or emotional manifestation of how she felt about him was beyond her. Die for him she would and right gladly, to save him a moment's hurt, but to kiss him, as the woman had just kissed the small girl, to put her arms about him would have seemed a foolish and wasteful embarrassment to a woman of her practical nature.

  So she made sure he was warm, well fed, that his clothes were of matchless quality, laundered and immaculately pressed; mended when he tore them in the endless scuffles lads of his age engaged in. That his boots, the best his father's money could buy, were well polished. In short, that Reed Macauley, her son, wanted for nothing.

  The engine of the Lancaster-to-Carlisle train standing at the platform of Penrith station and from which he had just alighted gave a mighty shriek and several horses in the station yard tossed their heads nervously. The noise and the sudden confusion which it caused brought him sharply back from the past and he straightened himself to his full height. He was a tall man, lean of waist and belly and hip but with strong muscled shoulders which filled the roomy, sleeved cloak of navy cashmere he wore. His hair was thick and a rich, dark brown, ready to curl vigorously from beneath the brim of his tall beaver hat. He was amber-skinned and clean-shaven and his eyebrows frowned above eyes which were compelling in their narrowed watchfulness. A vivid blue they were, in which the clear northern light had put the brilliance of a sapphire. They were framed by long black lashes. He could not be considered handsome, though many women thought so, since he was too fierce, his chin too arrogant but there was about him an observant, mocking humour which allowed him to view those of his acquaintance with something less than the serious application they often thought their due. There was in the casual stance of his long, lounging body and the insolent lift of his dark head, a sure belief in his own infallibility and the sense that here was a man who was diverse, complex, a man with many shades and nuances to his nature which no one had ever been allowed to penetrate.

  His obvious and complete masculinity did not prevent him from dressing in a way which in another man, particularly one from these parts, might have been considered dandified. The men of the lakelands of Cumberland, his own father among them, wore what their fathers and grandfathers had always worn. Homespun of hodden-grey made from the mixed wool of their own sturdy Herdwick sheep. Serviceable, durable and warm, jackets, breeches, gaiters and sturdy boots, for the climate of the lakes was damp and chill for a good part of the year. Not for them the immaculately tailored dove-grey trousers Reed Macauley had taken to wearing after the death of his father, nor the fine worsted, plum-coloured coat, and as for the cloak which was lined with fur of some sort, well, what kind of man went in for such fripperies and more to the point, what would become of him? Certainly not the taciturn, blunt-spoken, independent men who were Reed Macauley's neighbours and business associates.

  He removed one of his buff-coloured kid gloves and took out his pocket watch, a magnificent gold hunter, flicking open the case to check the time before returning it to his waistcoat pocket. A thick chain hung across his chest and on the smallest finger of his hand a diamond sparkled. He took out a cigar case, selected a cigar, lit it and breathed in the smoke with a lingering pleasure which was almost sensual.

  He had been lounging against the station yard wall waiting for the lad from the inn to bring his horse which had been stabled there, when the woman and the child had caught his attention. The clattering of the animal's hooves on the cobbles, the barking of several dogs which were bristling and snarling up to one another by the yard gate, the tuneless whistle of a coachman who waited beside his mistress's carriage, the nervous whinnying of the greys which pulled it, all these sounds penetrated Reed Macauley's state of unfocused abstraction and he shivered slightly as though the ghost of his mother had touched him as she moved back into the past.

  The groom led the tall black mare towards him somewhat gingerly for she was of a highbred disposition and had been known to bite at the hand which held the bridle. A beautiful animal with a coat like satin, rippling as she stepped daintily across the yard, her head tossing, her eyes rolling, eager to be away and at the gallop for she had been stabled at The Fiddler's Arms for three days whilst her master attended to some business in Lancaster. It took all the groom's strength to hold her.

  “Theer she be, Mr Macauley, sir, an' a right bugger she were an' all. She's not 'ad much exercise seein' as 'ow theer's none cares to get on 'er back an' theer's none she cares to 'ave on 'er back, neither. Jake led 'er up t'road a piece an' into t' field at back o t' church but a right to-do-ment it were.”

  Reed Macauley smiled. He threw the butt of the cigar to the ground, stepped on it then took the reins from the lad's very willing hand. He patted the animal's arched and quivering neck, gripping her mane, then smoothed his gloved hand down her nose, blowing into her distended nostrils, his lips close as he murmured something to her deep in his throat.

  At once she quietened, standing passively beneath her master's touch, her luminous eyes looking into his, her head beginning to nuzzle affectionately against his shoulder.

  Reed's smile deepened, revealing the perfect white teeth his mother had bequeathed to him with her pints of fresh milk, the blue milk cheese known as `wangy' cheese sliced between thick wedges of home-baked bread which he took to school with him; the fresh vegetables which she had grown in her garden and the fresh herbs she had cooked in her herb pudding. A dish consisting of alpine bisort, nettles, chives, blackcurrant leaves, barley, butter and beaten eggs, made in the spring by most housewives but served once a week on Sarah Macauley's table.

  “You have to treat a horse as you would a woman, Sam," he told the groom, who looked startled, since no woman he had approached had tempted him to blow up her nose. "They like to be soothed and petted and have little bits of nonsense whispered in their ear. It's quite amazing what a man may be allowed with the female sex if he treats her kindly and it is the same with a horse I have found." He winked engagingly at Sam who began to grin. "They are strange but delightful creatures and cannot resist flattery, can you, my beauty?" running his hand along the mare's flank, "so you must tell them how splendid they are at least a dozen times a day at the same time stroking them as I am stroking Victoria here. Isn't that so, Victoria?”

  The mare actually nodded her head, the groom told Jake Later when he was recounting Mr Macauley's amazing words, what he could remember of them since many had been too high-flown for his understanding and just plain bloody daft anyway. Mind you, Mr Macauley's reputation with the ladies was legendary, his exploits in that direction — and the results of them, most with eyes the colour of deepest blue — discussed wherever men gathered as far afield as Borrowdale and Rosthwaite at the southernmost tip of Derwent Water, to the east to Penrith and west to Whitehaven. So perhaps what he advised with the mare, and women, was not as barmy as it sounded. Maybe Sam'd try it next time he coaxed Maggie Blamire out from behind the bar counter of the inn and nto the pitchy darkness of the long garden at the back of :he privy.

  “Try it, Sam," Mr Macauley said as though he had read Sam's mind. "Now then, Victoria, let's be off home. It's i fair ride to Long Beck and I don't fancy the fells after lark.”

  Placing his foot in the stirrup he leaped lightly into the saddle with the fluid grace of one who has been on horse-back from the day he could toddle. He put his heels to the mare's side, guiding her from the yard and out into the busy street of Penrith's centre towards the monument which divided it, noting that the clock on the tower stood A one thirty.

  “Hup Victoria," Sam heard him say as the animal broke nto a canter.

  Victoria! Imagine calling a horse Victoria. It was said in he dales that Reed Macauley had named the foal, given o him by his father in the year their young Queen lad come to the throne, after her, which had seemed somewhat disrespectful, even insolent to the
intensely public-spirited community of middle-class yeomanry and manufacturers of Bassenthwaite parish, though it had brought a wry smile to the dour men of the fells who, calling no man master, spoke as they pleased and allowed others to do the same.

  She was about a mile out of Penrith on the road to Keldhead when he caught up with her, striding gracefully along beside the grass verge, her skirts swinging, her head high, her long back straight and supple, the child almost running beside her. It was just gone two o'clock by then, November, and already the short winter's day was beginning to lose its light. It would be dark within the hour and the road was not lit as those in Penrith were. So where were this young woman and her child headed? He was amazed that they had got as far as they had since last he had seen them in the station yard, particularly the child who could not have been more than three or four years old.

  She did not look round as his mare approached at her back. The road was completely deserted since the folk in these parts had more sense than to tramp about, unless it was absolutely necessary, especially on a raw winter's afternoon as nightfall approached. The high banks on either side of the road topped by drystone walls were dank and squelchy with dormant winter vegetation and the remains of last year's leaves. The trees arching darkly across the road were grim and bare against the pale, rain-washed sky and the low sun was no more than a veiled yellow ball setting directly ahead of them. Clouds were moving over the fells from the west and the skies would soon be `kessened out' as his mother used to say and if he was not mistaken, and as a countryman he seldom was, though it was unusual at this time of the year, it could herald snow. And here was this young woman stepping out with her child as though she, and it, were off on a summer Sunday afternoon stroll, the large wicker basket she carried — her only baggage — holding a picnic perhaps, which they would eat at the end of it! It was none of his business, of course, but could he call himself . . . well, a public-spirited gentleman, which he considered himself to be, if he did not enquire of her intent and destination? She might be a stranger with no knowledge of the district, which was bleak and inhospitable to say the least, or of her own danger in it. The weather could change from minute to minute and though it was clear and fine now within the half-hour she could be striding into the teeth of a howling blizzard. And not only that, there were pedlars and vagrants about, out-of-work colliers and weavers, desperate men who would throw her over the wall and have not only her purse, but her, before she could lift her voice in a shout for help which would, in any case, go unheard and unheeded.

  “I beg your pardon," he said pleasantly, raising his hat as his mare drew abreast of her, for lady or serving wench he was invariably charming to the female sex, which perhaps accounted for his popularity with them.

  He was considerably taken aback by his own reaction to her as she turned to stare haughtily up at him. He might have been some common fellow who had insulted her, he had time to think, before his breath caught in his throat and he felt the need to swallow convulsively. She was, without doubt, one of the most extraordinarily lovely women he had ever seen. This was the first time he had actually seen her face, hidden as it had been by the deep brim of her bonnet. Some women are beautiful, as a jewel is beautiful so that a man feels the need to look and look again, to touch, to possess. Others are pretty, as children are pretty, innocent and empty of face since they have experienced nothing, but this woman was lovely, soft and eternally female and yet with an honesty, a humour, a warmth, a strength, a young vitality about her which was, contrarily, mature as though she had known and survived hardships not suffered by many. A woman, and yet still a girl for despite her self-sufficiency, her air of being complete, her hauteur, she could have been no more than eighteen or nineteen.

  “Yes?" That was all, asking him to state his business and be off since what was he to do with them though he noticed she drew the child protectively closer to her skirts.

  “I apologise if I startled you," he began, still somewhat taken aback. He frowned, amazed at his own callow need to stare for he had known many lovely women in his thirty years. None like this though, his male senses were whispering and it was true. She had turned away, continuing to stride on, the child trotting beside her as neat and fleet of foot as she, treating him as though he was a beggar who had asked her for a farthing which she was not prepared to give.

  He felt the first stirring of anger and his frown deepened. Damn the woman! Let her go her own way. Let her fall by the wayside, be buried in snowdrifts, blunder about in the rolling mists which could come down at a frightening pace; be attacked by tinkers, her skirt thrown over her head to muffle her cries. What was it to him? He had meant to do no more than guide her to the nearest hamlet, perhaps, or advise her to make haste before the storm which was surely coming, devoured her and her child but if she was to take this high-handed tone with him and she no more than a farm girl or maidservant by the look of her, then she could go to the devil and take the child with her.

  It was perhaps the child who restrained him and kept at bay the hot flow of temper which was very likely to take him over since from an early age he had felt no need to bridle it.

  “Madam, I do not wish to impede you in any way but being familiar with these parts and accustomed to the menace of the changes in the weather, I cannot just ride on and leave you. The nearest village is over two miles away and the landscape is wild . . ."

  “Thank you, but we'll be all right." She did not turn her head when she spoke to him and he felt the most foolish urge to make her do so. While there was still light enough in the sky he wanted to look at her again, to study her face, her mouth, the sweetly curving short upper lip, the full lower lip, the square little jaw, and were her eyes brown or hazel? And her hair which was completely covered by the rather ugly bonnet, was it the same bright copper as the child's? God's teeth, what was wrong with him?

  He could feel his temper begin to flare even more and a slight wash of colour flowed beneath his smoothly shaved skin. He was not used to being spoken to as though he was some impertinent hobbledehoy she had come across and whom she was summarily dismissing for his audacity in addressing her. He was one of the wealthiest sheep farmers in the district with interests in coal and copper mining; in the newly expanding railways; in the manufacture of woollen goods and other lucrative business concerns in which he had become involved since his father had died. He had a fine, old, recently extended, recently modernised farmhouse set at the foot of Little Calva up and beyond Dash Falls, with gardens about it to display to those who were impressed by such things that he could afford to waste some of his land on frivolities like flower beds and lawns and even a rose arbour. His family had lived at Long Beck since the days before the reign of James I, and the union of England and Scotland. His forefathers had gained privileges, mostly of land, when they had answered the call to arms to defend the borders between the two countries and when the need no longer existed they had clung to their heritage and were allowed to retain their rights. 'Estatesmen' or `Statemen', they were called, yeoman farmers who emerged as the most powerful social group in Cumberland, and he would not be spoken to by this country girl, for she was no more than that in her clogs and shawl, without proper respect.

  “Madam," he remarked coolly, "I wish to do no more than show disquiet for your safety and that of the child but I can see I should not have concerned myself. I will bid you good afternoon.”

  Raising his hat once more he prepared to move on but suddenly she turned and smiled at him. Not a smile of politeness as one would show a stranger but one of genuine amusement.

  “And what danger could I be in along this deserted road, Reed Macauley, tell me that? I've walked on roads such as this a hundred times, aye, and later in the day and come to no harm. Anyway you want to watch that animal of yours. She looks dangerous to me.”

  She grinned, showing excellent teeth and he had time to notice in the fading afternoon light that her eyes were the colour and had the glowing depths of the topaz his mother had w
orn on a silver chain about her neck. Transparent and luminous with a strange, almost yellow light in them. They were surrounded by thick brown lashes nearly an inch long which were tipped for half their length with gold.

  His mare was beginning to dance sideways, irritated by this unprecedented stop when all she wanted was to wildly gallop her unexerted legs along the road and across the fells to her own stable. Reed spoke sharply to her, holding her tight in by the reins and when he had her under control the woman, without for a moment slowing her pace, had gone on another thirty yards. Swearing under his breath and angry with his own foolish need to find out more about this impudent female who obviously knew him, he jumped lightly to the ground and leading the restive mare, hurried after her.

  “You know me?" he questioned as he caught up with her.

  “Oh aye. Who doesn't in these parts?"

  “You have the advantage of me then, " for if he had met her before he certainly would have remembered her.

  “Is that so?" and her stride seemed to lengthen so that the child was forced to break into a run to keep up with her.

  He frowned. He was not a lover of children since he knew none to love. Though his mother had come from a large family residing in Maryport, and he had many cousins on her side, he himself had been an only child, the last his mother bore, those before him lying in the family plot in the churchyard of St Bridget's by Bassenthwaite Lake. Nevertheless, despite knowing nothing of children it seemed to him that the little girl was being pressed beyond her age and endurance. She made no complaint, merely increasing her speed when the woman did, her small feet almost a blur beneath the dark hem of her rough skirt. Again it was none of his business but still he turned his attention once more to the woman, surprising himself with his own words.

  “Perhaps you could slow your step somewhat. That child should surely not be forced to walk so quickly. She can barely keep up with you."