Elloughton Dale early one Sunday morning, heading towards Brough. He hadn’t asked any of the children if they’d like to come with him. If they had asked him if they could, he would have made the excuse that he was only going to check that his mother had plenty of provisions as more snow was threatened; but they didn’t ask, as they were all busy with things to do of their own.
They were all growing up so fast, he thought; the older ones, if they wanted to, could visit either of their grandmothers on their own without having to be taken. They saw Rosie regularly, except in winter when she only walked up the dale to see them if the days were fine and dry. ‘I’m not walking up that track in ’teeth of a gale,’ she asserted. ‘I’ll see you all in ’spring.’ But someone, Harriet or Daniel, Maria or Dolly, always called at least twice a week.
But they don’t visit my mother, he brooded. She doesn’t make them welcome and they have to search for something to talk about. But he had something to talk about, or at least ask about, which was the real purpose of his visit today.
The wind was whistling across Brough Haven, whipping the waters up to a froth as he turned down the lane that led to the waterfront and the cottage where his mother now lived. She hadn’t wanted to leave Marsh Farm; when Fletcher returned from America on hearing of the double loss of his father and Noah, she wanted her and Fletcher to run it together. ‘I can stop here as long as I want,’ she’d said. ‘Master Christopher allus said so.’
She had such plans for him, she’d told him, and he remembered his shock and the gleam in her eyes as she’d whispered the devious schemes she had nurtured for years; but those plans didn’t include Harriet, whom he loved, or Daniel either, and since that time, after his rejection of her propositions, even after so many long years, Ellen had never again spoken to or even asked about Harriet.
The water was surging against the path outside the cottage as he approached. The property belonged to the Hart estate and was once the home of Mrs Marshall, a former cook, after her retirement from the manor. It was to Mrs Marshall that Ellen had gone scurrying in pique and defiance when Christopher Hart had told her that he had changed his plans and she could no longer stay at Marsh Farm, that he had another purpose for the land. She had never left, even after Mrs Marshall’s death, and Christopher Hart, feeling guilty for turning her out of the farm, charged her only a peppercorn rent.
She’d have been better accepting the cottage in Brough that Hart had first offered her, Fletcher considered as he climbed down from the cart and made the horse fast. She’d have been more comfortable, and safe from the estuary waters if they should flood over the path and into the cottage. But some devilment within her had made her defy them all and choose to live a lonely life by the Haven; it’s so that we’ll worry about her, Fletcher concluded as he tapped on the locked door. It was a challenge, he’d decided long ago, but a challenge that no one had taken up.
He was kept waiting as always; it was as if she wanted whoever was disturbing her to go away. But she would know his familiar knock; it was just another idiosyncrasy that she deployed, another eccentricity to show that she didn’t care a jot about anyone.
After waiting a few more minutes, he walked round to the back of the cottage and found his mother standing by the open back door with an axe in her hand. ‘In God’s name, what ’you doing!’ But he knew what she was up to. She had heard him at the front door and intended giving him a fright.
‘Chopping wood, what does it look like? I need to keep a good fire. It’s cold by these waters.’
He looked towards the log pile that he had chopped the last time he was here. There was plenty of wood, enough for two weeks at least, and Christopher Hart often sent a sack of coal.
‘You don’t need to do
They were all growing up so fast, he thought; the older ones, if they wanted to, could visit either of their grandmothers on their own without having to be taken. They saw Rosie regularly, except in winter when she only walked up the dale to see them if the days were fine and dry. ‘I’m not walking up that track in ’teeth of a gale,’ she asserted. ‘I’ll see you all in ’spring.’ But someone, Harriet or Daniel, Maria or Dolly, always called at least twice a week.
But they don’t visit my mother, he brooded. She doesn’t make them welcome and they have to search for something to talk about. But he had something to talk about, or at least ask about, which was the real purpose of his visit today.
The wind was whistling across Brough Haven, whipping the waters up to a froth as he turned down the lane that led to the waterfront and the cottage where his mother now lived. She hadn’t wanted to leave Marsh Farm; when Fletcher returned from America on hearing of the double loss of his father and Noah, she wanted her and Fletcher to run it together. ‘I can stop here as long as I want,’ she’d said. ‘Master Christopher allus said so.’
She had such plans for him, she’d told him, and he remembered his shock and the gleam in her eyes as she’d whispered the devious schemes she had nurtured for years; but those plans didn’t include Harriet, whom he loved, or Daniel either, and since that time, after his rejection of her propositions, even after so many long years, Ellen had never again spoken to or even asked about Harriet.
The water was surging against the path outside the cottage as he approached. The property belonged to the Hart estate and was once the home of Mrs Marshall, a former cook, after her retirement from the manor. It was to Mrs Marshall that Ellen had gone scurrying in pique and defiance when Christopher Hart had told her that he had changed his plans and she could no longer stay at Marsh Farm, that he had another purpose for the land. She had never left, even after Mrs Marshall’s death, and Christopher Hart, feeling guilty for turning her out of the farm, charged her only a peppercorn rent.
She’d have been better accepting the cottage in Brough that Hart had first offered her, Fletcher considered as he climbed down from the cart and made the horse fast. She’d have been more comfortable, and safe from the estuary waters if they should flood over the path and into the cottage. But some devilment within her had made her defy them all and choose to live a lonely life by the Haven; it’s so that we’ll worry about her, Fletcher concluded as he tapped on the locked door. It was a challenge, he’d decided long ago, but a challenge that no one had taken up.
He was kept waiting as always; it was as if she wanted whoever was disturbing her to go away. But she would know his familiar knock; it was just another idiosyncrasy that she deployed, another eccentricity to show that she didn’t care a jot about anyone.
After waiting a few more minutes, he walked round to the back of the cottage and found his mother standing by the open back door with an axe in her hand. ‘In God’s name, what ’you doing!’ But he knew what she was up to. She had heard him at the front door and intended giving him a fright.
‘Chopping wood, what does it look like? I need to keep a good fire. It’s cold by these waters.’
He looked towards the log pile that he had chopped the last time he was here. There was plenty of wood, enough for two weeks at least, and Christopher Hart often sent a sack of coal.
‘You don’t need to do
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