Read Online Rutherford Park by Elizabeth Cooke - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Cooke
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this?” March yelled.
“Leave the lass; leave the lass,” Josiah was saying. “We’ll fetch her. Don’t be frightening her.”
March glared at him. “I have to find out myself, do I?” he demanded. “And never tell me? Is that it? Never tell me?”
“It’s none of your business,” Josiah replied, and March immediately grabbed his arm, swinging the other man around to face him.
“Staff are my business. You, him”—he indicated Jack with a wave of his hand—“the boys—”
“Not the house,” Josiah said, wrestling his hand away.
“It’s more mine than yourn!”
“One of the girls come running to the stables,” Josiah shouted. “One of the maids, saying they’d looked all over. What do you want me to do, think on it all night? Raise the whole house up? What?”
There was sudden cry from the river.
Emily had lost her footing; she was sinking, arms out at her sides. Her black dress ballooned around her, and to Jack’s horror he saw her lean back and the water plucked at her and pulled her down.
He plunged in.
She was only a slip of a lass: her body moved quickly out into the current. Only a slip of a lass; he couldn’t shake the thought. He hardly knew her, had seen her about the garden once or twice, carrying a tea tray almost her own size, seen her scurrying, like they all did, head down. Poor little thin, frightened girl. Fury drove him on.
The cold made him gasp. His heart thumped like a drum. He struck out from the shore, thanking God for the stolen hours down here in past summers, knowing where the largest rocks were. Somewhere behind he heard his father shout, but the noise of the water soon swallowed up the sound.
Pushing hard, he came within a few feet of her; the dress was dragging her progress. She didn’t struggle; she was staring up into the sky. He made a grab for her, and missed. He tried to reach her hand, but it floated from him. At last, he got hold of the hem of the dress, wound the material around his wrist, and hauled her into him. The water played with them, pulling them from one side to another.
“Emily,” he called. “Help me.”
She turned her head and stared at him, and her mouth worked a little. He couldn’t hear what she was saying. He found her waist and pulled her alongside him, and turned back for the shore, water pouring over his face, down his neck. The current was so fast that he could feel the gravel churned up in it. She was a deadweight, so heavy for a girl so small. For a moment she kicked against him, and then suddenly went limp. And then there were others in the water, up to their waists: Sedburgh, and the second footman, Nash, all gasping, all pulling and dragging, all stumbling. They landed in the shallows, the three men trying to gather up the unconscious girl. And then Jack’s father was there, turning up Emily’s face, opening her mouth, putting his fingers down her throat. She retched and coughed, then opened her eyes. Jack realized only then, as he helped Harrison raise her to her knees, that she was pregnant, the rise of her stomach obvious now through the wet clothes on her pathetically narrow body.
Jack looked up to the bank, and Harry Cavendish was standing there, held back by March.
Jack stood up, water pouring from his clothes. There was a pile of blankets that Nash must have brought, and he went over to them, slipping, staggering, snatched one and gave it to his father. He stood in the falling snow for a moment, staring down at his feet.
And then he climbed the bank, stood up, and crashed his fist into Harry Cavendish’s face.
* * *
I t was still called the tithe barn, although the Church had relinquished the tithe payment fifty years before, and instead of housing hay and farm machinery, the medieval building had been—for a while last year, at least—the place where the Napier had been kept. But the car had its own new garaging now, and the long stone structure with its timber-frame roof comfortably hosted the Christmas
“Leave the lass; leave the lass,” Josiah was saying. “We’ll fetch her. Don’t be frightening her.”
March glared at him. “I have to find out myself, do I?” he demanded. “And never tell me? Is that it? Never tell me?”
“It’s none of your business,” Josiah replied, and March immediately grabbed his arm, swinging the other man around to face him.
“Staff are my business. You, him”—he indicated Jack with a wave of his hand—“the boys—”
“Not the house,” Josiah said, wrestling his hand away.
“It’s more mine than yourn!”
“One of the girls come running to the stables,” Josiah shouted. “One of the maids, saying they’d looked all over. What do you want me to do, think on it all night? Raise the whole house up? What?”
There was sudden cry from the river.
Emily had lost her footing; she was sinking, arms out at her sides. Her black dress ballooned around her, and to Jack’s horror he saw her lean back and the water plucked at her and pulled her down.
He plunged in.
She was only a slip of a lass: her body moved quickly out into the current. Only a slip of a lass; he couldn’t shake the thought. He hardly knew her, had seen her about the garden once or twice, carrying a tea tray almost her own size, seen her scurrying, like they all did, head down. Poor little thin, frightened girl. Fury drove him on.
The cold made him gasp. His heart thumped like a drum. He struck out from the shore, thanking God for the stolen hours down here in past summers, knowing where the largest rocks were. Somewhere behind he heard his father shout, but the noise of the water soon swallowed up the sound.
Pushing hard, he came within a few feet of her; the dress was dragging her progress. She didn’t struggle; she was staring up into the sky. He made a grab for her, and missed. He tried to reach her hand, but it floated from him. At last, he got hold of the hem of the dress, wound the material around his wrist, and hauled her into him. The water played with them, pulling them from one side to another.
“Emily,” he called. “Help me.”
She turned her head and stared at him, and her mouth worked a little. He couldn’t hear what she was saying. He found her waist and pulled her alongside him, and turned back for the shore, water pouring over his face, down his neck. The current was so fast that he could feel the gravel churned up in it. She was a deadweight, so heavy for a girl so small. For a moment she kicked against him, and then suddenly went limp. And then there were others in the water, up to their waists: Sedburgh, and the second footman, Nash, all gasping, all pulling and dragging, all stumbling. They landed in the shallows, the three men trying to gather up the unconscious girl. And then Jack’s father was there, turning up Emily’s face, opening her mouth, putting his fingers down her throat. She retched and coughed, then opened her eyes. Jack realized only then, as he helped Harrison raise her to her knees, that she was pregnant, the rise of her stomach obvious now through the wet clothes on her pathetically narrow body.
Jack looked up to the bank, and Harry Cavendish was standing there, held back by March.
Jack stood up, water pouring from his clothes. There was a pile of blankets that Nash must have brought, and he went over to them, slipping, staggering, snatched one and gave it to his father. He stood in the falling snow for a moment, staring down at his feet.
And then he climbed the bank, stood up, and crashed his fist into Harry Cavendish’s face.
* * *
I t was still called the tithe barn, although the Church had relinquished the tithe payment fifty years before, and instead of housing hay and farm machinery, the medieval building had been—for a while last year, at least—the place where the Napier had been kept. But the car had its own new garaging now, and the long stone structure with its timber-frame roof comfortably hosted the Christmas
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