Beyond the plough, p.27
Beyond the Plough, page 27
‘I’ll plead guilty to that charge, for I hold nothing but contempt for the likes of you. I demand another magistrate.’
‘Your demand is denied.’ Daniel Ayres turned to the prosecution, mopping the sweat from his brow. ‘Do you have any witnesses?’
Her lawyer stood, gathered his papers together and stalked from the court.
She must tell Ben not to pay his bill, thought Isabelle.
Sam Saynuthin took the oath by spitting on his palm and slapping it on the bible when the official read it out.
‘What have you to say?’ Daniel asked him.
‘He ain’t got nothing to say, for the poor little bugger be dumb,’ Ben said out loud, and the onlookers began to laugh again.
Sitting at the back of the court, Oswald Slessor grinned at that, even though the spectators were walking all over Daniel. The young man was having a baptism of fire. It would test his mettle a bit, but that was all to the good if he could get it under control. Oswald hadn’t enjoyed a case so well in a long time. But if it got too much out of hand he would intervene.
Daniel thumped his gavel for silence again. Forgetting he was wearing a wig he ran a shaking hand through his hair. The hairpiece was dislodged and flew across the desk to thump onto the floor like an overweight seagull.
‘Shut up, else I’ll have you all arrested,’ he roared, taking the wig from a court official and jamming it back on his head. He glared round at everyone until the ensuing hubbub died down, and gathered his dignity together as best he could. ‘Let us proceed.’
But nothing proceeded as he’d imagined it would. Suddenly the door to the courtroom was pushed open and Rudd Ponsonby stood there, a constable at his shoulder.
‘I’ve brought the law to arrest you, Daniel Ayres. It was you who attacked and killed my young un, and her only just turned fourteen. I found that brooch in the cottage, the one I made her give back to you, and she had a shillin’ in her pocket.’
‘A shilling she exchanged for her services. The girl was a slut and deserved all she got.’
The spectators booed and hissed at that.
‘No, sir, she was not. You took her innocence, killed her, and tried to make it look like an accident. You be a wicked man and my Abbie is sufferin’ real cruel. To hell with you, Daniel Ayres. I’m not going to let you get away with it, however high you think you’ve risen in the district.’
Daniel’s face suddenly blanched. Clutching his head with both hands he rocked back and forth. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her, it was an accident, I swear.’
‘Like mine was an accident, you murdering bastard,’ Isabelle screamed out, seizing the opportunity. ‘You ain’t fit to judge me.’
‘But I am.’ The trial had become a farce. Oswald Slessor strode to the bench, signalled to the court officials, then turned to Isabelle. ‘Close your mouth, woman, or you’ll be gagged.’ Within seconds, Daniel was hustled from the bench to a back room.
‘The court is adjourned,’ Oswald said calmly to the clerk. ‘Set another date for the trial. I’ll hear it myself.’ He gazed at Rudd Ponsonby and the constable. ‘You two, wait there until I’m ready for you.’
Isabelle was dispatched back to the cells. The court was cleared of unnecessary spectators. Rudd Ponsonby was questioned, the evidence inspected. Not that Oswald needed to. Daniel Ayres had damned himself with his own words.
‘It seems there are grounds for an arrest,’ Slessor told the constable, and slowly shook his head. ‘A mockery has been made of this court today, gentlemen. Rest assured, justice will be done.’
Daniel didn’t wait to be arrested. Felling the court official with a heavy book, he fled outside and, mounting his father’s great black horse, took off out of town.
As soon as he left Dorchester, he forgot the debacle he’d left behind. His headache was replaced by a sense of elation. People gazed as he went by, high on his horse, the squire of Cheverton Estate. Everything was his, the fields, hedges, trees and flowers, every stick, stone, man, woman and child – even Siana. When she came to him he’d keep her safe, a sweet bird, caged in her room. His brow wrinkled. But he’d have to dispose of Esmé first. And he had to get to Siana before they did. Putting the horse to hedges at a frenzied gallop in his urgency, he drove it forward, relentlessly kicking its sides when it began to flag.
The horse made a gallant effort, but the last hedge was too much for him. A vessel in his great heart burst just as he’d cleared it. Daniel rolled clear as the beast thudded to the ground, convulsing in its death throes. Eventually the spasms stopped, the gelding’s eyes lost their brightness.
‘Damned animal!’ Daniel screamed as the gelding rolled towards him and he was forced to scramble out of the way.
Esmé didn’t know how long she’d been in the cellar. Two weeks, she thought. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten. It was daytime, for she could see a chink of light coming through the keyhole.
At least it had stopped raining. She gazed at the patch of dark water on the floor and shuddered. The flood water had reached her chest at its height, for the table had floated during the night and she’d rolled off into its murky depths.
Damp and cold, disgustingly filthy, her hair hung in matted lengths. Worse, she’d soiled herself several times and was so weak she could move only with great effort. Her throat was so sore she couldn’t speak, either. Not that she had anyone to talk to.
The last time she’d set eyes on Florrie, the maid had turned up wearing Esmé’s favourite gown and her jewels. Flaunting herself, she’d taunted, ‘I’m the mistress of the manor now, but we be going to London town in a day or two so I’ve brought you some food.’
The girl had given her some bread and cheese to eat, but the rats had smelt it. They’d come from everywhere, swarming all over her, fighting with each other to get at it.
The only thing keeping Esmé alive was the brandy. It warmed her body, helped her sleep and allowed her to escape into pleasant fantasy from time to time. She had to survive this and escape, for Daniel would need her to look after him when they came back.
She intended to lock him in the same barred room he’d kept her in, and hire a couple of strong manservants to care for him. It would be easy to keep him happy, by pandering to his belief that he was the squire. If she could become Siana Matheson, she would do that too, for she loved her husband and would do almost anything to win his regard back – even that!
He was obviously insane. The London doctor had warned her his condition would deteriorate. ‘Besides the headaches, your husband will harbour strange ideas and behave erratically,’ he’d said. It had seemed kinder not to tell Daniel of the suspected tumours in his brain, for she’d been assured the medication would keep his headaches under control.
She took another sip of the brandy. There had been no noise outside for a couple of days now. There had been a flurry of activity back then. She’d tried to shout, but she’d only managed a painful croak. Nobody had heard her. Most of the servants had left, or had been dismissed. No footsteps echoed overhead, as if the place had been abandoned. Perhaps Florrie had left too. Funny, how she didn’t feel hungry now. She ached all over, though.
Eventually, night arrived. The blackness became blacker, the cold, colder. The brandy did its work and she fell into a stupor, curled up on the table.
For the next four nights, she dreamed of Siana Matheson.
18
The dream woke Siana again. The woman was calling her from the darkness, her voice coming from far away. There was an odour of dampness and mould in her nostrils.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered, anguish rising up inside her, for she didn’t want to lose the thread joining her to this woman, ‘Where are you?’
There was no answer. She tried to sleep, tried to escape from the despairing thought that came with each dawn. Ashley was gone from her. Her arms hugged his memory against her as she relived the feel of his skin against her lips and his small boy smell.
Bryn interrupted the moment of grieving. He woke, eager for his breakfast, gloriously alive, his legs kicking in energetic spurts at the blankets and his fists punching the air as he raucously proclaimed his right to attention. He made her laugh, her cuckoo child. Red-faced and gulping noisily at her breast, he took hardly a breath, lest it ran out before he’d taken his fill.
His nursery maid came in just as Siana finished feeding him, when Bryn was lying on his back like a damp, fat puppy, his mouth stretched in a windy grin, totally relaxed. He stared up at her, his slate-coloured gaze stating, All is right with my world when you’re here for me.
‘You stink, but I love you,’ she said softly, grazing her mouth across the warm, satiny skin of his cheek. The child took her mind from Ashley, forcing her to live in the present, as if fate had designed him for exactly that purpose.
Bryn snatched a handful of her hair, then belched milk from the side of his mouth. It ran into the creases of his neck.
Beyond the curtain the sky was pale grey, as if the clouds were full of the grieving tears she’d shed. But at least it was dry, for the rain had been unrelenting of late.
She wondered where Daniel Ayres was. Despite everything, she hated the thought of him being hunted down like a rabid dog. She ought to write to Elizabeth, inform her of her son’s disgrace. She didn’t know where to send such a letter, though. She decided to put off the task until he’d been apprehended and dealt with. Perhaps that would be when spring came, bringing life to the earth to dispel all the sadness.
‘Shall I see to him?’ the nursery maid said, when Bryn began to hiccup. There was a short-lived tug-o’-war for possession of her hair before he was borne away, giving contented coos and chuckles, like a dove in spring.
Siana swung her legs out of bed and went through to the nursery to exchange a hug with the three girls and check on their progress. She was not looking forward to the Sunday service, but she must attend as it was All Souls Day and the reverend was saying a special prayer for Ashley.
She preferred to think of Ashley’s soul as a shining flower that would blossom every spring in the daffodils she’d planted on his grave, like her little Elen, buried high on a Welsh hill.
Grey-faced and defeated-looking, Daniel’s godfather, the Reverend White, stumbled through the service. He looked as though he no longer believed in God.
Afterwards, he accompanied Siana to her mother’s grave, where she was going to place a wreath of ivy and glossy dark green leaves.
‘My name is Skinner and so is Josh’s,’ Daisy suddenly said, and stared up at Siana, her eyes questioning.
Siana didn’t need Josh’s finger in her back to know the time had come. She sighed, hoping the girl would understand. ‘This is our mother’s grave, Daisy. Your papa and baby brother are also buried here.’
‘But you’re my mamma.’ Tears pricked at Daisy’s eyes. ‘I don’t want Megan Skinner to be my mamma. I want you to.’
They were standing on layers of decaying leaf mould with water oozing through from the waterlogged ground underneath. Siana had sturdy boots on, but the hem of her gown was bedraggled and mud-stained.
‘Our mother loved us all, Daisy. She didn’t want to leave us. Before she died, she said, ‘Look after my sweet little Daisy for me. Tell her I love her.’ So I became your mamma for a short time.’ When Josh’s lips twitched at her embroidery of the truth, she elbowed him in the ribs. ‘But now you’re growing up, I hope you’ll like having me for a sister, instead.’
Daisy gazed at Goldie. ‘Only if I can still call you “Mamma”.’
‘Your mother has been watching over you from heaven, I expect,’ Richard White said, wearily.
‘My mamma watches me from heaven, too,’ Goldie said, darting an uncertain look at Siana, ‘and she hasn’t got a name like yours has.’
‘Why hasn’t she got a name?’
Goldie shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘When your mother died, there was nothing on her to say who she was. So I took you home, and when I married, we gave you our name,’ Siana told the girls.
‘We could give your mamma a name.’ Such a suggestion when coming from Daisy startled Siana, especially when she added, ‘We could call her Mary Joseph after Jesus’s mamma and papa.’
Hands on hips, Goldie slanted her a superior glance. ‘Don’t you know anything? Jesus’s papa was called God.’
‘Well, we could call your mamma Mary God, then.’
Head to one side, Goldie was clearly considering the idea. Siana tried not to grin. ‘I think that’s a lovely idea, but Mary Matheson might be better, then she’ll have the same name as Goldie.’
Daisy aimed a cool look her way. ‘I want to be called Daisy Matheson then, otherwise it’s not fair.’
Siana hastily gazed at Richard, who’d made a strangled sound in his throat, and now had a suggestion of a smile on his lips. ‘There’s nothing like a child to restore one’s faith in the almighty,’ Richard said, although there was sadness in his tone.
Far too many souls had been harvested of late as far as Siana was concerned. Her glance strayed to the left, where her son’s resting place was marked with a new, bright angel. The Forbes garden was full. Her son, the last of the true Forbes, had taken his place beside his father. Odd how the fenced-off Forbes area had been calculated to the exact number, as if someone had known the dynasty would end with Ashley.
There was no room for Daniel there. He would be alone in death, set apart by his illegitimacy, his envy and intrigues come to nothing. She couldn’t find it in her heart to despise him now. He was ill. She only had room for compassion, despite the horrible crime he’d committed.
With a tiny sigh she wondered where her Francis was. If he were alive, surely he’d be home by now? But she couldn’t imagine him dead and drowned, for every time she tried to believe it she could feel the living thread between them, strong, taut and pulsing with her heartbeat.
And where was Esmé, she thought. Something began to niggle in her head. What if the rumours she’d heard were true? Daniel’s behaviour had been strange of late. She tried to dismiss the thought but, as the prayers proceeded, unease grew in her to such an extent that she knew she could afford to ignore it no longer.
When they reached the church gate, she turned to Josh. ‘I feel uneasy about Esmé not being here. I’m going to stop off at the manor just in case there was any truth in those rumours.’
‘Perhaps you’d allow me to accompany you, Mrs Matheson,’ offered Noah Baines, who was standing nearby, talking to Oswald Slessor. ‘I understand the place has been abandoned by the servants.’
Oswald Slessor had also overheard. ‘You shouldn’t go there alone in case someone has taken advantage of the situation to force an entry.’ That someone being Daniel, she supposed. ‘Perhaps you’d allow me to accompany you, as well. And I’d like to represent you in the other matter.’ His eyes assumed a shamed look. ‘At no charge, of course, since I was wrong about the suitability of Mr Ayres.’
She smiled a little, for a man who could apologize when his pride had been dented was rare. ‘That matter has settled itself, I think, Sir Oswald. The trustees would not dare back his cause now.’
‘In one respect, but I believe you’ll find that the estate capital has been depleted by extravagant expenditures. Mr Ayres has run up certain debts.’
Alarm pricked her. ‘I’m not responsible for Mr Ayres’s debts.’
‘Many of them were charged against the estate, I believe.’
‘And the trustees sanctioned them.’ She drew in a deep breath, but remained calm. It was no use panicking until she knew the worst. ‘Very well, Sir Oswald, you may act on my behalf. My brother’s partner, Giles Dennings, has offered to examine the books and receipts. I’d be grateful if you’d consult with him in this matter. Excuse me for a moment.’ She turned to the Reverend White. ‘I’m so sorry things turned out this way, Reverend.’
‘Daniel isn’t bad, Siana. He’s ill. Esmé told me in confidence that he had tumours growing in his brain. She thought it better not to tell him, or his mother, and intended to nurse him at Cheverton Manor. She wouldn’t have abandoned her husband, whatever the circumstances.’
There was an involuntary, sceptical snort from Noah Baines, but his eyes gave nothing away.
‘I realize Daniel is ill, but we must bear in mind that he’s killed someone, Reverend,’ Siana reminded him as gently as possible. ‘There have been rumours. I hope they are nonsense, but we’re going to Cheverton Manor on the way home to look around. Will you come with us?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll fetch my horse and follow you. It’s a large house to search. By the way, a young man from London has been enquiring about you.’
‘What was his name? Did he say why he wanted to see me?’
‘Sebastian Groves. He seemed a nice young man, but didn’t elaborate. I directed him to Josh at the coach company.’
She wanted to grin as Richard White walked away, thinking it funny that her younger brother was now regarded as head of the household by these men. As if she didn’t have any sense of her own.
The carriage containing the children was sent off home, for Oswald Slessor had offered her the use of his.
They searched barn and stable first. Someone had fed the horses, and they had fresh straw. ‘The stable boy is still here, I imagine,’ Siana told them. ‘He was an orphan and would have had nowhere else to go except the workhouse.’
As they walked towards the house Siana glanced up at the attics. For a moment she was puzzled, then she saw that someone had removed the portrait of Patricia Forbes, Edward’s first wife, from the window. It struck her as an odd thing to do.
Cheverton was a big house. It took over two hours to search Siana’s former home. It was cold and gloomy without the servants, as well as being dirty, bitterly cold and very empty in the main living areas. Liquor bottles and empty glasses littered the drawing room. The grates were full of cold ashes. Dust coated every surface and mouldy food was strewn over the kitchen. Esmé’s room had been ransacked, her clothes thrown about. Her jewellery case stood open and empty.
