Sons and Daughters (7 page)

‘I shall be a soldier,’ the little boy piped up. ‘Like you, Papa.’

Osbert raised his eyebrows as his gaze now shifted to the man sitting at the opposite end of the table.

‘Is that what you were, Mr Thornton?’

Before his father could reply, Georgie spoke up again. ‘He was a colonel in the war, weren’t you, Papa?’

For a moment, Miles’s eyes clouded as he remembered the terrible days of the Great War. He did nothing – at present – to discourage the little boy’s dreams, but he fervently hoped that no son of his would ever have to fight in another war.

‘Yes,’ he replied heavily, ‘I was. But it’s not a time I care to remember.’

‘Quite so,’ Osbert replied stiffly. ‘But now you are the country gentleman? Have you any experience of running a large estate?’

Miles smiled and his eyes crinkled merrily. Like his sons, he hadn’t quite worked out why the invitation to dine at Buckthorn Farm had been so swiftly forthcoming. He’d suspected – though with her absence from the dinner table perhaps he’d been wrong – that the man had designs on him as suitable marriage material for his spinster daughter. Unless, of course, that
was
the case and the girl herself had made her excuses out of embarrassment. If so, Charlotte Crawford went up in his estimation.

Having been devoted to his beautiful and vivacious wife, Miles had no desire to even think of remarrying. Already he’d fended off several designing females and had no wish to be the object of Osbert Crawford’s plans for his daughter.

Answering the older man’s question, Miles shook his head. ‘I come from a family of soldiers and that’s what was expected of both my brother and me.’ For a moment, his face was suddenly bleak. ‘My brother was killed at Ypres in 1915.’

There was a moment’s pause before Osbert asked, ‘But you’ve finished with the army now?’

Now there was a bitter tone to Miles’s voice. ‘Most definitely.’

‘So,’ Osbert leaned back and steepled his fingers together as Edward began to serve the pudding, ‘how do you expect to run the Ravensfleet Estate with little – er – training or knowledge?’

‘Well, as you will know, most of my land is divided up into four farms, three of which are run by tenants, with only Home Farm attached to the manor and left to my tender mercies.’

‘Pah! You can’t trust tenants to farm properly. You should oversee everything they do. Keep your eye on them – all the time. My own foreman – Joe Warren – is a good man. His father, who preceded him in the job, trained him from a young age. I can confidently leave everything to him. Of course, he consults me, but I have great faith in his abilities.’ He waved his hand benevolently. ‘If you have any problems, speak to Warren.’

Miles inclined his head politely but said nothing. Only the tightening of his mouth told his sons of his outrage at Osbert’s superior attitude.

Georgie, spooning pineapple pudding into his eager mouth, broke the tension. ‘I say, this is jolly stuff. We must get Mrs Beddows to make this, Papa.’

Miles Thornton’s mood lifted and he chuckled. ‘You should know, Georgie, that a lot of cooks guard their secrets very jealously. Perhaps Mr Crawford’s cook wouldn’t want to hand out her family recipes.’

Osbert laughed, but it was a humourless sound, sarcastic and with a bitter note. ‘Cook? Mary Morgan?’ Again he laughed but then nodded towards Georgie. ‘But if you like her pudding, my boy, I’ll see she sends the recipe to the manor.’

The boy scraped the spoon on the plate, criss-crossing it until every drop was gone. He stood up and turned towards their host. ‘Thank you for my dinner. Please may I leave the table?’

At least the little rascal has manners, Osbert thought, as he inclined his head giving permission.

Georgie pushed back his chair and marched towards the door, which was opened for him by Edward hovering close by. The young boy beamed up at him. ‘Thank you, Mr Morgan. Which way is it to the kitchen? I want to see Mrs Morgan.’

A perverse pleasure shot through Edward Morgan as he pointed across the hall. Let them find out, he was thinking, just how their precious host treats his own daughter.

‘Now, Georgie,’ his father began, ‘you mustn’t go wandering about the house. It isn’t polite.’

But the child was already skipping across the polished floor of the hall.

‘Stop him, Morgan,’ Osbert bellowed, suddenly realizing that Charlotte was probably still in the kitchen, dressed in her skivvy’s clothes. But the boy paid no heed, and pushed open the door leading directly into the huge kitchen that ran the full width of the house.

Behind him, Edward hid his smile.

Georgie stepped into the kitchen, a ready smile on his face. He glanced around at the three shocked faces. Mary Morgan, Peggy Warren – and Charlotte.

For a brief moment the young boy’s smile wavered. Then it broadened again. ‘Miss Charlotte! You’re feeling better. I’m so glad.’ He went to her and took her hand, gazing up at her. ‘Why didn’t you come to see us? Even if you didn’t feel like eating.’ He grimaced. ‘Headaches can make you feel you don’t want to eat, can’t they? I had one once and I was sick, too. Were you sick, Miss Charlotte?’

Lost for words, Charlotte shook her head. But she put trembling fingers to her forehead. She was about to get a headache for real any moment now.

By the time Georgie had finished chattering to the three women in the kitchen, Osbert had led his guests to the chairs and settee around the fire. Though he was agitated by the young boy’s action – behaviour he firmly believed should have been checked by the over-indulgent father – he managed to steer the conversation towards the news of the day.

Once again, he addressed his remarks to Philip. ‘And what do you make of this threat of a miners’ strike and the call for other unions to follow suit in support?’

‘If it happens, I think they should send the army in to break it up,’ the young man replied at once. ‘They’d be holding the whole country to ransom.’

Osbert’s eyes gleamed. The boy talked sense. Good sense, in his opinion. But it seemed the father was softer.

‘I think,’ Miles said, ‘that you should consider what is being done to the miners and their families before you make such a statement, Philip. They’re trying to reduce their wages and increase their hours of working. Now that doesn’t seem fair to me.’

Philip shrugged as if the folk affected by such an action were of no consequence. Miles frowned, disappointed by his eldest son’s lack of thought for others. It was not how he and his beloved Louisa had brought up their boys. But, as he glanced across at their host, he could see that Osbert delighted in Philip’s reply and said as much.

‘Well said, my boy. Well said.’ He even patted Philip’s shoulder.

At that moment, Georgie returned and sat beside his father. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright and he was strangely subdued.

Miles rose. ‘I think it’s high time this young man was in his bed. Thank you for a most enjoyable evening,’ he said evenly. ‘And for your hospitality. You – and your daughter – must dine with us some time.’

In the motor car on the way home, Georgie sat in the front seat beside his father who was driving.

‘Papa – ’ Georgie was the only one to still call their father by that name. The older boy’s now addressed him as ‘Father’.

‘Yes, Georgie,’ Miles shouted above the noisy engine.

‘You know when I went to the kitchen . . . ?’

Miles tried to hide his amused smile. He knew he should reprimand the boy for having gone there without their host’s permission. But he felt a perverse devilment and said nothing.

‘And you know he told us that Miss Charlotte had a headache . . . ?’

‘Ye-es,’ Miles said slowly, wondering what was coming.

‘Well, she was in the kitchen. Dressed like a maid and doing the washing-up. Now, why do you think that was, Papa?’

‘I don’t know, Georgie,’ Miles said thoughtfully. ‘I really don’t know.’

As he drew the car to a halt in front of the manor, the two boys in the back seat got out. Just before he shut the door with a slam, Philip answered his little brother’s question. ‘Because she’s drab, uninteresting and no better than a maid. No wonder he didn’t want her “gracing” his dinner table.’

Miles and his youngest son stayed where they were, gazing out of the windscreen into the darkness, a thoughtful silence between them.

‘Joe, ya dad’s taken a turn for the worse. Ya’d best fetch the doctor.’

Joe stared at Peggy, his eyes widening. Over Easter his father had seemed much better. He’d even struggled downstairs to join the rest of the family for their Easter Sunday dinner. During the week since then, the old man had stayed in his bedroom. That was nothing unusual so Joe had thought nothing of it. But now, for Peggy to ask for the doctor to be called, it had to be serious.

‘I’ll send our Jackson. He’ll ride like the wind on his bike. D’ya think . . . ?’ His voice trailed away but they continued to stare at each other with serious faces.

Slowly, Peggy nodded and said huskily, ‘’Fraid so, love. He’s got steadily worse this last week.’

The doctor confirmed their fears. ‘His heart’s giving out.’ He put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, lad.’

Dr Markham had been in Ravensfleet since arriving as a newly qualified young doctor. He’d served the small town and the nearby villages, to say nothing of the outlying farms and cottages, for over thirty years. Sprightly and energetic in his mid-fifties, he showed no sign of wanting to retire. A widower for the past five years and his family grown and flown, his patients were his life.

‘What would I do with myself?’ he’d say, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness to the unanswerable question of impending retirement.

He knew all the families around here, had delivered their babies, watched them grow, and seen them leave the world, too. And now one of his oldest friends was about to depart.

‘Something seems to be bothering him.’ Dr Markham eyed both Joe and Peggy quizzically. ‘Do you know what it could be? He’s asking for the vicar.’

Joe and Peggy glanced at each other. ‘I’d guess,’ Joe said slowly, ‘it’s about where he’s to be buried.’

‘Ah, yes. I remember now. Your mother’s not buried here, is she? Taken to – Lincoln, was it?’

Joe nodded slowly, his brow creasing. ‘He – wouldn’t let – any of us go,’ he said haltingly. ‘He reckoned Ma wanted to be with her own folks. She was from near Lincoln. He insisted that only he accompanied her coffin to the interment there.’

‘You had a service in the church here, though, didn’t you? I seem to remember it was somewhere around the same time that poor Alice Crawford died. Didn’t we have two funerals within a couple of days of each other?’

‘That’s right. Mam died two days before Mrs Crawford.’

‘I wasn’t called to Buckthorn Farm when she died so suddenly.’

Joe detected the note of bewilderment, even hurt, in the devoted doctor’s tone, even after all these years. ‘I’d always been the family’s doctor, yet Osbert Crawford chose to call a doctor from Lynthorpe. I never did understand why.’

‘Aye, he’s an odd one, doctor, I don’t mind telling you, even though I work for him. I could never understand why he wouldn’t let any women go to his wife’s funeral. Poor Mary Morgan was heartbroken, so my Peg said at the time.’

‘Ah well,’ Dr Markham shrugged philosophically, ‘ours not to reason why, eh, Joe? Long time ago now. What we’ve to do now is to find out what’s troubling your poor old dad. I’d like to see him go peacefully. Go in and have a word. If it’s Iveson he needs to see, then send for him. But’ – his voice dropped – ‘don’t delay, lad. Don’t delay.’

As the doctor left, Joe and Peggy went upstairs to Harry Warren’s bedroom. The old man had suffered cruelly over several years with arthritis and he was a shrunken, pain-racked shadow of his former self. Now Harry clutched Peggy’s apron with a skeletal hand. ‘Get the vicar,’ he rasped. ‘I need – to speak to him.’

‘I’ll go, Dad,’ Joe answered him. ‘I’ll go this minute. Don’t fret. Lie quietly. I’ll get him.’

Reminded of his mother’s passing by his conversation with the doctor, Joe realized that Harry’s health had deteriorated from that time. Only five years after her death Harry had handed the foreman’s reins to Joe and for the last sixteen years he’d lived the life of an invalid, sitting hunched in his chair by the fire or lying in bed. The only person able to raise a smile, apart from his own grandchildren, had been Miss Charlotte. He’d relished her visits, transported back to happier times in his reminiscing.

Joe touched Peggy’s shoulder lightly as he hurried from the room, murmuring, ‘I won’t be long, love.’

Mr Iveson arrived, his pale, round face solemn, ready to take the dying man’s confession. Though neither he nor many of the locals were of the Catholic faith, he’d already found during his short ministry that the dying often wished to confide in him in their last, frightening moments.

As he sat down beside the bed, Harry, calling on his last reserves of strength, pulled himself up. He waved Joe and Peggy away. ‘Go. This is – private.’

Joe shrugged. ‘We’ll be just downstairs, Vicar, if you need us.’

Cuthbert Iveson nodded and took the old man’s hand in his.