The Stony Path (32 page)

‘Aye, I know what you mean.’

They’d reached the inn at the end of the street, and now Katy came to a halt, forcing Luke to do the same. She paused a moment and then glanced up at him again, her face serious now and her eyes deep black pools as she said, ‘Have . . . have you ever thought of me in that way, Luke? As a lass?’ And then she put her head down immediately, giving a little twist to her body with her arm still through his. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have said that, should I? I’m . . . I’ m sorry. It’s just . . .’

‘No, no, it’s all right.’ His body was burning, and when she raised her head again and he saw her lips were trembling, it seemed natural to lower his head and kiss her. Quite how they came to be in the shadows at the back of the inn a few moments later Luke wasn’t sure, but by then Katy was kissing him back and her arms were tightly round his waist, and the unspoken declaration was done.

Chapter Fourteen

The banns had been called for the third time some weeks before, wedding invitations had been issued and replies received and now the day was here. There was to be a barn dance with refreshments at the farm following the afternoon wedding, and all the arrangements had been left in the very capable hands of Betsy and the farm staff. At one point Frederick had liked the idea of a big tent on the lawn at the back of the farmhouse – he had heard Squire Bentley had done the same when his daughter had married the year before – but in view of the October weather being inclement at best, he had regretfully shelved the notion. Nevertheless, it was to be a grand occasion, with guests invited from near and far, most of whom were unknown to the bride.

Polly had met Luke once since the announcement of the forthcoming marriage, and that had been when he had paid a visit to Stone Farm to personally deliver his thanks for the invitation to the wedding and to say that although he and Arnold would be pleased to accept, he was afraid his stepmother would still be too unwell to attend.

Polly had received him in the sitting room with Frederick at her side and the visit had been a short and tense one. It had been when she had shown Luke to the door and they had been alone for just a minute or two that he had taken her hand, and, as she had looked into his face, said, ‘You want this, Polly? This marriage? You’re absolutely sure you want it?’ and she had replied, her face stiff with the control she was exerting in order not to crumple into tears in front of him, ‘Of course I’m sure, Luke.’

He’d nodded, his face unsmiling. ‘Then I wish you every happiness together,’ he had said politely, letting go of her hand and stepping back a pace before he had turned and opened the heavy oak door and passed through the opening, walking away without once turning to look back.

Why had she felt so devastated after he had left? Polly stared into the pale face looking back at her from the dressing table mirror in the room she had been sharing with her sister since they had all come to live at Stone Farm, and then answered herself immediately with, Because you don’t want him to think ill of you, that’s why. And it doesn’t matter – it really
doesn’t
matter what other people think. You know why you are marrying Frederick and other people can think what they like. Other people except Luke – for some reason his good opinion
did
matter, however much she tried to persuade herself otherwise. But she had to go through with this and she couldn’t explain herself to a soul, not even her granny. But then her granny knew anyway. Polly turned on the upholstered stool and glanced across the wide, pleasantly furnished room to where her wedding dress was hanging on the back of the wardrobe door, surrounded by clouds of chiffon from the veil at the back of it. There was eight yards of satin and silk in the dress and it was a beautiful thing. It had been Frederick’s mother’s, and he had been delighted when she had consented to wear it. It had mattered little to her one way or the other, although she hadn’t said that, of course.

The door to the bedroom opened and Ruth walked in, already resplendent in her pale lemon bridesmaid’s dress with her brown curls arranged high on her head and threaded through with lemon ribbons. No one would guess, looking at her this day, that her sister had had tantrum after tantrum since the wedding had been announced, Polly thought as she looked into the young face smiling at her. Although their mother was behind Ruth’s paddies, of course. Polly couldn’t understand why Hilda had been quite so furious at the prospect of her elder daughter’s marriage – especially when it was the means of installing her back in her old home with all the added little luxuries that entailed – but since the moment her mother had been told, the venom had flowed. Secretly, of course – there had never been a word breathed against the match in public – but Ruth didn’t have the intelligence to hide what went on behind closed doors, and Polly had soon had a good idea of the bitterness and resentment her mother was feeling and, worse, feeding into her younger daughter.

‘How’s Grandda?’ Polly asked softly. She had just sent Ruth to her grandparents’ room to say she would be along shortly, once she was ready. Her grandfather had had one of his turns during the night and even talking was beyond him that morning.

‘All right.’ Ruth admired herself in the mirror, pirouetting round a few times to get the full effect of the billowing skirt. Wait till Cecil Longhurst saw her today! Cecil was the brother of Betsy’s assistant in the kitchen – Emily, the kitchen maid – and as such, Ruth had decided, was far beneath her notice, but the tall, good-looking boy of sixteen was clearly smitten with her, and Ruth was enjoying every moment of her new-found power.

‘You told him I’d pop in before we leave for the church?’

‘Aye, I told him.’ Ruth stopped her spinning and flicked the wedding dress from the back of the wardrobe door, fingering the beads sown on the V of the bodice as she said grudgingly, ‘This is such a beautiful dress, Poll.’

Ruth had envied her a dress once before, and look how that had ended. The thought was like a poisoned dart straight into Polly’s heart, and it took her a full ten seconds to be able to say, ‘Aye, it’s lovely, but I’d have preferred to choose my own,’ as she fought the chill of foreboding that had flickered down her spine.

Once Ruth had helped her to get ready, Polly stood for a moment staring at the fairy-tale figure reflected in the mirror. If things had gone according to plan it would be Michael she was going to meet at the altar today. Her heart jumped with pain at the thought and she put a hand to her breast, her face white. Of course, she wouldn’t be dressed in all this finery; a simple white dress would have been all they would have been able to afford. She shut her eyes for a moment, hating the exquisite stranger in the mirror.
Michael, oh, Michael
. Where are you? Do you think of me? Do you feel it when I cry out to you? Please don’t forget me, because I won’t forget you. She tried to picture his face in her mind, but already the image was blurring, and that caused more pain.

‘You feeling all right, Poll?’

She opened her eyes quickly, forcing a smile to bleached lips. ‘Bit nervous, that’s all,’ she lied quietly. ‘Let’s go and see Grandda.’

Walter’s eyes were waiting for his granddaughter, his precious bairn as he thought of her, and when the door opened and he saw her he thought his heart would break. Alice was sitting at the side of the bed, her hand grasping his resting on the coverlet, and as he felt his wife’s fingers jerk and tighten he knew she was experiencing the same sense of bitter shame and guilt he felt. He was sick at heart that his bairn had sacrificed herself to save them, and whatever Alice said, however she tried to explain away this marriage to a man old enough to be Polly’s father, that was what it amounted to. He had been a fool, a stubborn fool. He should have sold the farm years ago, when he would still have got a fair amount for it. Never mind it had been in his family for generations, or that town life would have slowly strangled him; what did that matter beside Polly having to do this to keep them out of the workhouse? First Michael and now this – how the lass was still standing, he didn’t know.

‘Hallo, Grandda.’ Polly had pulled at her cheeks and bitten her lips before she had entered the room, trying to put a little colour into her chalk-white face, and now she forced a bright smile to her lips and a lilt into her voice as she walked across to the bed, the fine dress swishing and rustling as she moved. She had read what was in the old man’s eyes – it had been the same thing that had been there for weeks but had never been spoken of – and all she wanted to do was to alleviate his despair. ‘I wish you were coming to the church.’ She included her grandmother in the words before turning again to the still figure in the bed, and now she took her grandfather’s other hand and stroked the big gnarled knuckles gently, pausing on the finger that had been broken years before and was now slightly twisted under.

‘Remember when you saved me from the bull we’d hired to service the cows, Grandda?’ Her voice was soft and she kept her eyes on the large hand between her own. ‘You’d warned me and Ruth to stay with Gran in the house until the men came to collect him, but I wanted to see what he was like for myself and so I went into the paddock. When I started to scream you ran from the barn and got in front of me just as he charged, and he knocked you to the floor and trod on your hand. Everyone said it was a wonder he didn’t kill you, but you couldn’t use your hand properly for months and this finger never did heal right. You remember?’

She raised her eyes now and looked into her grandfather’s, and the look which passed between them made the tears spurt from Alice’s eyes.

‘I cried and cried until I made myself sick because I was so sorry you had been hurt because of me, and you came up to my room later that night. You said . . . you said it didn’t matter, that you loved me so much you’d tackle a hundred bulls and win if they dared to attack me because the important thing – all that mattered – was that we were still together at the end of the day. You wouldn’t be able to bear it without me, you said.’ Polly’s spirit was shining out from her eyes now, everything in her wanting to absolve her grandfather from this agony of mind that was making him more ill. ‘That’s how I feel, Grandda,’ she said quietly, ‘about you and Gran. All that matters is that we are together, because I wouldn’t be able to bear it if we weren’t.’ And now she called on all her strength to lie convincingly as she said, ‘I want to marry Frederick, Grandda. I love farm life, you know I do, and with Michael gone I want to make a fresh start, but I couldn’t bear it if you and Gran weren’t with me. Please be happy for me.’

The tears were running down Walter’s cheeks and into his whiskers now, and she rested her head against his for a moment, careless of her veil, before raising his hand to her lips and kissing the twisted finger. Then she stepped back from the bed. ‘I’ll come straight up to you and Gran once we’re back, all right?’

‘All right, me lass.’ It was a slow, tortured whisper from labouring lungs, but the old man’s face was more at peace than when Polly had come into the room, and as far as she was concerned it made what was to follow bearable.

They came out of the small parish church to a hail of rice, the sound of the bell-ringers working themselves into a frenzy, and shouted congratulations from what appeared to Polly’s dazed mind to be hundreds of people.

The October day was a sunny one and unseasonably mild, but when Frederick took Polly’s hand to help her up into the flower-bedecked horse and carriage, he found it to be icy.

She was married.

Polly glanced at the big, jolly figure seated next to her as they waved at everyone before the uniformed driver clicked to the horse. This was her husband. She was now Mrs Frederick Weatherburn, and Polly Farrow had gone forever. She continued to tell herself the same thing all the way back to Stone Farm as she endeavoured to take it in.

Once back at the farm Betsy – after offering her congratulations – took another look at her new mistress and said firmly, ‘It’s frozen you are. Come away in the house while the rest of ’em arrive an’ have a sup, won’t you. Everythin’s ready in the barn, an’ once everyone’s seated you an’ the master can go in an’ we’ll start servin’.’

‘Aye, that’s a good idea. You go and warm up, lass, and I’ll just have a word with Croft about the beer barrel,’ said Frederick heartily.

Polly looked at him. He had kissed her – once – in the church after the pronouncement that they were man and wife, and it had been neither pleasant nor unpleasant, merely a pressing of his lips against her closed ones. During the drive home he had rubbed her cold hands between his a few times and talked about who had been present at the ceremony and other such niceties, but he had made no attempt to kiss her again, for which she had been grateful. But later tonight . . .

She shivered convulsively, and Betsy said again, ‘Come on, Miss Polly—’ before stopping abruptly and giving a little giggle. ‘Oh, I can’t call you that no more, can I, miss!’

‘Mrs Weatherburn is your mistress, Betsy, and must be addressed as such.’ Frederick’s voice was faintly reproving, although he was smiling.

Betsy’s face lost its smile and she bobbed her head quickly. Always on his high horse about something, he was. ‘I’ll bring you a hot drink in the sitting room, ma’am,’ she said flatly now.

Ma’am? Oh no, there was no way she could stand that, but over the last weeks Frederick had made it very plain he expected her to be aware of her position in his household. Nevertheless, ‘ma’am’ would drive her mad! Polly smiled into the plump face of the housekeeper as she said, ‘I think I would like to be called missus, Betsy, as that’s what I am now. Mistress or ma’am doesn’t sit right.’