Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [589]
“I don’t drink now,” he said gently.
“That is good.” She smiled. “Thank you for letting me see your farm.”
“Will you come in, miss?”
“Thank you, no. I must return.”
He conducted her to her horse, and with an ease she found almost disconcerting, he stooped, offered his hand for her to rest her foot upon and then lifted her coolly into the saddle.
His side whiskers, she noticed as she was lifted, were a little longer and there was a hint of grey in them that, if he had not been little more than a peasant, would, she thought, have made him look distinguished.
She turned her horse, and began to move away.
It was only as she turned to look back at him, where he was still standing, that she noticed the figure of an old woman, standing by the back door, gazing after her with a kind of scorn.
She rode slowly, meditatively back over the high ground. In the distance there was a line of smoke, and a faint red glow along the ground of fire, where some farmer was burning the stubble rather late.
Jethro Wilson’s children were with a good Methodist farmer at the village of Barford St Martin by Grovely Wood. They gave little trouble, Mason reported, except that sometimes they were rather wild, “and absolute pagans, you know, Miss Shockley. Pagans.” He would shake his large round head. But the money for their keep came regularly from Jethro and the system seemed to be working well.
In the month of November, she almost forgot him; for Uncle Stephen had one of his afflictions – namely a heavy cold which, he assured her, might at any time develop into pneumonia. Even the doctor expressed mild concern on one occasion, so it was necessary for her to be with him continuously when she was not teaching. But by the start of December, both the doctor and her uncle could at last agree that he was recovered.
It was at the start of December that she met Daniel Mason by the entrance to the close.
“Bad news, Miss Shockley. I fear Jethro Wilson must have fallen to drinking again.”
“Why so?”
“The payments for his children have ceased. They were due a week ago and there has been no word from him.”
“Perhaps he is sick.”
“Perhaps. I am trying to get word to him today.”
“There is no need, Mr Mason,” she assured him. “I know his farm and I shall ride over there this afternoon.”
She was glad to get out of the town and clear her head after the month tending Uncle Stephen. It was a bright harsh day, and as she came down into Winterbourne at last, she walked her horse carefully on the slippery street where water had flooded the edge of the little bourne and then frozen.
The farmhouse was not deserted. A thin column of smoke rose from the chimney, but she had to hammer several times upon the door before it was finally answered, not as she had expected by the old woman, but by Jethro himself.
He had not been drinking much: she was sure of that, although she thought she could smell a little gin on his lips. But he had several days’ growth of beard now and his whole appearance was unkempt. His face seemed thinner, and a little wasted. The nurse in her told her that he had not eaten.
“May I come in?”
He motioned her silently towards the parlour.
The fire in its huge brick hearth was low. He had pulled a small wooden chair close to it for greater warmth. The place was not much furnished. On the table in the middle of the room, there was the remains of a loaf baked several days before. There was a single easy chair, covered with a coarse cloth, which he offered her.
“Well, Mr Wilson? Mr Mason sent me about your children.”
He nodded slowly.
“My money’s run out. They’ll have to come back here.”
“With no money?”
He stared at the fire.
“I have a cow to sell. Best price’ll be at the next market. I’ll pay what I owe them and take the children back.” He grimaced. “Not much of a Christmas to offer them.”
“Do you want to sell the cow?”
He looked discouraged. “It’s a loss, miss.”
“Then how will you manage?”
“We get by.”
He turned to face her. It was sad to see the strong figure of a month ago so strained and almost stooped now.
“I