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Leah Fleming was born in Lancashire and is married with three sons and a daughter. She writes from an old farmhouse in the Yorkshire Dales and an olive grove in Crete.

Also by Leah Fleming

The Girl from World’s End

The War Widows

Orphans of War

Mothers and Daughters

Remembrance Day

Winter’s Children

The Captain’s Daughter

The Girl Under the Olive Tree

The Postcard

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015
A CBS COMPANY

Copyright © Leah Fleming, 2015

Extract from The Postcard copyright © Leah Fleming, 2014
Extract from The Last Pearl copyright © Leah Fleming, 2015

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

The right of Leah Fleming to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-47114-102-7

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE LADY IN THE VEIL

CONTENTS

2012. YEWBANK HOUSE

1. 1850

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

2012

2012

YEWBANK HOUSE

I found the photograph album by chance when we were clearing out the old coach house. It must have been sitting on the garage shelf for years among all the family rejects consigned to this glory hole.

At first I thought it was just a family Bible, the sort the Victorians furnished for their parlours with names and dates at the front. I hoped it might help my current mania for researching the history of Yewbank House, but no such luck.

There was so much de-cluttering to do before the architect came to discuss turning the stone buildings into a holiday let. As usual, only Bill and I had turned up to see to the clearing up. Stockdales were always hoarders, I thought, as I sifted through the suitcases full of musty books and papers. The farmhouse was big enough to shift stuff from parlour to attic or cellar, cellar to coach house but as this was now our new home I wanted everything out and sorted.

It must have been at the weekend when Bill and I sat down with the books and the Bible by the fire. ‘You’re not throwing that out!’ my husband laughed.

I realized it was a fine piece of Victorian tooled leather and gilt work with a gilded clasp opening up into a huge thick album full of photographs of beautiful Yorkshire Dales scenery, hay timing in the fields, the house during renovations, horse and carriages. These pictures were works of art. There were later sepia portraits of ladies with parasols sitting by the front portico, children in ringlets and tartan dresses and I could see at once the genetic inheritance: those strong brows, high cheekbones and ruddy country faces of the Stockdale clan. I looked at Bill and laughed. ‘Easy to see who this lot belongs to. Do you know any of them?’

He turned over the pages slowly. ‘That must be my great-grandpa as a baby, judging by the date. But what the heck is this?’

We stared in shock at the toddler sitting in the lap of its mother or at least someone holding him, draped from head to toe in a cotton lace curtain or something, completely enveloped and unrecognizable.

‘That’s weird,’ I answered. ‘How bizarre . . . who would take a photo like that? Is she a corpse?’ I had heard that infants were often photographed on their deathbeds, but a mother concealed under lace? I dropped the photo quickly. ‘Put it away!’

When Bill left the room I found myself strangely drawn to take a second closer look at this portrait. I noticed her ladylike fingers clutching the child as it sat looking puzzled at the camera. The baby was sunk into her groin, relaxed, almost smiling. This was no dead infant and the hand that held it was firm and alive. It was then I noticed another faded hand to the left of the hidden mother reaching out to steady the both of them. This was not a female hand with its broader palm like a spade. I sensed a muscular grip on the child’s shoulder, but why was he also cut out?

Who were they? Why was this photograph loose, not fixed like the others and what had it got to do with Bill’s family? Why had his gran never shown the album to anyone? Those early landscapes were skilled, taken by a man with an eye for beauty, which made this portrait all the more strange. Who was left now to answer all these questions? It was going to be up to me to find out more about these lost relatives of Yewbank House.

I turned the photo round, hoping for some clue. In a spidery hand was written: my father, William Albert Dacre Stockdale. Nothing more; but who was the lady in the veil?

1

1850

‘Last one to the stone cross is a sissy!’ yelled William Dacre as he spurred his horse past his sister.

‘Wait for me, that’s not fair!’ Mirabel Dacre shouted, not so easily shaken off, especially as she’d ditched the side-saddle in favour of a proper saddle, her riding habit daringly hitched up. Why should boys have all the fun? They were racing along the ridgeway on top of the Yorkshire moor looking down into the valley where the silver river snaked past the gardens of their residence, Lawton Hall.

Will was home from his boarding school. There was always good-natured rivalry between them, being just a year apart, while their younger sister, Eliza, stayed indoors, believing it was unsafe to venture out onto the hills.

Someone had to keep an eye on Papa when he was in one of his black moods. Ever since their dear mama died in childbirth, he had ignored his other children in favour of business activities: the mills, the district bank, the Assizes. Sir Barnett Dacre was renowned for his involvement in Dales affairs. Mirabel knew he didn’t care what they got up to as long as they kept out of sight.

Will was racing ahead faster and faster on Hector while she was lagging behind, but not for long. She kicked hard and bent her head into the wind to chase after him, breathless, her determined jaw set for victory, her ringlets whipping her cheeks. Her eye was on the stone cross by the finger post at the crossroads from Skelsby to Dallingford. Then to her horror she saw a wild deer leap over a stone wall in Will’s path. Hector reared up catching the deer, flinging it aside but Will was thrown right over the horse’s head and into the stone cross.

‘Will!’ Mirabel screamed, screeching to a halt, leaping down from the saddle with difficulty, seeing him lying prostrate on the bridle path not moving.

‘Will! Wake up!’ She lifted his head onto her lap. He was breathing but was fast asleep and she felt helpless to know what to do next. The deer lay on the ground wounded. Hector had dashed off. Suddenly the sky glowered over then; the moors empty of carts or coaches. Only sheep grazed curiously. ‘Oh Lord, what do I do now?’ she cried into the wind. ‘Please help us.’

Matt Stockdale was busy setting up his tripod to catch the light before the sun descended behind the hidden gill. Ever since he had read Mr Fox Talbot’s book, The Pencil of Nature, that told him how to capture images on paper by the action of light, he was hooked on the new art of Photography. He had even made his own equipment for outdoors work. His late father had thought it was queer to want to steal pictures from the sunlight. ‘Nowt’ll come of it. Don’t waste yer brass, lad.’ But Matt knew better and the discussions at Skelsby’s Men’s Forum agreed that photography was a new science. Even the Queen had herself portrayed by light.

As a grammar school boy, he had had some chemical lessons, but he had to leave school to help his mother on the farm when his father died suddenly. Yewbank was a hard taskmaster and with only a yard boy and dairymaids, he was in charge of hundreds of sheep roaming on the fells. It was the life he was born to and they owned a stretch of moorland thanks to the dedication of his Stockdale ancestors who fought off the land-grabbing Dacres for centuries.

He wanted to capture the waterfall in the rocky gill where the stream cascaded down the ravine in such force. He had even brought his own dark cabinet to process his plates quickly. It was an expensive hobby for a Dales farmer but Matt was careful and made what he could himself. He had brought the cart to bring back some good stones for walling later. Work first, then pleasure, he smiled to himself. It was then that he heard the scream carried over the wind but it often played tricks on him so he stopped. There it was again, not the screech of a bird but a woman’s cry. Someone was in trouble. He left his equipment safe by the stone wall and took the cart in the direction of the cry. It was getting louder as he approached the four lane ends.

‘Hey up, I’m coming!’ he yelled. There was a horse grazing and a deer on its side already dead and at the crossroads sat a girl sobbing with a man in her lap.

‘You have to help us,’ she whimpered. ‘My brother fell off his horse and he won’t wake up’. She was stroking his fair hair as she stared up at him.

All Matt could see was a pair of blue eyes with tears rolling down her cheeks but he knew the face of the Squire’s daughter and her brother. By the looks of him he lay half dead with not a mark on him.

‘Give him here, Miss,’ he spoke gently as to a child. ‘We’ll lay him down in my cart and take him home.’

‘Oh thank you. My father will be so grateful. Master William is his only son, if anything should happen to him . . . Oh do be careful. Wake up, Will . . . Why won’t he wake up?’

‘Happen he’s knocked hissen out. Not to worry, Miss. We’ll take him back to Lawton straight away.’

‘You know who we are then?’

‘Of course, I see you in St Peter’s church now and then. Come on, give me a hand. You can rest him on you.’

She smiled. ‘How can we thank you? How would we survive if you hadn’t come?’

‘You’ve got a good pair o’ lungs on you, I’ll say that, Miss. I heard you a mile off.’

Matt lifted the youngster gently, aware that there were stones to be chucked out and the cart smelt like a midden. The girl didn’t notice, being so taken up with her brother. She looked a bit of a sight with her hat awry and her hair dishevelled but she was the most beautiful lass he’d ever set eyes on.

‘Oh do hurry up!’ she ordered.

‘Hold on! We must go gentle. His ribs might be cracked. Sorry, Miss Dacre, but slow is best for him.’

‘And who must we thank for rescuing us?’ she replied.

He turned to reply. ‘Matt Stockdale, Matthias Stockdale of Yewbank Farm up on the tops. I was out collecting stone.’ He didn’t tell her the real reason for his expedition. He just hoped it wouldn’t rain on his precious equipment and that his covers were waterproof.

They drew closer to the bridge across to Lawton and he saw the golden stone house with its ancient peel tower. The girl leapt off the cart unladylike, racing across the garden lawn to raise the alarm. ‘Fetch Papa! Fetch the doctor!’ she yelled as servants emerged from the kitchen yard and stables.

He had never been through the front entrance of the hall before. Farmers always came to the tradesmen’s gate out of sight of the Dacres. The boy was lifted from the cart into waiting hands. No one returned to speak to him so he turned the cart round and headed uphill. His job was done but he wondered just how bad young Master William’s injuries were. Doubtless he’d get news one way or another. All he could see were those bright blue eyes the colour of forget-me-nots , staring up at him with such gratitude. And he hoped he would see Miss Dacre again.

2

Lawton was a house of mourning even though no one wore black. The summer had ended on a bitter note. No one spoke of the accident and yet the events of that fateful day clung about them like a heavy mist of sadness. William slept for many weeks and when he woke he did nothing but gibber and drool. The heir to the Dacre estate had lost his senses and was assigned to a special asylum in York under his Aunt’s supervision.

Mirabel was distraught, blaming herself for racing him that day. Her Papa was angry that no doctor could bring his son back to his old self. Once Will was sent away with Aunt Lydia his name was never mentioned in Papa’s hearing. Will’s room was emptied of his clothes and belongings as if he had never lived. The groom was dismissed in disgrace, Aunt Lydia took herself back to York and Papa sat in his study with the door shut admitting no one.

Mirabel’s sister, Eliza, picked up her sampler as usual and spent hours at her needlework, burying her head in her linen, never wanting to go for walks or ride their ponies or do anything out of doors. She’d never liked being alone and followed Mirabel around the house like a frightened lap dog.

Sometimes she woke up screaming for her brother, ‘Wake him up, Bella, wake him up!’ Eliza had started using baby talk which Mirabel found annoying.

In the days after the accident her only pleasure was to put on her riding habit, saddle up her fine pony, Mercury, and ride across the fields racing away from her chaperone, astride her horse like a boy. She galloped across the high fields, hair flying from under her tall hat, flushed with exhilaration, chasing the wind. Here she could forget all the troubles that were waiting in the house down below.

She loved the open fells and the warmth of her body on the straining pony. He was a friend who would never let her down. Eliza was no fun. Everyone thought they were twins but she was the eldest by a year, stronger and more wilful. She could always bend Eliza to her schemes, though not to go riding out of doors.

They knew William was always Papa’s favourite and now he was taken to York to be nursed away from prying eyes. Papa hid his distress once more by being too busy to bother with them. There was the Mill to oversee and he was a partner in some new District Bank. He hunted and soon she would join them. The two girls had attended a little seminary in Skelsby but Mirabel hated all that singing and sewing and sitting around. There were no girls of her class to visit, just Eliza for company on the long dark evenings when they sat in the drawing room waiting for Papa to put in an appearance but he never did, waiting for Aunt Lydia to write them a long letter which never came. The servants had more fun and games in the village than they did, she thought, as she raced across the fells.

Taking the high bridleway path uphill today was no accident, for she knew it was time to make a formal visit to the farm of the young man who had rescued them. Yewbank was high on the windswept moor, she was told, with a great view of the district. The Dacres had nothing to do with the Stockdales even though they were landowners not tenants, but this must be an exception. A lady must show her gratitude.

She followed the track and dismounted at the open gate leading to the ancient stone farmhouse with all the pungent smells of a busy farmyard. The farm boy doffed his cap at her presence and the dairymaids curtseyed as she waited on the doorstep while a maid rushed in to warn the lady of the house of her unexpected arrival. She could sense the flurry of tidying and clearing away before she would be shown into their best room.

Mirabel often went with her Aunt to the low beamed stone cottar houses to dole out alms and baskets of fruit and cakes. She had learned not to turn her nose up at the rough smells assaulting her nostrils but she had never been on a working farm before: not one so high up the hill with such wonderful views over the valley. It had a better aspect than Lawton Hall, which nestled closer to the river and was darker facing south and east.

‘Come in, Come in! To what do we owe this honour?’ smiled the farmer’s wife in a fluster of welcome, straightening her mob cap and curtseying. She had a pleasant round face and cloudy blue eyes. ‘I will mash a dish of tea and there are fat rascals straight off the griddle.’

Aunt Lydia trained them always to take a bite and a sip but no more for they might deprive poor children of their supper but here was such a pile of baking, bread and fancies on cream china plates. There was a wall dresser full of pewter plates and a wall clock ticking away. Everything sparkled in the firelight. The fire in the chimney blazed with such ferocity that she could feel the heat warming her through. Then the son came through the door as if he had been running, startled by her presence, tall and fair like his mother who clucked around him like a mother hen. There was a different warmth here, more like the chatter in the servants hall before it fell silent when she walked in unannounced.

‘We don’t get much company passing the door, just pedlars and bog trotters but this is an honour, Miss Dacre.’

‘I came to thank your son for coming to our aid so promptly. On behalf of my father and sister I would like to express our sincere gratitude,’ Mirabel replied, sipping the tea and biting into the spicy cake and kept on nibbling until it was all gone, not a crumb.

‘Any Christian soul would do as I done,’ the farmer replied. ‘I hope your brother is fully recovered.’

‘He has gone for a rest cure in York.’ She blushed at this lie but the truth was too painful to share with strangers.

‘Then all is well and that’s what I like to see, a hearty appetite. Have another,’ said the old lady offering the plate again but Mirabel declined.

‘I must be on my way before the light goes.’

‘Matt and I will escort you back part way. It is only proper,’ the mother said, reaching for her cloak hanging on the hook at the back of the door.

They walked slowly to her tethered horse at first with an awkward silence but then Mirabel lingered while the son opened the gate, bowing his head looking at her through the side of his eye. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘Thank you for working so close by.’

‘Not exactly, Miss Dacre. I was experimenting . . .’

‘Experimenting?’ He’d caught her interest.

‘I were trying to get an image of Gunnerside Foss on paper.’

‘You were taking a photograph, really?’ She had seen likenesses in silver frames of local bigwigs.

‘It’s a particular interest of mine. I have a camera and saving for a stereoscope . . . It’s not easy to catch spray on moving water.’

Mirabel was surprised. He did not sound like an educated man but there was a sparkle in his eyes as he was talking about his ideas. ‘Where did you learn all this? In London there are special studios for portraits, I’m told.’

‘Only from books and lectures. If conditions are right you can photograph anything, mountains, animals, streams and people of course,’ he paused, staring at her. ‘You would make a very good subject for a portrait.’

Mirabel felt her cheeks flushing as he examined her face in all seriousness. ‘But Eliza and I have our likeness painted in oils.’

‘Of course, forgive my boldness. It was just an idle comment.’

‘No, no, you’ve given me an idea. If Papa will agree, we could make something to give William in his hospital to remind him of us all.’ She paused, knowing she must not give his true condition away.

‘Ah, then you will want a proper photographer for indoor portraits with lights.’

‘No, no, William will want to see Hector, his horse recovered among the hills. It has to be out of doors. Will you help us?’

‘I’d be right honoured.’ It was his turn to blush. ‘Miss Dacre wants me to take a likeness of a horse, Mother.’

‘Oh aye,’ his mother replied, smiling. ‘That’ll be grand.’

‘I shall send word when it is convenient and you will send us a bill when it is complete,’ Mirabel said, turning her horse down towards the track, pleased that she’d come up with such a brilliant idea and glad she’d be seeing Matt Stockdale again.

3

In the days that followed, Matt wondered if he had dreamed the girl’s visit but his Mother kept going over every detail of Mirabel’s fine appearance, the cut of her riding jacket, the quality of the woollen skirt and her dainty leather gloves. How tall she was for a youngster whose poor Mother had passed away only a few years ago and whose brother lay crippled and injured in the head. The servants had already spread the gossip up the dale how the Master’s heir was bereft of his senses, unable to walk and how the girls must now be heirs and be brought out to make fine marriages. He felt proud that she was defending her family by pretending he was almost recovered.

‘She’s a real little lady is that one,’ she sighed. ‘You did well to rescue her.’

It was a windswept afternoon when Mirabel rode sidesaddle on Hector up the steep slope, his coat as glossy as jet in the sunlight. She had sent a note for them to meet at the crossroads. Matt guessed she would dread seeing that cursed place again but it must look like an accidental meeting. He was waiting, dressed in his Sunday tweeds and riding breeches, looking as fine a gentleman’s farmer as he could muster. They rode in silence to a path leading to a wooded glade where the old oak trees arched over making a frame for the horse and rider photograph. Miss Dacre paused to dismount.

‘No, stay on. You must be in the frame too. Then your brother can see you both,’ he offered.

‘Just the horse. You can take one of me later, if you like.’

Who was he to argue? He had chosen the spot with care, checked the light, brought his tripod and equipment beforehand. Everything must be perfect. He couldn’t wait to take her portrait, a souvenir of this momentous day. Matt was satisfied with the angle of his pose. Hector was calm and curious and he knew one plate would come out well enough.

‘Please place yourself by the big tree,’ he asked his model. ‘That’s right, lean back and look at me. Don’t stiffen, be yourself . That’s better . . . I like that.’ He wondered how he dared to speak to her like this, but he was in charge here and he wanted to capture that special stare he was getting to know so well.

‘I can’t wait to see them. Eliza, my sister, wouldn’t believe me when I told her how light can paint pictures too, better than any artist.’

All too soon the light shifted as shadows drifted across the path, the session was at an end but neither of them was in a hurry to return. ‘Bring them as soon as you can,’ Mirabel said. ‘I’m sure Papa will love to see them too but I must go or I will be missed. This will be our surprise for now,’ she smiled and her face lit up.

He waved her away and rushed back to Yewbank to do his chores, knowing he would spend the evening in his makeshift dark room developing those images to his satisfaction. He stayed up half the night. The horse had come out well enough but it was Miss Dacre’s face that took his breath away. She looked so composed, her eyes looking into the far distance with a dream-like quality.

He knew he was already deeply in love with her beauty, her stillness, her courage. To have this permanent image of that wonderful afternoon was almost too much to bear.

Oh yes, he knew in his heart she was far above him in her station but a man could dream, couldn’t he? There must be some way he could raise himself to be worthy of her hand but first he must fulfil his promise and deliver the photographs to her. He would have that copy for himself. This was to be their secret and for a second he didn’t want to share these images with anyone but her alone. Once they were delivered how could he ever meet up with her again?

One Saturday afternoon he prepared to visit the Hall with his plates. They had made no firm arrangement about delivery but he hoped she was eager to see them. At first his steps were bold and fast in the descent to Lawton and then he strolled through the village past the lychgate of St Peter’s church. He dawdled over the river bridge in the direction of Lawton Hall, not sure which entrance to take through the arched gate. Would he catch a glimpse of Miss Dacre? One glance told him the stable yard and paths were not swept as well as their own yards. A groom came out to greet him.

‘Now then, young Stockdale, what brings ’ee down these parts? Come a courtin’ Ellin Bargh in the kitchen?’ he laughed.

‘No,’ Matt blushed. ‘I’ve got a delivery for Miss Dacre,’ he stuttered.

‘Have you indeed? We’ll see about that. And what might your business be?’

‘It’s private. She will want to see me,’ he added, not sure now how to proceed.

‘Oh, I’m sure Miss Mirabel will want to see the likes of you farmers’ lads . . .’ the groom roared. ‘Hey up, lads! Young Matt has come a-courtin’ the Squire’s daughter. He must be moon struck. It’s all that fresh air . . .’

The men stood around gawping at him and Matt wanted to flee from their teasing. He was wrong to have come without an appointment, making a fool of himself. He turned to go just as Mirabel trotted into the yard from her ride. There was a scurry of attention to horse and rider but Matt bent his head and rode away.

‘Mr Stockdale!’ she raced after him, waving her whip at the groom to get out of the way. ‘I thought it was you.’

‘I’ll be off, Miss. Sorry to trouble you. I can see this is not a good time to call.’

‘Nonsense, wait . . . Did you bring them? The pictures . . . did they come out?’ she drew aside him whispering, her eyes burning into him with interest.

His heart leapt that he was acknowledged. ‘It’s hidden in this parcel,’ he smiled patting his long jerkin.

‘We can’t open them here,’ she whispered. ‘But wait under the river bridge on the path. I’ll change and say I’m walking down to collect berries or something. Meet you there,’ she ordered and left him standing.

The men were watching them but then Mirabel barked at them to get on with their jobs and he was forgotten.

They stood together under the stone arch as he pulled out the plates for her to inspect from a linen pouch. ‘Do you like them?’ he said watching her face flushing as she examined the images.

‘They’re good. You’ve captured old Hector,’ she offered.

‘Aye, but look on yon one of you. It’s got something too. Your father will frame this.’

‘He’s not to know about this. He won’t approve of me riding out alone after what happened. The horse, perhaps. This has to be our secret. I think we can be friends. You can call me Miss Mirabel, if you like.’ She gave him that stare that turned his insides to mush.

‘You can call me just Matt,’ he replied.

‘Thank you for the photographs. We will reimburse all your expenses. It’s been such a hard time for us these past years and now there’s no one to take my brother’s place.’

He sat listening to all her worries. How Eliza was always sickening and her father drank too much each evening. How the staff took advantage of him. Her world was so different from his own farm life. How he longed to be her equal, to ride and jump for pleasure not necessity, to eat fine foods the likes of which he’d never see in his lifetime, pineapples, melons and other fancy fare.

He told her how he wanted to build up their breeding cattle and make Yewbank the biggest and the best farmstead in the district. How his mother’s eyesight was failing.

‘We shall be going to stay with Aunt Lydia soon so she can bring us out,’ she added.

‘Out where?’ he asked.

‘Out into society to make a good marriage, silly,’ she laughed.

Her words brought a chill into his heart that soon their worlds would separate for ever. He was just a country bumpkin, a distraction to be picked up and dropped. As he rode back that afternoon, he felt a rage inside him that there was no equality in this world. Only under Christ were they all equal but even when Mirabel Dacre was in church, she sat shielded by a tall oak pew with their own side entrance away from the rest of the congregation. It wasn’t fair. As he muttered to himself he heard his late father’s voice ranting in his head.

‘Then make thyself her equal, laddie. Learn thy letters and make of thesen summat more than nowt!’

He turned round expecting to see him riding behind him but there was no one in sight. How strange, he thought but his pace quickened at the words. The Stockdales of Yewbank bowed to no man but their Maker, his father once said. Well, he would show her and all the Dacres that he was worthy to be her suitor one day, not her secret amusement.

From that afternoon on, Matt Stockdale was a driven man. One day he would make Miss Mirabel not just his friend, his comforter but his bride. How or when, he had no idea but as the voice said, first he must make summat of himself in the district. Then the rest would surely follow.

Aunt Lydia’s invitation to attend a young ladies’ seminary in York had thrown the sisters into disarray causing Eliza to dissolve into fits of weeping and making herself sick.

‘Don’t ask me to go away, Papa. Why can’t we stay here for ever? I hate going out of doors. It makes me feel sick. When I see the sky, I can’t breathe, my chest tightens so and I have such a pain. Let Bella go and I will look after you,’ Eliza pleaded.

‘You’ll do as you’re told, ‘Papa ranted at her. ‘How else will I ever get you both off my hands? Girls are expensive to marry off. The sooner we start, the sooner your aunt will find you husbands to pay for all your frills and fol-de-rols. There’s no one here rich enough even to keep you in ribbons.’ How Papa ranted and raved about the output of the Mill and the cost of wages and new machines.

Mirabel thought a change of scene might widen her own horizons. They could give Will his photograph in person. She still hadn’t told Papa about her jaunt onto the moors with the Stockdale farmer nor had he sent a bill to them. She had caught Stockdale hovering in the churchyard and knew he was staring at her with interest. He was pleasing to the eye but his voice grated on her ears. Father would be horrified to know she’d confided in him. How dare Mr Stockdale presume she could acknowledge him in public. She was gentry and quality and above such a thing.

Yet the thought of not riding Mercury over the hills did not bear thinking about. But Aunt Lydia promised that they would visit William and buy some new dresses and meet suitable young people in York. Time would fly by and soon they would return back to Lawton. A whole new life was opening up for them and she ought to be delighted. The fact that she was not puzzled her.

4

The change in young Matt did not go unnoticed. His mother noticed the small things at first, commenting how he washed more often at the pump, how his head was always stuck in a borrowed book . . .

‘What’s gotten into thee, lad?’ Mother snapped. ‘You’ve got ants in thy pants.’

‘Don’t talk old fashioned, Mother,’ Matt would reply.

‘I’ll talk how I like, young man. It were good enough for thee when tha’ were a lad so what’s up with it now,’ she blazed and he felt mean-hearted to draw attention to her homespun talk.

‘Things are changing, the old wars are over. There’s money to be made in these hills if you know how to go about it. I hear the cities are crying out for coal and copper, lead and lime off the land. I am thinking of opening up a seam or two. There’s more to farming than sheep and cows.’

He stood there in the prime of his life, tall, broad-shouldered and handsome in the Stockdale sort of way.

‘It’s about time you found a wife to keep your feet on the ground,’ Mother answered. ‘And what’s all this talk of you going to St Peter’s of a morning worship? Is it to see if those two Dacre girls are back from their wanderings? Is this what ’tis all about?’ she laughed and seeing him go scarlet. ‘Mercy preserve us, don’t go looking in that direction, Matt. Yer getting above thesen.’

The spies had been out and about and someone had seen him in the back pew of the church ogling the Squire’s boxed pew for signs of the girls’ return. He had caught a brief glimpse of Mirabel once, walking out through the side door, erect and proud, not mincing or hesitant like the other sister. It was she who had taken his eye and he would not be dissuaded from this lonely wooing path.

The two sisters were as alike as two thoroughbred fillies in their velvet jackets and big bonnets, dressed as close to town fashion as to make all the other village girls look lumpen in their homespun cloaks. He had perused the pews hoping some spark of passion might be aroused by one of the village maids but there was none. Mirabel was a vision of beauty, dazzling all others out of his fancy.

Matt had an eye for a good form, straight limbs and shiny coat on a horse, a thick rump on his fat stock, refined furnishings and the garments of quality that he saw in the shop windows of Skelsby. His eye recognized good texture and form and Miss Dacre was quality.

There was spirit in her gait and boldness in her eye even if she didn’t look at the road he was on or recognize who he was when she drove past him in the street. She was to him a strange mixture of wildness and calm like a summer’s day brewing a storm.

He must make a fortune and fast, raise his standing in the district if there was to be any hope of wooing her. To wed a Dacre was aiming higher than most would have dared but he meant to prove that his stock was rising. He would have none other than she. To achieve this would mean a long and hard campaign but he was no shirker from hard graft so he set himself the goal of making the most of every penny he earned to improve his income, his profit and his land. No more expensive photographic equipment until he could easily afford it. His mother stood back and watched his efforts with wonder and not a little fear.

To this end he made himself available to the parish worthies for any duty no one else wanted to take on. He attended meetings when others gave back-word. Matt Stockdale was a by-word for reliability. He took dancing lessons secretly in the town but however nimble his footwork was in the cotillion steps there was no entrée into the hallowed portals of Lawton Hall Assemblies.

When the sisters were in residence he made sure that he was busy close by. There was a rhythm to their charitable expeditions into the village that wasn’t hard to gauge. He took note when they rode abroad, making sure he wore his best jacket and waistcoat and brown hat, hoping for another chance to rescue Mirabel but none ever came. Let no one say he hadn’t a fine leg for a boot.

Of course he guessed that the sisters were intended to marry well and secure moneys for the estate whose walls were not in as fine a fettle as his own. That was always a give-away as to how well managed and prosperous a man’s land was. There were rumours that Sir Barnett had expensive tastes in thoroughbreds and racing and his vintner’s bills went unpaid, and shopkeepers in Skelsby despaired when fresh orders were demanded for Lawton. Rumours of that sort of shortfall galloped up the dale and into the cattle marts. The Dacres were now not so high and mighty as they would like to think, not among the locals. Perhaps there was hope.

At Christmas he made an excuse to visit the house on parish business but still had to go first to the back entrance, not the front porch. He hovered around hoping for a glimpse of the girls but of course there was none. Then the freezing weather came and dew ponds and mill pond iced up and everyone took to the ice for fun, careering around arm in arm. He hovered out of sight, watching Mirabel skating while her sister sat on the bank with her hands in her muff. If only he could have dazzled her with his prowess but he was hopeless on blades.

Sometimes Matt thought he caught her staring in his direction but that was all. He hoped he cut a dash in his corduroy jacket and worsted britches, his boots polished to glass. His mirror told him that his figure was lean and long limbed, his shoulders were broad and his hips well tapered. He would be a catch for any of the farmer’s daughters who eyed him eagerly when dancing a jig. He was honest and hardworking but too low-born to turn this one particular head in his direction. In his despair he turned to Parson Simcock who he knew had the ear of old man Dacre. It was after a parish poor law meeting that few attended that he sat sipping port in the Parson’s small study and opened his heart.

‘What ails thee, young Matt? You’ve been hovering around Lawton of late, like a bad smell. Who is the maid who’s captured your heart?’

Matt took his courage in hand and declared himself.

‘I have a great affection for Miss Mirabel Dacre. She’s caught my eye with her beauty, her horsemanship and kindness to the poor,’ he galloped it all out in one breath. ‘I’d like to make my intentions plain to Squire Dacre.’

The Parson shook his head. ‘Oh dearie me, this is bad news. What gives you the notion that he would ever entertain the idea of his daughter being passed on to some two-penny farmer from up the dale?’ he eyed him keenly for a response.

Matt was not cowed by these words. ‘I don’t intend to stay in this station for ever,’ he argued. ‘I’ve got plans to buy more land, renew our stock with finer breeds, to profit from all that science has to offer us and remodel the farmhouse in a grander design with rooms suitable for any lady; a parlour with a fine coal fireplace, bedchambers, a little park outside with a walled garden away from view. My eye is so fixed upon her I will do anything to set her like some precious jewel in a grand setting.’

‘Will you now? Thy plans are ambitious indeed but have you spoken to this jewel of your intention?’ asked the Parson sucking on his pipe with interest.

‘Nay, no, sir, not openly. It would not be seemly without her father’s consent. I’d not presume such boldness, for although I may not be a gentleman by birth, I will behave as such.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, young man, for I fear you will face a grievous disappointment. Sir Barnett Dacre will not waste his daughters on sons of the soil. They are destined for higher men than you but I admire your courage. Without dreams, young man, we are nothing. Aim for the stars and you might reach the sky but don’t over reach yourself in that direction. Those sisters must marry a man with money and estate and soon, however their heart may be fixed.’

‘But if you could but speak on my behalf to the Squire and tell him I will do exactly as I promised plus mend his walls and see to his broken barns. Perhaps that will help . . .’

The Parson laughed aloud, ‘Oh Matt, go find a farmer’s daughter of your own sort. The Stockdales and the Dacres are stations apart. Don’t be a fool!’

‘Not in my great-grandfather’s day, they were not! Were the families not equals at one time and are we not all equal in the sight of the Lord?’

‘That may be so but I don’t think our Squire sees it in such a light. I will make such delicate inquiries that are befitting for a humble man of the cloth. Better to set your sights lower and you’ll happen do better for yourself. That is my advice to you, young man. It doesn’t do to stir up the proper order of things. Be content with your station and all will be well.’

Thus was Matt dismissed and denied hope of furthering his cause with the family, but the Stockdales were by nature a stubborn stock, no quitters in affairs of the heart and he rode back under the stars all the more determined to woo his heart’s desire whether he had the Squire’s consent or no.

He lay in bed composing the most delicate letter to Miss Mirabel, brim full of all the admiration and praise he could muster, enclosed with a special poem he had invented to plead his cause. Perhaps if she knew of his regard, she might give him some sign of hope. He asked her if she still kept their secret photograph safe. The missive was delivered in the dead of night and was duly ignored, lost or undelivered, he knew not which.

Undeterred by the deafening silence, Matt decided that come what may he would set about achieving all that he described to the Parson on that winter’s night. He must rebuild the farmhouse, expand his empire and further his standing in the district. He would wait like Jacob for his Rachel, seven years if need be until the Dacre resistance crumbled under the force of his love.

As if to deter him further, the two sisters were removed to York for the County season of balls and assemblies. This much was gleaned from servant gossip. This absence spurred him on even more to set about the monumental task he’d set himself. When they returned to Lawton Hall, Matt Stockdale would not be so easy to ignore.

5

‘Who’s that letter from?’ asked Eliza peering over her sister’s shoulder.

‘No one!’ Mirabel snapped. How dare that farmer write such a letter to her? She threw it with disdain almost onto the fire but then drew it back, shoving it into her reticule. It was the first billet doux she’d ever had, even if it was from a rough cowman from Yewbank Farm who was handsome and strong. How many times had she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye watching her movements? Who did he think he was to even address her in such an intimate manner?

If Papa had known of such impudence he would’ve had him whipped or dismissed but you couldn’t stop a free man from going about his lawful business and Matt was no man’s fool. His name tripped off the tongue of many a housemaid as being the finest beau in the village.

If only she could’ve laughed and dismissed him as common, but the young bucks she’d met in York through Aunt Lydia were silly dumb dogs or foppish mincing minions. Now they were going back to the ladies’ college with its chaperones and dull deportment lessons, soirees and recitals. The city air was rank after the moorland freshness; the smoke and muck brought a different sort of smell. The poor were poorer and more threatening. The hovels they visited were beds of sickness and death. This time they must repay their aunt and make an effort to be seen out in good society like prize heifers up for auction to the highest bidder. This time Papa was expecting a result but Eliza was being such a pain about going out.

It was getting harder and harder to persuade her to go anywhere. All she wanted to do was bury herself in her needlework in some corner out of sight.

‘Put your sewing aside and come to the shops with us,’ Mirabel pleaded. ‘Mistress Peacock the milliner has wonderful ribbons and feathers to trim up our bonnets, new linens and dimities, silks and grosgrains up from London.’

Eliza looked up and smiled. ‘You go with Aunt Lydia, I have a pattern to master for the edge of my sampler, see . . .’

Eliza could be so stubborn when she had a needle in her hand. How were they ever going to find a suitor for her until she herself was fixed, and there was no one here who had pleased her eye as much as Matt Stockdale, which was unthinkable.

She still had the picture he’d taken of her safely hidden in the secret drawer at the back of her writing bureau but it languished long forgotten like poor William who lived now in private rooms of the Quaker ‘Retreat House’ just outside the city. That first visit to him was difficult. She had brought the picture of his horse to cheer him up. He smiled but did not seem to understand why she had given it to him. But after that when she saw how kindly he was cared for and how content he was in this quiet ordered world, it made her visits bearable. He had no idea who his visitor was but his smile was warm and his hands reached out to her.

Aunt Lydia always cried. Eliza had never been through the door. ‘I can’t bear to think of him locked away. My stomach wrenches at the sight of sickness in the streets, Bella. I would be of no use to him.’ That was always her excuse. When she was following her intricate patterns she was safe in a world of her own choosing where there was no sickness or pain or suitors to find. Eliza was like a child and needed protection. She wasn’t ready for marriage yet.

Aunt Lydia was losing patience with her nieces for being too particular. ‘There’re girls biting at your heels for a chance to show themselves at the Assembly Rooms. You’ve spent too much time up in the hills. It’s coarsened your skin and flushed your cheeks like a dairymaid. A little more restraint at the dancing and the singing, Mirabel. A gentlemen doesn’t want a milkmaid for a wife but a delicate flower.’

From what she gleaned from back-stair gossip, gentlemen with roving eyes grabbed milkmaids wherever they could after the hunting. There were girls dismissed for carrying bastards or being caught with their skirts high up in the barn.

Once in Papa’s library on a wet afternoon she discovered a leather ledger full of pictures that left nothing to the imagination or instruction as to how children were begat; eastern maidens astride men in positions that defied her understanding but stirred her loins strangely by the sight of such feats of daring. Eliza had screamed when she had caught a glimpse of them, vowing never to let any man disgrace her in that way. Mirabel just laughed, thinking about stallions and mares and then of Matt Stockdale and going hot at the thought.

As they bustled through Spurriergate that afternoon, tripping from shop to shop, browsing, sipping tea in a ladies’ tearoom, little did she guess how soon her world was to be turned upside down. There was talk of sickness in Water Lane, in the poorer end of the city and Aunt Lydia insisted they take carriages back to the tall brick house in Micklegate.

When later Aunt Lydia complained of a headache and the shivers, Mirabel thought nothing of sitting mopping her brow, feeding her gruel, watching her toss and turn. She was the nearest they had ever had to a mother and kind enough to make sure they had a season. After a few days with the doctor fussing over her bed, a nasty rash appeared that frightened everyone away and the doctor who called asked if the girls had been pricked with the cowpox. She had no notion of what he was asking, shaking her head.

It was then that he banned them both from the sick room and sent for a nurse. When the pustules covered Lydia’s face and legs there was no mistaking what was happening and Mirabel feared it was only a matter of days before she herself would be laid low and by then poor Aunt Lydia would’ve revived or passed away. Eliza was flapping and fluttering like a trapped bird but since she never entered the sickroom there was hope that she would be safe from sickness.

A quiet woman in a grey dress was engaged to help the household as many of the servants had fled at the news that smallpox was in the house. Eliza too wanted to escape but wouldn’t go without her sister. Mirabel woke on the morning of their intended departure with such a headache and fever that she knew it would be weeks before she rose from this bed again. She lay looking up at the ceiling, praying she might be spared the ravages of this dreaded disease.

It was time to bar the door against any further contact with her sister and Jennet the nurse turned her attention to making her comfortable and preparing her for the worst. ‘Let me in, Bella!’ Eliza screamed. ‘What ails you?’

‘Stay away and do as I say, send for a maid who has had the cowpox. They do not sicken easily. If all is well I’ll open the door but if it is not, take me home and bury me in St Peter’s,’ she sobbed suddenly, very calm. How sad that she would die a maid, without ever knowing what it was to wed and run her own household. Would she meet Mama on the other side and would she recognize her?

‘What are you talking about?’ Eliza screamed. ‘I can’t go home without you. I will camp outside your door until you let me in.’

‘Please yourself but I’m not leaving this room until I know for certain what ails me but do as I say. Send for help but don’t write to Papa that I’m sick. He has enough worries. When I am recovered then we’ll return home. How is Aunt Lydia?’

There was a sniffle of sobs from the other side of the door. ‘We have to burn her clothes, the doctor says, and her bed linen and drapes. I’m so afraid. What am I going to do?’

Mirabel tried to rise up from the pillow. ‘Put the house in mourning and let no one through the door but the hired nurse. For once you must fend for yourself,’ she croaked and fell back on the bed, unable to move for the thundering bells ringing in her head.

How long she lay there, she no longer knew or cared. Shadows flitted across the window through the chink in the bed drapes, soothing her rash. Sometimes strange whirring creatures jumped from the curtains to dance around her head. She lay helpless, sweating until the fever broke and the great hard pustules scabbed over her face, arms and legs. Only the soothing touch of the nurse brought any relief from her torment.

Then one morning her eyes flickered. There was a sudden brightness as if she was travelling far from the confines of the chamber back to the hills and back to riding Mercury, free as the wind, her skirts trailing after her; racing behind was another horse trying to catch her but she was too quick and skilful leaping over the gate; but the hoof caught the bar and the horse stumbled and she was thrown high and then low.

It was the face of Matt Stockdale who bent over her, smiling, loving and she woke with tears of longing for the high hills and for a simpler life.

‘She’s coming round at last,’ said a quiet voice holding an invalid cup full of water to her lips. Her head was so heavy she could scarce raise it but she sipped the water through cracked lips. ‘My sister?’ she asked, dreading the worst of news.

‘She’s spared and anxious to know that thee is recovered.’ The nurse in the tight cap was smiling down at her.

‘Let me see her . . .’ she begged.

‘In a little while when ’tis safe, when the scabs have dropped.’

‘Am I pockmarked?’ Mirabel croaked, knowing full well that she was.

‘I have seen worse. Thee will recover thy strength and they will fade,’ said the nurse who glided like a grey swan around the bed posts.

‘I wish I were dead,’ she sobbed.

‘That’s a good sign to see thee so roused. Thee will heal being young and well fed. Others have not been so fortunate,’ said the nursing maid.

‘Aren’t you afraid to come so close?’ she croaked, curious as to the quaint speech and plain clothes of the woman who had saved her life.

‘I’m called to do this service. I have been pricked with cow pox and it protects me from anything worse,’ Jennet replied.

‘My aunt?’ she added fearing the worst.

‘Sadly is buried with her ancestors,’ came the quiet reply. ‘She was not young like you.’

‘Has Eliza told Papa? Has she written to him? Is he here?’

‘Only that there is contagion in the house and that you will both stay safe until it is passed over. It is better that he didn’t come, for fear of spreading the sickness. She’s taken great comfort in her sewing, counting her stitches over and over. She cannot walk abroad and has not left the house for weeks, nor will she travel to the college. I have never seen one so young, so full of fear. She’s of a delicate mind, I fear, but the Lord has preserved her for a purpose,’ she replied.

‘Are you one of the Quakers of York?’ Mirabel asked, recognizing the plain clothes and broad collar that she had seen around the streets and behind the shop counters.

‘Yes, I am a Friend called to be a follower of the inner light that is found in all.’

Mirabel was in no mind for a sermon and turned her head away suddenly afraid. ‘Bring me a looking glass,’ she demanded.

‘It would be better to wait a little longer,’ came the guarded reply.

‘Bring it now. I have to see the worst for myself,’ she cried. The nurse shuffled around searching for the hand mirror in the table drawer. She opened the curtains to let more light in. Mirabel slowly drew the glass closer and then screamed at the sight of her pitted cheeks and scars and tufts of shorn hair straggling from her bed cap. ‘Take it away! Don’t let Eliza in, to see this. I am ruined. My life is over!’

‘There’s more to beauty than skin and hair,’ offered the nurse. ‘I did warn thee.’

‘Thank you, but now I have seen the devastation, no one must see this face again.’

‘Don’t despair. The marks will fade given time. I’ve seen many a maid restored to good health and happiness.’

Mirabel was too sick at heart to listen. Her face was her fortune and now she was ruined. She must hide this shame away from view.

‘Let me in,’ pleaded Eliza but the door was locked.

In the days that followed, Mirabel refused all offers of company, begging a black cap to cover her shorn head and a black mourning veil to cover her face. Only when she was covered completely did she open the door to her sister who fell upon her with relief.

‘How I have waited for this day! How cruel you’ve been to banish me,’ Eliza sobbed, stepping back at the sight of this strange garb. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

‘I am marked, Eliza. I am no longer Mirabel Dacre. Papa will not recognize me. You’ll have to get used to my plainness but Papa will not. Better I were dead than live to be pitied and hidden away.’

‘You’re so wrong! He’ll be glad you’re recovered,’ Eliza smiled. ‘I hate this place. I’ll never walk in its streets again with all the evil vapours. Let’s journey back to Lawton and live quietly together like before. I will start a new tapestry and you can help me.’

‘I’ll do no such thing. You know I hate all that handwork. How can we go back without a promise of a husband between us? Poor Aunt Lydia can’t help us now. My face is no fortune but you are still fresh. You’ll have to do for the both of us and marry well before it’s too late’

Eliza stepped back in horror at these words. ‘You can’t make me do that. I always thought you would marry and I’d stay to live with Papa.’

‘He can’t afford to keep the both of us unwed. He has lost his wife and now his sister and William will never be his heir. One of us will have to give him some hope. Shape yourself and do your duty for once. I have carried you around long enough. See for yourself . . .’ she snapped. It was hard to be cruel but Eliza must play her part. She lifted her veil so her sister could see the worst. There was such a bitterness in her heart at this cruel fate.

Eliza fled from the bedchamber at the sight of her marks and took to her bed, refusing to eat her dishes and said she would die rather than be paraded around the marriage mart. Mirabel, still shaken and weak, was worn out with her pitiful pleading, knowing Eliza could be as stubborn as herself. Her hands kept fingering the spots that felt to her like craters in her skin, thinking they were growing larger not shrinking as Jennet promised. Who would ever want to look on her with anything but pity? They had to do something and soon.

Never had she felt so alone. The tall house was empty and full of bad memories. Eliza was right; they were safer at home whatever the outcome. The thought of the high fells and the gracious old house were comforting. It was then that a strange idea jumped into her mind from nowhere and she smiled for the first time in weeks. There was a way forward perhaps but only if Eliza would play her part. It was deceitful and cunning and would take all the courage they could muster but it might just make life bearable for the both of them and give Papa hope for the future. How could she bribe her sister to go along with this crazy scheme? She looked down at Jennet’s sewing box and smiled again. Her hands were never idle. There was just a chance that the answer might lie right here at her feet.

‘Eliza? Listen to me for once,’ she tapped on her door. ‘How would you like to go home and spend the rest of your life sewing a fine seam, making samplers and silk pictures? Open the door and hear me out. I’ve got a brilliant idea. Eliza?’

6

Matt was up on the roof of his new extension inspecting the slate and the lead flashings, checking that the hired mason had finished everything to his specification. His mother stood back scratching her head at all the mess cluttering the yard. ‘You’ll beggar us ’ere long with all this nonsense. Three of us will be rattling around in this empty barn; the laughing stock of the dale, you are, with your fancy notions!’

‘Have faith, Mam. I know what I’m about. The calamine mine is not exhausted and the lead seam’s brought us in good brass. I said I’d make us a fine homestead and that’s what I’m doing,’ he shouted down as she shook her head and walked away. His next visitor had him down the ladder in seconds. Parson Simcock was striding past the farm, stretching his legs in the bright sunshine. He waved to his protégé to come down.

‘You’ve done a fine job, young Stockdale, but I fear all to no avail,’ he whispered. ‘I have kept my ear to the ground on your behalf, as I promised but the news is not good.’

‘Miss Mirabel’s betrothed in York?’ Matt whispered, his heart leaping at this terrible news.

‘No, worse, I fear. There has been sickness in the family. The aunt is gone and the sisters are near unto death, the Squire fears. He awaits news daily,’ said the Parson.

‘What can I do?’ Matt cried, stunned that his dreams had crashed like slates from his new roof.

‘We can do nothing but pray for their safe recovery. The Squire has taken to his bed with a bottle, blaming himself for sending them so far from home. I told him matters were in Higher hands than ours now and he threw me out the chamber.’ He bowed his head. ‘Ah well, time is a great healer.’

Matt felt his spirit sink at this unexpected news. There was no hope for him if Mirabel was not in this world. She must live, he cried, and took himself down to Gunnerside to pray for her recovery. If Mirabel lived he would give her her heart’s desire, come what may. If she was spared, nothing would prevent him from making her his bride. ‘Live, my lovely one!’ he cried into the water. Her portrait lay under his pillow every night.

Into the dark damp recesses of the Foss, he gazed down at the tumbling spray. He sat there until it grew dark, praying she was still alive. There must be hope and to this end he must continue his good works, set about his rebuilding with renewed vigour. It would have to sustain him for many a month more.

The news of Eliza Dacre’s death was all over the village. It was carried from Lawton Hall servants to all who would hear. Poor Miss Mirabel was distraught and not fit for travel, refusing to let her own father attend the funeral for fear of bringing more sickness home to the village. ‘She’s a broken woman and much weakened by these sufferings,’ whispered the Parson. ‘I fear she’ll be much changed by sorrow and needs to be left to recover when she returns among us. I don’t want to hear of you pestering her. Be patient, young man. Time is a great healer.’

How could he be patient when she would soon be living only a few miles down the valley? How he longed to comfort her and see her beautiful face once more, watch her galloping across the fells, but first he must write a letter of condolence in his best copperplate handwriting, hoping against hope for a reply this time. Now was the time to make the final assault on the farmhouse renovations.

The Parson restrained every sign of his eagerness to make contact with the family, saying he must make no demands but prepare the ground for his proposal only after many months of mourning had passed and it was seemly. There had been another set-back for the Squire when the Skelsby District Bank in which he was a partner overstretched itself in some railway venture and closed its doors. The Gazette was full of the terrible news and many a good man lost all his capital from this collapse. As a man of honour Barnett Dacre must pay off his debts by selling off land and assets or be shunned. Suddenly the tables were turned and Matt knew that the moment had arrived to make his bid for happiness.

He chose a fine summer morning to ride his finest horse, in his best apparel, to the front entrance of Lawton Hall and this time he would not be denied access. This time the Squire welcomed him, if a little hesitantly, into the drawing room. Suffering and disappointment and the effects of strong wine had etched lines on his once handsome face. His reception was cautious but civil.

Matt sat, trying not to be overawed by the sumptuous draperies and dark panelling, the portraits hanging on the walls, the fine porcelain in cabinets making his own efforts at decoration seem shabby. His longed for dream was coming true but he must be patient. He gave his condolences as best he could, feeling shame that there was the relief that it was Eliza who had died and not his beloved Mirabel. His courtesies were accepted with a brief nod.

Then it was time to assault the Squire’s ear with all he had achieved over the past year and how the plans for a new wing to Yewbank farmhouse were almost complete. He talked about his breeding stock and the mineral deposits mined from his moorland. How his calamine ore had been bought by a Bond Street firm for brass making, taken by canal from Gargrave to Leeds and down to London. Supply was far outstripping demand.

‘It is no secret in this district that I have long since held Miss Mirabel Dacre in high estimation,’ he continued in his best Yorkshire accent, saying that for many years he’d wished to make his humble affection known. ‘Until now I have felt unable to pursue my suit but I hope in the past years I’ve bridged the gap between our stations in life by honest endeavour and enterprise.’

‘And now you want to kick a dog when it’s down?’ snapped the old man.

‘Certainly not!’ Matt argued. ‘This is no fly-by-night affectation but a genuine desire to make Miss Mirabel my wife and give her the honour she deserves. I will wed no other,’ he said with all the conviction he could muster but wondering if he’d gone too far in his enthusiasm, expecting to be shown the door any moment.

‘I like a fellow who knows what he wants, young man. Mirabel is not to be fooled with. She’s all that’s left of my brood and she’s not strong. See for yourself.’ Barnett Dacre pulled the bell summoning his beloved to the room. Matt’s heart was thumping in his chest like a hammer, knowing there must be hope in this gesture.

She came veiled in deepest mourning, sitting down quietly, listening again to his condolences, not saying a word. Mirabel was much altered by suffering, thin to the point of gauntness, shrunken even, sharper in feature and the lustre was gone from her eyes. In truth there was little of the old Mirabel but that was understandable after the loss of a beloved sister and aunt.

She heard his stuttering offer without a word. Three times he called and three times she sat across from him with her maid sitting in the shadows like some hideous spectre, a reminder of the smallpox that had robbed the family of its joy but had brought his beloved back safely unmarked.

Nothing now would deter him from beginning his courtship in earnest as she sat with her needlework to the light, counting and recounting stitches but pausing to look up and smile every now and then, as if remembering he was still in the room.

In the June sunshine he asked her to take a turn around the walled garden. It was high summer and the roses were dripping over the walls in pink profusion, in cascades of blooms with a delicious scent. Mirabel nodded and rose, getting as far as the door but then she felt faint and had to be revived.

‘Bella will go with you for we need some petals,’ she smiled, not seeing his disappointment.

The maid strode out by his side without a word. She was tall and strong enough but hideously marked. He could see the scars through the veiled netting and turned his gaze away from her, embarrassed. He didn’t want her to see his pity as they paced the walled garden. He was glad when she fingered and sniffed the roses, collecting them in a basket and then left him standing in the garden without so much as a by your leave.

Matt was advised that his beloved no longer went riding or attended church because of a weakness in her legs that drained her strength. She had taken up sewing in honour of her dead sister, even though he recalled as a girl she’d no liking for needlework. How could she sit for hours stitching such fancy work and not get bored? He promised that when they were wed the windows of her parlour would be full length, facing the sun so she might enjoy the best of the light and view. She nodded with satisfaction but hardly said a word else.

He liked her quiet absorption as she followed her intricate patterns, choosing elegant stitches to paint pictures on canvas, filling in faces and colours in her own unique style. He was so proud of her gentility, her delicate fingers. She was the beautiful ornament who would grace his new building with nobility and charm. How eager was he now to show off this precious jewel to the whole world; this pearl without price that he had grafted so long and hard to possess. Soon she would walk down the aisle of St Peter’s to be his bride.

Sometimes when he was struggling with his accounts, trying to balance the mounting expenses, he laid down his pen and sighed that his beloved was not as lively or bright-eyed as he recalled. Then he chastised himself for being so unfeeling. Had she not been bereaved and sick? It was too early to expect some brightness in her spirit. He took comfort from the Parson’s words. Time was a great healer. By the time of their marriage the house would be complete and every detail must be to her liking.

He longed for her to show some excitement at the wedding preparations and her new position as his wife. It was hoped that the fresh air and winds of Yewbank would blow away all gloomy thoughts and she would have everything in the way of fabrics and furnishing, no matter what they cost. Even the bed and its furniture were to be transported from Lawton to Yewbank, everything replicated so she would feel it was just as it always was.

As he worked tirelessly to this end, he gave thanks that everything he had striven for was coming to fruition! The Dacres seemed relieved when the wedding day was fixed but the Parson was beside himself that his efforts to play Cupid were not to be rewarded with the grandest wedding the district would have seen for years.

It was agreed that it would be but a simple occasion with few witnesses and a small wedding breakfast. Everyone hoped that the beautiful vistas of Yewbank would lift her spirits away from sad memories. Her only request was that the maid Bella Carswell must also be her companion.

‘I cannot leave her behind. She took care of me when I was sick and for this she will suffer for the rest of her life.’

How could he refuse the wishes of such a caring soul? It was petty of him to resent Bella’s presence in their home. She would be a reminder to them both of the cruelty of fate so he nodded to his bride-to-be and briefly glanced at the poor maid, swallowing his disappointment.

‘This can’t go on, Bella! This is madness. It’s gone too far,’ Eliza cried, sitting at her dressing stool and staring into the mirror. It was almost her wedding day and she was looking terrified seeing Mirabel without her veil.

‘You have to . . . we agreed it was the only way to secure us a future. You have to go through with your side of the bargain. He is quite fooled by you. You’ve done so well,’ Mirabel smiled, but her lips strained at the thought of their deception. Her eyes flitted past the mirror with disgust. The scars were fading but not enough to be seen without a large bonnet and black veil. Even their own father had not realized their deception. It hurt when he looked through her when she passed him in the yard. It was hard not to run after him and confess all but Eliza was convincing enough and must take her place as the elder sister. Matt Stockdale would never have looked twice at her little sister but how easily he was fooled now. He saw what he wanted to see and averted his eyes from Mirabel as if she was invisible.

He was still handsome and full of ambition and when he gazed lovingly at her sister she felt the first stabs of envy. The man really believed it was her and she was touched at how ardently he had prepared for this day. This deception was not easy to stomach. It was hard trying to behave like a servant in the hall. Mostly she was ignored and given orders. The life below stairs was not to her liking but Eliza had insisted that her maid slept close by in their old nursery rooms and she meanwhile busied herself trying not to show her ignorance to the other staff who avoided her. Once or twice she had caught the kitchen staff staring at her proud manner and cultured accent.

Once they had their own house up on the hill, they could live together undisturbed. She hated to deceive Papa who looked so weary of life. How could he not recognize his own daughter? Like Matt, he too saw only what he wanted to see and servants were invisible.

‘I can’t go through with this wedding. You know I can’t cross the threshold for fear of my life. You know when I see the sky I can’t breathe, my chest tightens and I feel faint. You can’t make me go to church or I shall die,’ Eliza whined.

‘Only a few more days to go and then we can both live together undisturbed, out of sight, and you can sew to your heart’s delight. I promise then I will be your arms and legs and messenger. No one will trouble you up there.’

‘But the doctor in York said I had an imbalance of humours and that my womb roams around my body at will. He says the loving touch of a husband will cure me of all fears but I cannot bear the thought of such touches. You can bleed me like a stuck pig but nothing will induce me to walk down that aisle unaided. We shall have to tell Papa the truth.’ Eliza threw her silks down in a tantrum. ‘And you can pick them up!’

‘I said I would take care of all that business and I will’ Mirabel said through her teeth. ‘Whatever it takes, but don’t tell Papa. He has enough worries. The house may have to be sold soon to pay all his debts. No one else will take good care of us. Believe me, this is our best offer.’

‘But to tell Papa that I was dead was a stupid idea! I was happy just making pictures and counting stitches. How can you make us live on a smelly farm in such a lowly family?’

‘Oh grow up, Eliza! There’s no money left here to indulge you any more. If anything happens to Papa, you’ll have to take up sewing, hire yourself out like a servant. There’ll be no money for silks and fine linens then. We’re ruined every which way and I can’t help you then . . .’ Mirabel pleaded as she laid out the beautiful wedding gown on the bed for her Mistress to inspect.

‘I care nothing for this robe,’ said Eliza, picking up the lilac silk gown and throwing it back. ‘This might look like gossamer but it will be like a lead cloak on me. How can I stand before the altar and make such hideous vows when I can scarce walk a step unaided? Send word to Farmer Stockdale that I’m too ill. Bring the Parson here if you must. Let him wed us in the drawing room. I care not one way or the other. This was your scheme so you can sort it out. You know I can’t help my fear. It’s not going to go away.’

‘I am trying to be patient, Eliza, but you have to go through with this for my sake and Papa’s. We’ll be a burden off his hands. Don’t shame him before his servants. We have to go through with this now,’ she sighed, knowing it was far too late to turn back. To be truthful, the whole scheme had spiralled out of control. Matt Stockdale’s proposal was timely but neither of them was ready to live out their pretences quite so soon.

On the night before the wedding the groom paced through the new farmhouse rooms examining every detail. Would there be enough chairs for the evening visitors and bride cake and ale for the farm servants and visitors? He had ordered a special frock coat, a tall hat and bathed himself in the tub. His mother was in a fluster of anxiety about how to address the new bride and would they mind if they threw a plate out of the window to welcome luck on the new couple or would Miss Dacre think that common?

‘I hope you knows what tha’s doin’, me laddo,’ she twined. ‘This wedding will beggar us twice over if you’re not careful. I’ve never heard of a bride having her own room. She’s yer wife, not some visitor! I hope that poor maid of hers can turn her hand to the pump for yon bride of yours has never done a hand’s turn in her life nor ever will, I venture. It’s a rum do and no mistake. We’ll be the laughing stock of Lawton.’

‘Hush, Mother, don’t spoil the day with yer mitherings,’ he snapped but he was too nervous to sleep much that night either.

7

The wedding day passed off without incident. The groom appeared on horseback with the Parson, both dressed in sombre black and tall hats. No one could say that Farmer Stockdale did not look like a gentleman. Papa was drunk and none too fresh as he escorted Eliza down the stairs in the half mourning outfit of grey and lilac silk with a full skirt and ruffled hem. The groom’s mother stood in her widow’s black bombazine, nervous and unsure as to how to proceed, looking to the maid to guide them in all things.

Eliza struggled to participate in the ceremony, hardly glancing at her husband, muttering her vows so no one could hear. She didn’t touch a morsel of the wedding feast, picking at her plate, staring down at the embroidery on her sleeve. Mirabel stood behind the chairs feeling both sorrow and anger that the groom could be so easily duped. He looked so eager and expectant but he was going to be bitterly disappointed in his new bride. If only things had been different, she mused. How eagerly would she have jumped into those strong arms on her wedding night.

The first moment of concern came when the bridal party left for the bride cake-throwing in the servant’s hall. Eliza refused to go downstairs or even in the garden, making for the chaise saying she was unwell and wanted to make straight way for the safety of Yewbank but only if her maid would keep her company. Poor Matt had to ride behind his mother in her hired carriage.

How different the outside of the farmhouse looked from that first visit all those years ago. The new front porch stood out proudly to welcome them and to the left a parlour room and to the right a dining room almost complete with panelled walls with the tall windows he had promised.

What a good man he was, she thought, who didn’t deserve such treatment, but he had wanted his Mirabel Dacre and now they were here, both of them and he must be content.

Eliza glanced up at the walls and headed for the stairs. She was too tired for further conversation and announced she was off to her chamber, leaving her husband looking up in despair.

‘She’s very tired,’ Mirabel apologised, lowering her face. No one liked to be reminded of her features. ‘Fresh air disturbs her, I fear. It reminds her of York, sir.’

The extra servants hired for the evening supper stood back awkwardly and were later dismissed when no bride appeared to grace the event. The celebrations fizzled out early without any of the raucous lewdness that usually accompanied a wedding night. Mirabel tried to help clear away the plates and show willing but she, too, was exhausted by the strain and relieved that the deed was done. She climbed the stairs smelling the fresh paint and polish. Everything was new and bare, spotless and raw. Matt was trying so hard to please them and she was touched by his earnest desire to give them the best. Somehow she was going to have to make it up to him for this deception but only time would guide her as to how.

Matt looked over his handiwork in the upstairs parlour with satisfaction. The ceiling plasterwork was ornate and from its centre hung a finely branched brass candelabra. The fireplace was surrounded by a Dent marble mantlepiece and coal burned brightly in the grate. The room was large and square enough to hold his bride’s best chairs and spinet, firescreen and sofa bed so she could arrange them to her taste.

He’d even turned the old staircase to face the new entrance and tiled the floor with a mosaic of coloured tiles so Mirabel would not have to face or hear the farm kitchen bustle beyond the door.

The duties of a farmer’s wife would be strange to one used to such leisure. He didn’t expect her to perform anything that took her to the kitchen and the meaner parts of the house. His new wife was his extravagance and his responsibility, his reward for all his endeavours but he had beggared himself in giving her all the refinements she deserved.

Tongues wagged in the farmyard that Matt Stockdale was getting above himself in this show of extravagance. He knew what folk thought but didn’t care. It was hard though not to show his disappointment when his bride took to her new bedroom and barred the door, leaving her maid to explain that she was too exhausted by travel to receive callers in her private chamber. For three days she kept to her room with a terrible headache and slept alone.

His mother said nothing about the arrangement and went about her humble business as if the new wing didn’t exist. The maid came down to collect her covered dishes and tried to show by little acts of kindness to his mother that she could make herself useful if asked.

Bella Carswell was so well spoken, so polite that it almost made things worse. Everyone knew that he had not yet gained admittance to Mirabel’s bed where the maid spent her days sewing at the side of her Mistress. This was not how it was supposed to be but Matt bit his tongue and hid the pain of his broken dreams.

‘Yon’s a right carry on and no mistake,’ grumbled his mother. ‘If hadn’t seen it for mesen, I’d think you’d dreamt it all up: all that good brass spent and she can’t be arsed to show her presence or warm thy toes. You must put thy foot down and sharpish! You won’t get bairns out of that one either, have you seen the size of her? I don’t know what you were thinking of, son.’

Matt shook his head and bit his lip. It was one thing having an ornament like fine porcelain on a pedestal to admire but Mirabel was neither use nor ornament hidden away upstairs. Suddenly he felt foolish and down-hearted and took himself out into the fields with his men, out to market, buying and selling. Everything he touched had turned to profit lately but all his private hopes were shattered.

There were plenty of gatherings and parish affairs to keep loneliness at bay. He could busy himself but the sadness in his heart turned into disappointment and then into bitterness. He had hardly spent a few hours in his wife’s presence and then never alone. He was a laughing stock in his home and it had to stop. Enough was enough!

One night, fired by the ale pot, he stormed up the stairs two at a time. ‘Mirabel Stockdale open the door to me! I’m thy husband and I’ve fair had enough with this carry on. Open the door or I’ll bash it down!’ His accent thickened as his anger spilled over. No one made a fool of Matt Stockdale. ‘What’ve I done to deserve such treatment? Any other man would’ve taken a whip to you for this disobedience. It has been twelve long nights since you came here. I’ll not stomach another night out of our marriage bed!’

The two sisters listened as he banged on the door, waking the whole household in his fury. Eliza cowered under the bedclothes, crying and shaking. ‘What’ll I do? You promised me . . . I’ve kept to my bargain, done what you said but this I will not do . . . Tomorrow we must go back home and tell Papa the truth.’

‘And tell the whole world of this deception? I think not. There is a way, but you must speak to him and soften his mood, give him hope. I’ll think of something to soothe his pride,’ Mirabel ordered, knowing there was only one explanation that would do for now. ‘Leave it to me.’

She unlocked the door and brought a candle across the room, drew the drapes open across the bed and let the husband in.

‘Sir,’ she bobbed. ‘Do not distress yourself that you have been barred from my Mistress. See for yourself, she is abed waiting but fears she cannot give you pleasure for it is a delicate matter that has occurred that only women speak of between themselves.’

Matt stepped forward, not understanding. ‘Sir,’ she continued, ‘The moon courses are upon my Mistress and sorely cramp her stomach. She has suffered much these past two weeks and that is why she cannot oblige but the moment they are over, she will open the door and you may fulfil your obligations to your satisfaction. Is not that so, Mistress?’

Eliza smiled wanly and nodded. ‘It pains me to disappoint you, Master. Please be patient with me.’

This took all the air out of his bellows and he blustered and apologised and made for the door. ‘I’m sorry to have distressed you, Madam.’

‘And she is sorry to disappoint you,’ Mirabel replied, ushering him out of the door quickly.

‘Now what’ve you done?’ Eliza cried. ‘How will I oblige him?’

‘You can’t, but I can,’ Mirabel smiled.

‘Are you cracked? You will be uncovered.’

‘In the darkness we see what we want to see and feel what we want to feel,’ she said. ‘Darkness covers a multitude of sins and confusions. It’s the only way.’ It was a risk she must take but she felt nervous, wishing her hair would grow longer, her skin softer. One flicker of light and her ruse would be discovered.

A few nights later, with Eliza tucked up in the dressing room that served for the maid’s chamber, Mirabel unlocked the door and waited for the handle to turn with thudding heart. She had undressed with care into a soft silk shift with long sleeves that Eliza had prepared, bathed her limbs in the tub with attar of rose oil, covered her growing hair with a pretty lace night cap and blew out all the candles for fear of exposure. Once the curtains were drawn there would be nothing but silk between them.

At first there was silence as he climbed into the sheets, only the sounding of his breathing as he ferreted under the counterpane whispering her name. Hidden in the darkness, she was to him what he had imagined, young, beautiful and willing. She caressed him through the silk and let his hands slide over the shift. She surrendered to his touch with a warmth and passion that stunned her with its novelty and enjoyment. Pictures of Papa’s secret drawings came into her mind and she mounted him so that he cried out for mercy and they laughed and kissed and slept until the light of dawn began to creep under the shutters.

Mirabel then slipped into the side room shaking her sister awake. ‘Tis done. Go to him and make a fuss. He is well satisfied now.’ Eliza for once was compliant and uncomplaining.

Mirabel lay on the truckle bed feeling sad that she must leave his side but they were in so deep in deception that she had no desire for him to be distressed by the sight of his lover. Dressing quickly, she made noise to rouse the lovers and sped down to the kitchen where the Mistress sat smiling into the fire.

‘It is done then?’ His mother looked up as she grinned. ‘I was beginning to wonder at the wisdom of his choice but all’s well that ends well.’

Mirabel bent her head in shame knowing it was wrong to deceive this kind lady but Matt was happy and contented with his lot for the moment. Her own new-found pleasure would have to be rationed but no matter. As a go-between she would be able to ensure he didn’t go too long without lovemaking.

The days grew out into a glorious summer and Mirabel took her turn at the haymaking. The servants grew used to her disfigurement but she always took care to cover her fading pockmarks with a large sun bonnet in case a likeness to her sister was exposed. In truth she was happier than she had ever been in her life, outside in the fresh air, learning to milk cows in the dairy and make butter and cheese with Matt’s mother who was struggling to see clearly. Only the fact that she was deceiving them spoiled the enjoyment of those first few months at Yewbank.

Eliza refused to set foot out of the door but true to his promise, Matt made no further demands on her other than she entertain civilly when called upon. Then it was hard for Mirabel to stand back and wait on the Parson’s wife and the church wardens, resume her servile role and forget she was the elder of the Dacre sisters. York began to feel like many moons ago and even their rare visits to Papa went off without incident.

He kept prodding Eliza’s belly with a roar. ‘When are you going to pup? About time there was something to show for all that humble pie. England expects, Mirabel. We have to admit the farm boy’s scrubbed up well and kept the bills paid.’ He looked around at his own dusty drawing room with dismay. Pictures were sold and he coughed into his glass.

It was on the way home that Mirabel felt a wave of sickness coming over her. ‘Stop the carriage!’ she said forgetting herself for a moment.

‘What’s the matter?’ Eliza leant out of the window. ‘Urgh!! You’ve been sick.’

There had only been one other darkened lovemaking. She couldn’t recall when her own courses had last bled. It was before hay timing and that was in July and now it was September. Oh hell! How was she going to pull that iron out of the fire?

8

Matt woke before dawn. The nights were drawing in fast and it would soon be time for gathering in the flock and sorting out the ewes for tupping time. So many orders to give and fields to check but his heart was heavy as he made his rounds. His nights were lonely, for Mirabel’s door was barred against him most nights and he felt cheated. Mother tiptoed around him, pretending all was well, heads down in the dairy and the barns, not understanding why he had burdened himself with such an expensive wife. There was no one to talk to, not even the Parson about all this disappointment.

It was always Bella, the maid who saw to Mirabel’s meals and sometimes came down to the kitchen to read out aloud of an evening to his Mother for she had a soft clear voice and nice manner with the other servants. He was getting used to seeing her swollen face and puckered skin but it offended his eye nonetheless. It pained him that his wife preferred her maid’s company to his own and looked on him in disbelief when he complained to her over dinner.

‘You wanted Mirabel Dacre as your wife and here she be. You must take as you find and be grateful that my father disposed of me in your favour,’ she snapped. ‘I can’t help that sorrow has burdened me like this.’

He felt alone in a houseful of women and he hated it. The rooms he had prepared with such anticipation were airless and silent. Sometimes when the emptiness of his new house forced him out into the fields, he caught a glimpse of the servant girl striding out at a pace towards the waterfall and cover of Gunnerside copse. At sunrise and sunset he saw her lone figure haunting the field walls. She avoided all contact with villagers but kept to her tasks by her Mistress’s side or wandered over the moors where no one could see her disfigurement.

Ugliness has its own beauty, he thought, as he found himself staring at her. How could she gaze at her reflection in water or catch herself in the mirror or the great parlour windows and not shudder? He remembered that afternoon when he and Mirabel had taken the secret photographs. It was strange that when he brought out his own copy to remind her she had turned away.

‘I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. Put it away,’ she sighed. He no longer took many landscapes. The fun had gone out of it and Mirabel showed little interest in his attempts to make an album of all the alterations to Yewbank House, as it was now called.

Matt was a man who loved beauty in objects and decoration. He loved the precision and order of his new frontage, its correct proportions. It added such graciousness to the outline of his old house. Then there was the terrace walk and the walled garden built to his exact requirements. There were new trees planted for his heirs to enjoy, protecting the house against the cold north-easterlies, yet Mirabel had never once crossed the threshold to admire all his handiwork but viewed it all only from the windows of light with always the same old excuse.

‘I wish I could take the air with you down in the garden but when I step through the door, Mr Stockdale, I cannot breathe and the earth rushes up to greet me. This is my prison now, my cage, and I feel like a linnet that cannot sing. I feel safer when Bella is close by and we look out from the window seat, sewing, looking out over the valley. That world outside no longer interests me.’

How could he not feel cheated of hope? There was no marriage or companionship in this house. He saw more of the maid than he did of his wife. Yet he couldn’t forget those wonderful nights when she had embraced him so eagerly and fallen on him with such passion. He had woken and reached out for her but found the bed empty. Just the tinge of rose oil scented the sheets where her silken shift had caressed his skin. Now he wondered if it was all but some fantastical drunken dream and that he was bewitched, so how could he believe it when Mirabel told him she was with child?

‘What foolishness is this,’ he screamed. ‘In God’s truth, it must be a bastard, for I’ve fathered no child from your loins! I have scarce laid a finger on you since we were wed . . .’

‘Hush, Matt, don’t fret, it takes but one joining together. It’s God’s will, wait and see,’ she smiled lifting her blue eyes from her stitching for once. ‘Look, I’m preparing the white linen. It is but early days but the child is yours, believe me. I asked the Lord for a miracle and he has provided one,’ she turned to her maid skulking in the shadows in her usual corner, her head bowed. ‘Bella, tell him about the morning ailments and the sickness. See my stomach already swells in anticipation,’ she smiled patting her stomach gently with her sewing.

‘You are deranged,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve scarce been in your bed long enough to serve you and that was months ago, so how can this be? Have I not done everything to make your happiness as a husband, everything but that,’ he whispered, blushing to be talking in front of a servant. ‘Your father has cheated me and you have cheated me of my rightful dues. Now you tell me I’m to be a father . . . That is a miracle, indeed. He should have told me you were not a full guinea in your head.’

Matt could scarce take in this news. If it were true, he should be bursting with pride but he felt confused.

At his words, Bella rose to comfort her Mistress, looking up at him with such wide-eyed amazement while Mirabel looked up smiling, ignoring his words as if they were some jest. ‘He does not understand, does he? How gracious the Lord is in his mercy but it is all here in my stitching, the truth of the matter.’

‘Show me,’ he grabbed the fine cotton and flung it on the floor in disgust. ‘You make fools of me, both of you, and I will stand no more of it. All I wanted was to make you happy and this is my reward! The Squire gives me his moon-crazed daughter. He saw me coming and fobbed you off on me,’ he said, making for the door. He didn’t care if the whole household were bending their ears to the door. ‘You’ve made a fool of me and I’m not standing for it!’

The maid bent down and picked up the cloth without a word, looking up at him with her strange puffed lids and he saw they were sprinkled with tears.

‘Be patient, sir. I should not be present to hear such arguments. Do not shame yourself. All will be made clear and you will understand.’ She stood in the corner of the room with her head bowed.

‘You both talk in riddles,’ he yelled, banging the door shut and storming down the stairs in a thunderous rage.

‘Did I not do it right?’ Eliza sighed when her husband had gone, seeing her sister’s tears. ‘Come sit by me and don’t upset yourself at such insults. He doesn’t understand.’

‘Nor do I that this has happened so quickly and now we must be so careful in our scheme. The Stockdales are good people and trusting. It’s all gone too far and now there’s a child to consider. I just wish there was another way but I’ll have to lace up tight and keep out of sight,’ her sister replied, feeling tired and sick and drained all at the same time.

‘But I need you here,’ Eliza said.

‘You have your windows and your silks, your pictures . . . leave the rest to me,’ Mirabel answered, making for the door. She needed to be out in the fresh air to clear her head from all the wounding words. What they were doing now was wrong but it had seemed so right in York. There was such a look of sadness on Matt’s face as he struggled to take in this extraordinary news. Why should his wife not be with child after a few months? The more the real Mirabel lived in the household, the more she was coming to admire his kindness and generosity, his pride and hard-working endeavour to give them every comfort at the expense of his own happiness. Now Papa would be pleased to have an heir and their contract secure.

As she strode down to her Foss hideaway, her heart leapt at the thought of bearing Matt’s child and the passion that had brought it about. She just knew it would be a son. Then the young farmer would forget his anger and accept the child as his own but the next few months would be hard to disguise her swelling stomach. Thank goodness she had her stays to keep her growth in check and a full apron and cloak. They would have to make some excuse to make their way back to Lawton Hall and stay there out of sight until the deception was complete. This could be done but only if she took care of every detail.

Matt was wrong to call Eliza crazy. Her sister was fragile and delicate and needed protection. She was not to blame for any of this. Once there was a baby in the house, her sister’s place would be secure enough. She herself must be strong for both of them, careful not to strain her body too hard and keep out of view as much as possible. Folk see what they want to see, she smiled, and Eliza was the sun now and she must take her usual place in the shadows. Servants were invisible, seeing all and saying nothing if they were wise. She was learning so much about how everyday villagers lived their lives. How hard work coarsened their hands and faces, bent their backs. It was another world but up here among the hills it was bearable.

‘That Bella is a right funny one,’ said Matt’s mother one morning as she inspected the laundry basket. ‘I shouldn’t be saying this to a lad, but for a servant she wears some fancy stays and shifts. These York girls must live like ladies. I’ve never seen such whalebone or quality stitching. Makes my poor efforts look like sacking. No drab cloth for yon young lady. I think she’s above herself for a maid. You’ll have to take her down a peg or two . . . even if she is a hard worker and doesn’t give me back-word.’

Matt stood puzzled, staring at these female contraptions that were a mystery to him. Mother was right. He’d seen it for himself. Who was Mistress and who was maid in his household? Bella seemed to be always giving the orders to his wife and it wasn’t right.

‘You must not stand for such insolence,’ he explained to his wife in her parlour next day. ‘Bella’s but a maid and an ugly one at that. I don’t know how you can bear the sight of her.’

‘I don’t see it. I don’t look on it,’ his wife paused from her sewing. ‘She wasn’t always thus. She was as fair as I was once upon a time. She is not to be dismissed, for I owe her much. She’s my arms and legs, my messenger and helpmeet. We are never to be parted and we talk of many things.’

‘I wish you would talk to me. Your head is allus bowed over that blessed needle,’ he said, aching to hold her and make her understand his loneliness in this marriage. He still couldn’t take the news that he would be a father in the New Year.

‘I’m sewing a layette for our child,’ she replied.

Matt shook his head back, ‘Are you sure there’s a babby? Has Doctor Brindle examined you yet?’

‘No, not yet . . . I’ll have no more quacks fingering my body. Wait and be patient. It will come when the curlew returns,’ she argued, returning to her needlework with a smile.

Matt sat down, exhausted. There was no use trying to coax her out of doors; she would only collapse in a faint. He ought to send for the Apothecary, at least, who might give her some calming pills. Truth was, he did not want anyone else to see his dilemma, to see the poor bargain he had made with the old Squire. He did not want her sent away to some asylum if this was all some untruth. In truth, the maid always managed to calm her nerves and keep her occupied and content in her own little world. Without such an assistant he would have no option but to hide her away.

Sometimes he came upon Bella busying herself around the farm, taking an unusual interest in their stock for a townsbred, learning to milk the cows with gentle fingers that calmed even the most restless cows in his dairy. Beasts didn’t flinch from her face but yielded up the milk into her pail. He found her with the dairymaid making cheese and butter. She had a way with them as if she was in charge, not they, and they didn’t seem to resent it, which he found strangely endearing. Her voice was soft and educated. All he knew was that she had come from York as Mirabel’s maid. In truth he was growing used to her quiet ways and shadowy presence and his mother looked forward to evening readings.

‘She reads like a lady. She must’ve been a beauty. It must be hard to lose your looks like that,’ Mother sighed and smiled. ‘Still, she’s our gain, for we get the benefit of her teaching Sadie the dairymaid her letters.’

It was not lost on Matt that the city maid was taking to country life in the way he had hoped her Mistress would. Her body, her cheeks were filling out and her curly hair and blue eyes sparkled as Mirabel’s never would, cloistered away from fresh mountain air.

Only when his wife’s stomach swelled a little each month did he sense change was afoot. He yearned for those night dreams and passions. Was his wife hiding her secret lusts too? It made him smile to think that his quiet mouse by day could have been such a strumpet by night, riding him roughly until he grunted with pleasure at their secret jousting. Now he must be patient, for the door was always locked from him at night, but once the child was born, all would be well again.

9

As the months fled past, it was getting harder for Mirabel to disguise her condition. Without the tight lacing, her condition would have soon been discovered. Eliza could pad up her waist and waddle but she hardly left the room. No one expected anything else from her. They had to be so careful now and it was her greatest worry that she might deliver at Yewbank under the scrutiny of all the maids and Matt’s old mother, Lucy Stockdale, would want to be at the birthing. They must make sure they were out of sight when the confinement came and that meant a long visit to Papa and the services of some discreet midwife from Skelsby who could be bribed into silence when the time came.

For all this Eliza needed to be rehearsed and prepared so that she might make that one effort to get out of the farmhouse without making too much fuss. She had taken to practising with her sister, walking to the door and pretending it was the outside porch, pretending to get into the steps of Papa’s chaise, rehearsing how they might achieve this one last feat.

‘I must take myself to Lawton one more time,’ Eliza announced at the dining table to everyone’s surprise. ‘Just in case I die in childbed. I must see my home one more time. I want the baby born in Lawton. It will please Papa so much.’ It was about the longest sentence she had spoke in public but everyone was agog with this decision.

‘It’ll make you ill again,’ said her husband. ‘Happen, we’ll get the doctor in here to be on the safe side.’

‘No, Mr Stockdale, I am decided in this matter. Bella will be at my side. That is sufficient.’ Matt was too dumbstruck to protest further.

It looked as if their plan was going to succeed. The return to Lawton was achieved even if the welcome was a little cool and the house stripped of many of the best pictures and furnishings, servants dismissed and owed money. The house was cold and unwelcoming after Yewbank, dark and damp. All that remained was to prepare the bedroom for the confinement and send word for the services of the best midwife in town, preferably one who liked her ale bottle. Everyone was fussing around Eliza, unaware that the real mother to be was already doubled up with cramp and backache, knowing her time was close.

Eliza managed to send for Papa and meet him on the stairs, saying that the labour was beginning and to send for Mistress Ackroyd straight away, clutching her stomach to great effect. No one else must be admitted through the door until the baby was born.

‘I’ll call for Doctor Brindle,’ he said, suddenly alert.

‘No, Papa, women are best left to their own devices,’ she ordered, clutching her belly again with a dramatic groan. ‘Leave us be. All is prepared in the upstairs chamber. Saddle a horse and send news to my husband in due course, that he must come and greet his child tomorrow. Take your time; do not rush back for it will be many hours yet awhile. There will be no admittance until it is done.’

By the time the midwife was admitted to the room it was already dusk and Mirabel slipped into the bed in her shift and bed cap while Eliza took on the role of the servant, hovering quietly as the nurse examined the patient, unaware that they had swapped places. The final piece of deception was in place. Mirabel could hardly breathe as the pains grabbed her body and squeezed the new life ever forward. It was the longest night of her life. For once Eliza made no fuss and watched on with horror and fascination as the tiny body pushed its way into the world, purple and then pink, squealing, taking lungfuls of air and yelling lustily while sending an ark of piss across the bed into the nurse’s face.

One look at her son and Mirabel knew she was bound to him for life. He was perfect, sound in limb and with those bright speedwell-blue Stockdale eyes just like his father. Suddenly she was so tired and exhausted that she lay back and slept. Eliza was instructed to pay the midwife well and ply her with strong ale so she would be dismissed groggy and sleepy back to the town. There was no need of her services once she had buried the afterbirth and informed Papa that a healthy boy child was born who would be called William Albert Dacre Stockdale, after their brother.

Matt wanted to tell the world that he had a son. All his doubts were forgotten as he danced around the kitchen and drained the ale keg dry with his mother looking on.

‘Never thowt she’d do it, son, with being that little,’ she grinned. ‘I suppose William’s a good enough name but you should’ve had yer say and all. This’s what’s wanted, this bairn’ll bring new life to the place and cure yer wife’s ailments once and for all.’

Matt stopped at every tavern to toast his new child and came back ‘market fresh’. He could not wait to see his son. His wife was such a mystery to him. How could this feeble woman who scorned him by day, devour him by night within the darkness of the bed curtains. He had crept in and she caressed him in the darkness. Only her hands puzzled him: by day they stitched like the furies, white and soft as silk, sewing her poor mind into those samplers; by night her hands were rough hewn and coarsened by passion. Once she was recovered he would insist they share the bed every night. This misunderstanding must not happen again.

He arrived at Lawton to see her sitting, plumped up with cushions, holding the infant to him proudly, ‘Your son, as I promised,’ she smiled so sweetly, turning to the maid who was sitting in her usual spot, silent in the shadows. ‘Is he not a true Stockdale? He has your fair hair.’

He had to admit he had the look of Matt’s own father, looking like a little old man in his arms. How proud he would have been. He bent down to kiss her forehead in acceptance of this surprise gift but she turned her cheek.

‘I’m so weary after all this travail but fetch my sewing box and I’ll stitch his name onto his sheets and linen; the first of many,’ she smiled.

He turned to Bella and ordered her to bring wine to celebrate but his wife shook her head.

‘Later, the poor girl is as tired as I am for she had sat with me and helped deliver me safely. We both need to rest. Take your son and show him where you must,’ she ordered and he was thrilled to see her so alive. ‘Close the door and admit only Papa when he arrives back from his business. I want no visitors but the Parson who can baptise him here if you wish’

For a few days Matt’s hopes of a miracle cure for his wife rose. She was brought back to life by this bairn. Then to his utter disappointment, on her return home she fell back to her old ways, sitting by the windows of light, rocking the cradle with her calfskin boot, sewing, sewing, always sewing. He never saw her feeding him but the boy seemed to be thriving. He insisted that the boy be properly baptised in St Peter’s church before the congregation, which upset his chapel-going mother.

Mirabel did not make the church service for she was in one of her feverish moods. The baby was held by the maid as usual, who rocked him back and forth until he slept and the christening went ahead with the Squire bursting with pride at the sight of his grandson. His daughter had done her duty and produced an heir and he seemed mighty relieved that everyone was satisfied with her good work.

Soon life at Yewbank was back to the old way. The baby roared, screaming for its feed, upsetting Matt’s mother with his untended cries.

‘That girl’s got not enough milk. She scarce lifts her eyes from her sewing to see to him. I’ve taken to putting him in the kitchen with me. It’s not right, Matt. His cries wake us all in the night but all that Dacre girl does is sew and sew: such fine gowns, I must admit, embroidered caps, capes. Her fingers are raw. Only Bella gets up to him in the night and shushes him up. There is nothing William lacks, poor lad, but a mother with a bit of sense. I cannot be doing with his cries. They tear my heart out. You’ve got to say something, son, or I will.’

One morning Matt himself could hear the baby screaming out with hunger, so wondering when someone would lift the bairn and see to his comforts he came indoors to have words. Bella was scurrying across the top of the upper floor and in her haste she dropped some napkins. He picked them up still warm from the flat iron, smelling of lavender, and followed her into Mirabel’s chamber to return them. For once the door was not locked.

Through the open door to his horror he glimpsed the maid’s pock-marked breasts as she suckled his son contentedly.

‘What in God’s name are you doing with my son?’ he screamed and the baby startled, screwed up its face and began to wail. Mirabel looked up at him blushing and for once had the grace to give him her full attention. Bella looked at him square on, the brazen hussy.

‘Someone has to feed William. He’s hungry and Mirabel has no milk. Wet nurses are common enough, Sire,’ she spoke without asking for permission.

‘Aye and we all know that a milk cow must first deliver to produce its milk. A barren cow cannot suckle a calf. Hellfire! What are you two she devils up to? Give me that thing . . .’ he snatched the child from the breast and slammed the door, his mind afire with rage at such deception.

What had been going on under his roof? This was mischief indeed. What he was thinking was unbelievable. Whose child was this bastard? His head was ringing with fury at the scene he’d just witnessed.

So that was their little game. They had hatched up this plot to deceive him, giving him the child of a maid and some quisling from the tavern too drunk to see her face. How could he have ever been deceived into thinking this was his own heir when he had been with his wife but twice? How they had deceived him! Matt tore through the kitchen, striding out into the yard with the screaming infant wailing for all to hear.

‘Out of my way!’ he ordered as the yard boy stepped aside. Then, seeing Sadie the dairymaid, he dumped the bundle into her arms and made for his horse to saddle up and mount, strapping the screaming child tight around his chest in a makeshift sling.

He rode like the furies towards Gunnerside Foss but not before he halted suddenly to look up at his house, and the world that was fast collapsing around his head. How grand the farmhouse looked with whitened walls set against the emerald moorland, the sun torching the windows with golden light, so proud and outstanding but so full of corruption. How he had been duped and humiliated by those scheming women: one unfit to be seen and the other not right in the head. Poor Matt Stockdale who thought he could be a gentleman, fobbed off with someone else’s bastard, made a laughing stock in the district. No wonder they had hidden away in Lawton to deceive him. It was as clear as a mountain stream now. Well, he was going to have the last laugh now . . .

10

‘What’s going on?’ puffed Lucy Stockdale, as she rushed into the bed chamber unannounced, hearing the screams. ‘Where’s the babby?’ Eliza was simpering and shaking her head and Mirabel was buttoning up her shirt trying to stay calm. How could she explain the mess they were all now in? But there was no time for explanations. Matt had taken her baby in a rage of fury, thinking William some bastard imposter. There was danger in the air and she must go to him.

‘Please see to Miss Mirabel,’ she begged, trying to stay calm and not alarm Mistress Stockdale further. ‘I must take the baby a warm shawl or he will be chilled in the fresh air.’ She ran down to the kitchen but there was no sign of her son. She ran through the yard calling his name but there was no answer until Sadie came out of the dairy and said the Master had saddled up and gone. Her heart was thumping with fear.

‘Saddle me a horse and be quick. The Master is out of his senses. He thinks the baby unwell,’ she lied. Now was not time for explanations. All she could think about was little William, hungry, cold and in danger from a man in the throes of furious confusion. This was the moment she had dreaded, the moment when all the tight ball of lies they had wound was unravelling fast. Mirabel mounted the brown horse for the first time in months, racing off down the track in pursuit of Matt, taking a flying leap over a wall in the race to save her son.

Sitting in the saddle with the whimpering child, Matt suddenly felt as if all the stuffing had gone out of him. Matt wanted to cry out himself in shame for having been such a blind fool who’d built his house on the shifting sand of vanity, not on the rock of truth. It was built on the sands of pride and ambition. How could he ever think to emulate the gentry when he was but a yeoman? Here he was, a farmer’s son, parading about in his top hats and leather boots and fancy steed, now brought low by a frigid wife and a cunning maid in this house of whispering women. Damn them all!

He glanced down at the little baby’s face, innocent yet corrupt, and he felt a stab of pity for the poor mite. How could he dispose of this terrible deception? All he wanted to do was punish those two imposters once and for all and teach them that Matthias Stockdale still had his pride and his wits. He began to shake at the very thought of his wicked intentions. Then he saw the horse chasing after him, tearing across the field like the furies on one of his better horses, a woman in a cloak astride a man’s horse, riding like wild fire.

There was something in the way she was riding that reminded him of time’s past: the time when in his youthful arrogance he thought he could ever woo the young Mirabel Dacre before she shrunk into this heartless, witless, feeble-headed creature. He wanted to weep at all his foolishness but as he watched the figure lit against the skyline, some recognition stirred in his mind, some strange intuition, the sort he had never had for years, that his old flame had returned . . .

It was Mirabel, come to plead with him, to tell him she was sorry for the deception, to plead forgiveness and pledge her love. Then he saw it was only the maid, the monstrous Bella in all her pock-marked ugliness and he fled from her, racing down towards the edge of the path where the roar of the waterfall drowned out her crying. She would be witness to his determination. He must be Master of Yewbank or die in the attempt. If she moved a step further, he would jump. It was the only solution now to his shaming. But his mother depended on him to keep them in old age. How he’d sacrificed her comforts for his fanciful schemes. How could he have ever been ashamed of his family? They were strong. It was the Dacres who were weak.

He turned to see Bella following, dismounting swiftly with arms outstretched. Bells of warning were ringing in his head: ‘Stand firm, she is a witch.’ He stepped closer to the edge, holding out the baby in defiance.

Mirabel sensed his intention and froze, hearing the roar of the water after heavy rain, the wailing of her child and the crazed look on Matt’s face. If ever there was punishment, it was coming now and she prayed hard for guidance to direct their path to safety.

‘Give me the child,’ she spoke softly. ‘It is too chilly. Give him to me now.’

‘Do I drop him now or deliver him up to the Constable as a foundling? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just end it now?’ Matt was wavering. There was still a chance but her face was stiff with fear at his words.

‘I am pleading for your understanding. We have deceived you, that is true, but hear me out, give me the child, please,’ she begged but not moving, in case a sudden approach might drive him into madness.

‘I am waiting . . . You two will be whipped through the streets and put in the stocks, if I have any say in the matter,’ he said, holding the child fast to his chest in defiance . . .

‘And no one would blame you but hear me out before you hang yourself as a murderer and condemn us to public shame. The child needs its mother. William’s done nothing but be born. I beg you, don’t harm your son,’ she sank on her knees in despair.

‘Son, hah! Where is my wife? Mirabel should be here, not her messenger,’ he sneered, looking down at her with contempt.

‘I am Mirabel Dacre. I am the one you once desired to wed,’ said the woman and looked up at him, her cheeks blazing.

‘No . . . no, that cannot be,’ he stammered, edging ever closer to the drop in shock. ‘Mirabel sits by the window sewing, come what may. You are not she.’

‘And she is not me but Eliza, my sister, who always sewed, even as a child, and never rode like the wind over the fells,’ she replied softly.

‘Eliza is dead. She died in York. I was told so by her father. It was Mirabel who survived unharmed.’ She could see he was so confused as he slumped, jerking the baby who screamed in protest.

‘You were told lies, Matt. It was I who caught the smallpox from my aunt and I who nearly died. Eliza was kept away from the sickness but she isn’t strong. She’s always been delicate in her mind and I knew no one would ever marry her. Who would want the eldest daughter with her face disfigured? Do not blame her. It was all my idea. We’d no choice but to deceive everyone. Eliza was so afraid that I had to protect her. This was the only way to spare us both, so Eliza took on my name to save our family from shame. I came as her maid knowing she can’t walk abroad as most women do. We couldn’t stay in York to the mercies of some terrible fate. I owe her everything,’ she cried then paused, seeing he was listening. ‘Give me my child, for as God is my witness he is surely mine. He is the one beautiful thing left to me. Do not part us. Have mercy on us all,’ she pleaded, falling on her face at his feet.

‘How could your father not have guessed the truth?’ he sneered scornfully. ‘Does he not know his own daughters?’

‘Did you not recognize your own sweetheart? We see what we want to see,’ she replied. ‘You wanted Mirabel and he wanted her too so we gave her back unmarked but Eliza’s weakness we could not hide for long.’ There was a silence. ‘I watched you making love to the idea of the lady Mirabel who would confer on you all the status and connections you desired. You were cheated down the line by my father’s desire to fob us off. You were fooled by all of us but there’s none so blind as those who do not want to see,’ she looked up, hoping to touch his conscience.

‘Eliza could never be the wife I would have been to you. I watched you struggling to understand the change in her manner and bearing. Could you not see that I was always taller, fuller, fairer than she? It is only my outward skin that was marked, not my soul nor my spirit. It has not changed but you have coarsened and hardened in my eyes.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ he said, suddenly slumping down on the damp ground and staring out towards the bank on the other side. Then to her relief he put the baby in her hands gently, ‘Take him. I’ll have none of him. We have all been deceived but this boy, most of all, this waif and stray. You must think up a scheme for his future, for he is none of mine. Your words are clever, but I am not deceived. You are not my Mirabel and never were. She would never have done this to me. She was no thief! Perhaps my pride has gone before my judgement and I should never have chosen to look above me for a wife. I saw her station not her person and I did her disservice, but the boy?’

Mirabel sighed and gripped the baby with relief. ‘We did you all great wrong but a girl brought up only to idleness has few choices but to marry well and I had none . . .’

‘You have made fools of us all and betrayed our generosity. You are not the Mirabel I once knew. She would not have done all this.’

‘Oh, but I am and you are not the saint in glory you like us to think, Mr Stockdale, for I know your secrets too, or have you forgotten our secret tryst in the glade when you leant me against the tree and took my likeness for your own pleasure? Only I know you never received payment for your plates and that Hector’s portrait sits in my brother’s chamber in York. If I am not Mirabel Dacre, how is it that I have a letter written in your own hand expressing your ardent desire to be my suitor? . . . Go and ask Eliza where we took those photographs. See if your precious Mirabel wife knows anything about that little misdoing!’

‘I shall do just that,’ he replied, not daring to look her in the face. ‘I hear your arguments, you’re cunning, I’ll give you that. How do I know that Mirabel didn’t share the secret before she died? But to foist a son on me that was not mine . . .’ He spat out his fury and she grabbed his arm.

‘William is your son, may God strike me dead if he is not,’ she paused lowering her head talking to the ground. ‘It was not Eliza who lay in the chamber in the silken shift in the darkness. Darkness covers a multitude of deceptions. Where there’s no light I can be who I once was, beautiful in your eyes, desirable, wanton and willing to the man I cared for.’

Matt couldn’t take in what he was hearing now. His heart was beating at the thought of those nights of passion. It was not then some dream. ‘So that was why the hands on me were rougher and harder,’ he whispered as if to himself, shuddering with pleasure at the images they stirred up.

‘Here they are, feel them. Do not flinch from them in daylight for they gave you much pleasure at night,’ she whispered, holding out one hand for him to examine. ‘Now you know the whole truth, all of it. William is your true son, fruit of our loins and I am his mother: the union of a Dacre and a Stockdale, as you desired. We can leave you now in peace and make no further demands on you, if you so wish. Arrangements can be made; some story will suffice of sickness or whatever. We will return to Lawton as soon as possible and trouble you no further,’ Mirabel offered as she walked back to the horse to lift the child on the saddle, smiling. ‘It’s never too soon to get a baby used to its mount.’

‘Stay,’ said Matt, shaking. ‘And to think I nearly . . . I must admit when I saw you riding towards me . . . I nearly . . .’

‘But you didn’t, Matt, because in your heart you’re a good and just man. What must I do now?’ she asked, turning away.

‘Let’s walk back slowly so that I may take all this in. Who else knows of this deception?’ He could not bear to think that the whole district knew of it.

‘The three of us, that’s all, I swear. Some may guess there’s some irregularity but not what it entails. Your dear mother is kindness itself. I will deceive her no longer. Papa is so befuddled with drink, he thinks I am but the maid and a whim of his daughter’s charity.’

‘Then why need we change anything?’ Matt heard himself saying.

‘Because it is not honest and I’m sick of lies,’ she replied softly and he looked down at her with respect.

‘Honest to who? God knows what we know and we know what we know.’

‘What about William when he is older?’ she said.

‘You are his mother in the sight of God. You feed him and see to him, nurse him. That’s all that will matter to him,’ he argued.

‘But there is Mirabel . . . I mean Eliza?’ she said.

‘She has her silks, thread and needles and she can have as many canvasses as she can sew in the windows of light. She will be content for her life to continue in safety under our protection. If she cannot live like others do, we will protect her privacy and protect each other.’ Suddenly it felt as if a great weight of doubt was shifting from the tight band around his head. He could sense sunshine and daylight and warmth gliding over Yewbank at last.

‘It’s not right. I must leave,’ she said turning from him but he grabbed her arm roughly.

‘Do you want to leave us, Mirabel?’ He pleaded with his eyes.

‘No,’ she replied, staring back at him in tears.

‘Then that’s an end on it, madam. The Master has spoken,’ he smiled and touched her face with his finger, tracing the scars as if seeing them for the first time. There was indeed more to beauty than a pock-marked skin.

Mirabel lay in the crook of Matt’s arm that night. This time there was no more of the Master creeping in the darkness while the Mistress slept in the dressing room. This time like true lovers, Mirabel shared his own chamber and they made love by candlelight as if for the first time.

‘Whatever are we going to do?’ she whispered. ‘I can’t just come back from the dead. Nothing must appear changed by your discovery. I would not like to shame your mother with our deception and yet . . .’ Mirabel rose as if to leave but Matt pulled her back into his arms.

‘All in good time. Eliza will stay as she is. If we are discreet no one will challenge things. Come back to bed.’

‘But it will soon be time for milking. The girls in the parlour will wonder if I am late.’

‘Let them wonder.’

‘But if they talk our secret will leak all over the dale.’

‘One day at a time, my dear Bella. On a farm nothing changes, not with chores and stock and the seasons. I am just sorry this is not the life I wanted for you as my wife.’

Mirabel bent over and kissed him. ‘And I am sorry I’m not the beautiful bride that you wished for but I am strong and willing to share the work. When I think how I treated the servants at Lawton, I’m so ashamed. Being scarred and a mere invisible servant has humbled my pride. I have learned that we must treat those beneath us in station with fairness. They work so hard for their living.’

‘With you in charge how can things not get better?’ Matt replied.

‘You know now I feel useful for the first time in my life. I am happy to be Bella, your outdoor farm wife so Eliza can be Mirabel Stockdale, the indoor society one. She will be happy tutoring little William and teaching a little daughter her stitches, should the time come. Perhaps when our parents are gone we can revert to our real names but I must get up now to feed William.’ She opened the shutters onto a beautiful dawn rising over the fells. ‘It’s like living on the top of the world here,’ she laughed. ‘Like gods on Mount Olympus. Perhaps we can do what we like, for who is there to say yay or nay?’

Matt admired her naked outline as he sank back on his pillow content for the first time in years. All that he needed and loved was here in the house he’d built from his dreams. Mirabel was right. They could live by their own rules. Was this not their kingdom after all?

There was much change in the household in the following years and all for the better. Mirabel was relieved that Eliza was free to sew and to play with little William, now there was a new baby to come. Eliza had even taken her first steps unaided through the door with little William holding her hand and could sit in the walled garden without fainting. It was a start.

Sometimes in private, they called each other by their real names. Far from prying eyes they could live life by their own rules. It was Mirabel who accompanied Matt to church on Sunday, whose bonnets were the talk of Lawton, being far too lavish in ruffles and feathers for a mere nursemaid. She was the one to give Matt his night comforts in the chamber they shared together.

Eliza stayed at home seeing to the linen, receiving a few parlour visitors as a good indoor wife should. There was much to see to in the growing household. Mostly she liked to keep to her special sewing room but she was never lonely now, having little children to play with while Mirabel took on the duties of a Dales farmer’s wife most seriously. Sometimes they all sat together, the three of them admiring the view from the windows of light.

If there were rumours of a strange arrangement at Yewbank House, not even the Parson dare challenge the truth of the matter. Only Eliza’s samplers hinted at the tale with secret symbols hidden in the borders. Yewbank prospered but Lawton Hall was sold out of the family to pay Barnett’s debts and the grandeur of the Dacres was soon forgotten when it was bought by a Cotton mill magnate from Bradford.

One afternoon when Eliza was resting, Matt dusted down his tripod and his special camera, pointing Mirabel to the garden. ‘I’m going to make a portrait of mother and son,’ he ordered. ‘Put him in his best gown and sit him on your knee.’ He smiled but Mirabel shrunk back.

‘You mustn’t do that, Matt. I’m not fit to be seen.’

‘You are to me, wife of my heart. This is just a private shot of us both and our son together.’ He was setting up his equipment in front of the rose bower where there was a bench. He sat them both down to fix the distance and the light. Mirabel was shaking at such a request as she unwrapped William Albert from his layers. She whipped up the lacy wool shawl and threw it over her head to make a veil.

‘Just take the boy! Not me, please,’ she pleaded. ‘I must be hidden, for everyone’s sake.’

‘Are you sure?’ Matt peered from his cover ready for the exposure. ‘It will look bizarre but I want to hold him too.’ He jumped to the side and gripped the baby, staring into the camera. ‘Look, Billy boy, watch the birdie . . .’

‘Promise you won’t show this to anyone. This must be our secret. Promise me . . .’

In the years that followed, Mirabel and Matt took to riding over their estate together but somehow always ended up sitting by the side of Gunnerside Foss watching the waterfall cascading down or finding new vistas for him to photograph. Soon there was another baby in the picture but Mirabel would never let them be shown in public and gathered them in a fine leather album that was kept in their chamber.

Matt often wondered how he could ever have been deceived into thinking Mirabel disfigured and plain. Love had transformed her features, softened those marks to a point where they were invisible to him. Their marriage was more than just gazing into each other’s eyes. It was, as a preacher once said, more a looking forward together in the same direction.

2012

I woke from my strange reverie when Bill brought in a mug of coffee. ‘You’re not still looking at that thing, are you?’

‘I was just thinking how names run in families, and aren’t all the first-born Stockdale boys named William? And here’s William Albert Dacre. I wonder why? Was he the first? This picture poses more questions than answers.’

‘Put that thing away, it gives me the creeps, those hands sticking out, the hidden face. You notice the hidden mother far more than you notice the baby,’ Bill replied. ‘But I might just go and look in the attic to see if there are any more of his photographic plates.’

Trust a Dales farmer to be practical, thought his wife. ‘You do that but I’m going to find out more about this mystery woman. There’s bound to be something in the Parish register of births and deaths about your family history. There’s something about all this that needs rooting out. You never know,’ I smiled placing the photo back into the recesses of the album. ‘They say where the lanes be long and tracks climb high, people get away with a whole house full of secrets. Who knows, if I delve a bit more I might find a good story hidden behind that veil.’

Read on for an exclusive extract from Leah Fleming’s upcoming novel

The Last Pearl

Prologue

York, 1880

‘First show me your hands,’ Mr Abrahams, the old jeweller, ordered. ‘How rough they are from all that washing, but they’ll improve. Oily hands won’t do for my repairs.’ He lifted a clutch of pearls out of a velvet cloth. ‘Each one of these is a gift of nature, the tears of the gods, some say. Good pearls are cold to the touch, so hold and see for yourself.’

Greta felt their smooth round texture in her palm. ‘Where do they come from?’

‘From inside the shell of an oyster or mussel. When a bit of grit gets under its shell, the oyster coats it with mother of pearl, layer after layer of nacre. She grows the pearl like a baby in the womb.’ He smiled. ‘You can open a thousand shells and never find anything better than these.’

‘But we sell oysters on the market to eat.’ Greta was puzzled.

‘Ah, my dear, these are from special shells, unios, margarita margaritafera, unique shells growing under the fast-flowing river beds and estuaries. All over the world there are different shells and shapes producing pearls in all the colours of the rainbow. Most come out of the deep sea. Divers swim down to collect them, but we have them closer to home too.’

He brought out a necklace for her to hold under the light. ‘This necklace is weak and needs to be restrung and the clasp needs tightening. You must watch and work with other beads before I can let you loose on such a precious item, but perhaps one day . . . It’s delicate work for my tired eyes but it must be done.’

Greta watched how he shed the pearls onto a tray, one by one in order of size, with such a tenderness of touch. ‘We must not damage the pearl or bruise its surface.’ He took off his glasses and sighed. ‘I always think we are like pearls. Without grit there would be no pearl. Sorrows have a way of strengthening the heart, never forget that, child.’

1

Perthshire, July, 1879

‘Away and fetch Pa in from the river,’ shouted Jeannie Baillie to her son, who was busy storing peats outside the door of their cottage. ‘He’s been out there too long.’

It was high summer in the forests around Perth, and almost the shooting season – a brief summer gap for haymaking and river fishing on the estate where the Baillies were employed. The banks of the river were full of campers scouring the water for those special mussels that might make them a fortune.

Running down to the water’s edge through a secret path hidden by the tall Scots pines, with their scented needles and cones, Jem Baillie knew just the spot where his father fished for pearls every summer, hidden from the travelling folk in their bendy tents and vardos. It was the dry season, the shallow season when the river ran deep and calm and camps used by the log floaters in the winter were now filled with pearl hunters.

Jem loved the silence of the dark forests. His grandfather Guthrie worked those hidden places, hewing down the great pines while supervising the other river rats, jumping the floating logs that were carried by the water in full spate to the lumber mills. That was autumn work when the season picked up, but until the beaters went out on the glorious 12th of August, there was nothing to do but join his father in searching the river bed for the secret hoard that would bring honey to their coarse oaten bread, and strong boots for the snows to come.

Jem was an only child. When Sam Baillie, an itinerant traveller, stopped for the season on the Laird’s estate to be a hired hand, little did he know his wanderings would soon be over. When his tribe moved on he had already fallen for the quiet charm of the widow Guthrie, who cleaned and served food in the shooting lodges. She bore him a fine son in her forties, a son they were trying to keep from the forest and the Laird’s employ by enrolling him in school as a pupil helper. Once school was out he was away with his father fishing until it was dark. Sam Baillie was the undisputed king of the pearl fishers and Jem loved to watch him at work. He had the old way of doing things, the gypsy way. ‘The right way’ he was told.

‘Yon pearl is a gift of nature, son. God’s bounty and not be squandered. You have to tease the shell open a wee bitty; not crush it, killing the creature inside like the farm boys do. Some of my own are no better. All those piles of rotting shells on the shoreline kicking up a stink: why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?’

Jem caught sight of his father bent, peering into the water with the wooden bucket with a glass bottom. He was chest high in cold water.

‘Any luck, today?’ Jem yelled, but his father was too busy to answer at first. He looked up and smiled.

‘Give us a hand, laddie.’

‘Mam says it’s time you were out or you’ll catch yer death.’

‘Ach away . . . she’s in here, I know it in ma bones. I had a dream last night. She’s waiting down there. Come in and see. Your young eyes are sharper than mine and my back is awful weary.’

Jem rolled up his britches. Barefoot, he waded in, taking hold of the shaft of the scraper with its hooks bent backwards to dislodge the mussel from its berth. He fished around with his feet, through the stones and mud and sand, scraping up mussels to the surface, giving them to Sam to shove into the bag slung round his body, already weighed down with shells to be opened.

‘Come on home, the stew’s in the pot.’ Jem was hungry.

‘How’d yer whish’t,’ Sam replied, coughing with a rasp that Jem hated to hear. ‘What’s that down there? Can you see, to the left of yon stone?’

‘Just an old twisty thing.’ Jem was feeling with his toes.

‘Bring it up then.’

‘But it’s an old battered shell.’

‘Twisters are the best. Have I taught you nothing, son? They misshapes is there for a reason. Bring it up.’

The boy and the old man sat on the tussocky river bank as Sam carefully opened up each mussel in turn, one by one. There was nothing of note, just glistening mollusks. Some were useless and not worth opening, so he threw them back. Two had tiny seed pearls, like tiny shot pellets. There was one shaped like a minute acorn, the ones they called barrel pearls. They would go in his baccy tin to be sold in a job lot.

‘I’m starving, Pa. Let’s away home or I’ll get a row.’

‘Wait, it’s here. I know it is. I dreamt it.’ Sam forced open yet another misshape with a hump on its back, fingering inside to see if there was anything hiding in the folds of flesh.

‘There’s nothing.’ Jem was bored and his stomach was rumbling as he ferreted into the old shell he had brought out last. Feeling something, he pulled out what looked like a white marble.

His father took one look and crossed himself with a whistle. ‘Praise be. Have you ever seen anything like that in all yer born days?’

Jem held the pearl in his palm. His heart was racing. He knew this was special, bigger than anything they’d ever found before. It was a perfect sphere and in the sunlight, all the colours of the rainbow glinted from its smooth surface. ‘Wait till Ma sees this.’

‘No, you tell no one. This is our secret. You know she can blether with the other wifies and then they’ll all be wanting to know where we found this gem of gems. You can fish all your life and never find such a beauty. It’s worth a king’s ransom, laddie. I know it in ma bones – and where there’s one there’ll be others. The Lord be praised, for he told it to me in a dream. This wee darling will change our lives, sure she will.’ Sam kissed the pearl.

Jem could see the excitement on his father’s leathery face, but he could also hear his breathlessness and the rattling cough in his chest. Pa was getting too old for standing in rivers and lugging logs. If this pearl would buy them warm winter clothes, a horse and cart then it would be worthwhile.

Yet as they trudged back through the path and the needles scrunched under his bare feet, Jem sensed the thrill of the search. All those disappointments of empty shells were forgotten when you had such a miracle in your pouch. Did this mean their fortunes had changed for the better?

2

York, July, 1879

The early morning light peeped through the hole in the curtain. It was Saturday again, the best day of the week for Margaret Costello. She rolled off the bed board, trying not to wake her sister, Kitty. She’d slept in again, and now had no time but to throw on her skirt, shirt and wrap the shawl across her chest, pin her plaits over her head and creep down the wooden stairs in her stockinged feet. The boots would be waiting polished or her brother, Tom, wouldn’t be getting any ‘spice’.

The tea was stewing on the embers of the banked up fire. No time to linger judging by the rain on the window. Mother was sleeping on the camp bed, but stirred as she lifted the latch and went straight out on the darkened street, hoping that Mr Abrahams had remembered to unlock his door.

She scurried up Walmergate to the house of the old watchmaker across the river Foss in Aldwark, trying not to shiver in the dawn air. At least his laundry had been delivered before his Sabbath: a clean shirt, underclothes neatly pressed and mended. Mother always took care with his washing, keeping it separate, thankful for work at the end of the week rather than Monday. Living alone now, he always received the clothes as if they were the crown jewels, nodding his head in gratitude.

Sometimes when she delivered them he was busy at his bench, curled over a watch repair with a candle and globe like a magnifying mirror, looking up with tired lashless eyes and heavy lids. ‘Ah Margarita, is it that time already?’

She loved the way he called her by her given name.

‘Do you know it is the Greek word for a pearl?’ he told her umpteen times.

Here she was thinking she was named after the blessed Margaret Clitherow of York, pressed to death between doors for sheltering a Jesuit priest in the bad old days: or so her father once told her. Margaret was her Sunday name, but most of the time she answered to all the usual short cuts: ‘Maggie Costello, come and mind my bairns.’ ‘Peggy me darling angel, fetch me a packet of tea. Tell him to put it on the slate.’

Dad always called her little Greta and that’s what she liked best. Today she was the Saturday girl, who could escape the Irish quarter of the old city and make her way later to Parliament Street, to the bustle of the market stalls where helping behind the scenes brought welcome treats for the family.

But first she must attend to Mr Abrahams, as his gentile Sabbath girl who lit his lamps before sundown on Friday night, made up his fire and lit it again on Saturday morning, made sure all his ‘Sunday best’ was laid out while he slept and topped up his special soup on the range to warm through. Mother had been happy to do this for a while but was even happier to pass the task onto her eldest daughter now she was fourteen.

Saul Abrahams belonged to another world, a world of book learning and foreign languages. He was of the Jewish race and spoke Yiddish with his friends. He was a widower, frail and tired, who worked all day in his workshop room full of ticking clocks, some chiming at different times, others sitting silent and dusty waiting for his magic touch.

Greta opened the latch and revived his fire, making sure it was well stoked, and tidied round a little of the clutter. The house smelled of chalk, spirit, oil and polish. His bench was cluttered with eyeglasses, brushes and tools of all sizes. She liked to linger over his repairs, admiring the delicate files and instruments he used, fingering a box of broken jewellery, bracelets and chains labelled for repair beside soldering irons and a burner which she mustn’t touch. She knew he would be doing no work today or any cooking until after sunset.

Satisfied that the first task of the day was finished, she left the house without lingering. It was time to rush to where the market stretched down the whole length of Parliament Street to help with the setting up of stalls. There was a blind basket-maker who always needed a hand, and some country butter-makers who asked her to mind their babies while they set out their cheeses and butter pats. They knew she could be trusted behind the stalls. The vegetable-growers found her jobs pulling off rotten cabbage leaves, unpacking boxes of fruit and putting the best specimens to the front of the stall.

If she was lucky there were mugs of tea and buns, and a hunk of Wensleydale cheese which she slipped into her apron pocket along with the few pennies she gleaned for helping out.

She avoided the drunks who thought she was fair game. Costellos might be dirt poor but Mother warned her not to give any of them the eye or they might think they could take her down the back alley and mess with her private parts. Some of her school friends had already gone down that slippery slope, so on Friday nights they were out on the town with painted faces when the men had their pay packets. She knew she didn’t scare the horses with her black hair and bluebell eyes, but nothing would make her go down that path. Greta had a nose for danger.

As she watched the young shoppers with their mamas wearing fine gowns, cloaks and over-mantles, sporting perky hats from the smart millinery shops, it was hard not be envious. They didn’t have to rise at the crack of dawn or spend the week with hands doused in scrubbing soap.

The preacher at the Mission Hall told them that everyone was equal in the sight of the Lord but not in York, they weren’t. You knew your place just by your address. Living off Navigation Road, Walmgate might be within the city walls but it was a rat infested, warren of back courts and dilapidated houses, full of Irish immigrants who came after the terrible potato famine years ago. Brendan Costello worked as a navvy building railways in Yorkshire. He’d earned a decent wage and found an English wife. They’d been respectable, well shod and fed, living in clean rooms, but his dying of the cholera fever changed everything. Now they rented two flea-bitten rooms and a wash house close to the stand pipe so Mother could boil water in the copper and take in washing.

Two of Greta’s brothers had died as babies so now there was just To m and Kitty to feed and keep clean, but it was hard in those damp rooms. Let no one say Mother didn’t try her best to keep them as they once were. There was no chance of staying on at St Margaret’s School when she was needed at home. Was it wrong to want more for herself than skivvy work? To m went out with the street boys collecting dog muck in pails to sell to the tanneries and he stunk to high heaven if they got in a silly fight. Even Kitty had to mind babies for a few pennies. That’s how they survived to the week end.

There were skivers like Nora Walsh who made her living reading tea leaves, telling stuff and nonsense to wide-eyed wifies. Only the other day she’d plonked herself down at their table to cadge a mug of tea and a bit of a craic while Mother was trying to press shirts. She’d been to the pawn shop to redeem her son’s suit for Mass on the Sunday.

‘What can you see?’ Kitty asked, watching as the old woman swirled the tea leaves round.

‘Whish’t . . . I’m seeing. You’ll no have far to find yer sorrows Sadie, my girl,’ she sighed, looking up at Mother who stood pressing down on the clothes with tight lips.

‘I don’t need you to tell me that. A husband taken before his time, two bairns dead of the fever, a house full of damp and vermin.’

‘Oh it’ll get better, in time, I promise . . . You’ll find comfort. Look.’

‘Read mine, then,’ Greta held out her hand, curious. Nothing could be worse than the last years. Perhaps there’d be good news for her too.

‘And me,’ Kitty added, looking up from her chores.

‘You’re too young for such capers,’ Mother snapped.

‘No, it’s never too young to know your fate,’ Nora replied, rinsing out the cup carefully, filling it up again and swirling it around.

‘I don’t hold with tempting fate, putting ideas in her head. Leave her be.’

Greta stood up in a sulk. ‘I never get any fun. My hand’s as good as anyone else’s or is it all a trick?’

‘Oh give the girl a go or there’ll be no peace . . .’

Widow Walsh examined Greta’s long fingers, looking up at the girl and then at the tea leaves in the cup. Greta’s face was pink with expectation. The widow opened her mouth as if to speak and then looked at her mother, shaking her head. ‘I can’t see nothing, dearie. It’s all gone cloudy. Perhaps another day.’

Greta knew she had seen something in the shift and flicker of her eyes from hand to cup and in how she changed the subject, turning away.

‘Am I going to die young, then?’ she whispered, staring at her open palm.

‘Of course not, look at that long life line and those fingers.’

‘Then what can you see?’

‘Nothing for you to be bothering about, just live out your span as it comes to you but I see danger in running water . . . What’s for you will no go past you, child. Don’t be in such a hurry. Thanks for the cuppa, Sadie, I’ll be away to my own midden.’ With that she rose and left them staring at each other.

‘That’s what comes of meddling in things that are not our concern,’ Mother said.

‘Hurry up there, lass,’ shouted a farmer’s wife, as Greta stood daydreaming of this conversation. It was a long day until the market had to be packed up, but she was free now to wander round the ancient streets with coins jangling in her pocket. She was in no hurry to go home for the bath time in the zinc tub. They had to be scrubbed up for Sunday school and spotless no matter what it cost Mother in soap and elbow grease.

Greta was proud that their rooms didn’t smell, like so many down the street, of wet nappies, damp dogs, boiled cabbage peelings and sweaty armpits. Not that there was much for them to clean in the way of clothes and boots but they got by, just.

Greta took her usual zig-zag route along the back streets to the heart of the city’s shopping. If you lived in York, you lived in many worlds: poor folk by the river, parsons by the Minster, soldiers in the barracks and shopkeepers open all hours. There were cobblers, dairymen, theatres, a church on every corner, coaching inns and public houses and cobbled streets with tall houses leaning over to almost touch each other.

The walls of the city were like arms enclosing everyone inside and Greta loved going through the ancient city gates, shuddering at the thought of heads stuck on spikes for all to see in the olden days. There was the famous castle up a steep mound and parks to play in, but it was the rows of higgledy-piggledy shops under the watchful eye of the Minster towers she was making for now; those shiny shops full of beautiful hats, pictures, pretty pieces of furniture and, best of all, the sparkling windows full of jewels, ticking clocks, rings and necklaces.

Greta knew every one of those windows and how their displays changed from season to season. It was hard not to stare at the elegant ladies and gentlemen who came in their carriages to glide through the hallowed doorways, waited on by men in dark coats and white collars. She was invisible to them in her short grey cloak and patched skirt stained from a day’s market work. She melted into the stone walls letting them pass as she lingered, eyeing what she would have if she could have it, while knowing it was all wishful thinking.

Dreaming cost nothing but sometimes she stared in a window for so long that a young assistant would tell her to move on. ‘You’re blocking the view, girl.’ There was one jewellery shop in Stonegate she never lingered over since the time the owner threatened to call the police, suspecting she was casing the shop to rob.

If only I could be a part of this world, she sighed. There must be magic behind those doors, handling such beautiful things: a world far from the squalor of Walmgate’s back to back houses and noisy neighbours. Greta stared at her callused hands. Who would want hands like these? What had Widow Walsh seen that she refused to tell? Was there a future waiting for her if only she could find it? A future where one day she would walk through those fine shop doors in furs and finery? The very thought of this made her ache with longing for a life better than mending combinations, drawers and scrubbing work clothes.

She wanted a house with a proper fireplace and coal scuttle, net curtains and somewhere to sit of an evening. It was this longing that was like a grit inside her. ‘All that glitters isn’t gold,’ went the proverb she’d embroidered for the nuns. All that mattered was that Mother and the others were fed and the younger ones strong enough to find work when the time came for them to leave school. She’d been taught at school that hard work and duty was its own reward, but there had to be more to life than that, some sparkle to lift her spirits out of those horse-dung streets. Colour and starlight, beautiful objects dazzling the eyes; they would brighten anyone’s life. How was she ever going to find those things while living off Navigation Road?

It shouldn’t matter, but in her heart, she knew it did. The Costellos, through no fault of their own, were poor, back-street-poor. Mother deserved more than what she’d suffered and it was up to Greta to make something happen. Staring into shop windows wouldn’t alter anything. Perhaps, she thought, her future was in these hands of hers. Perhaps if she tried to better herself, these hands would open a path to a better life for all of them – if only she just knew how.

3

Perthshire, July, 1879

Ebenezer Slinger was having a bad day. Since the pearl fever of the 1860s, many of the Scottish rivers were being fished out. He saw banks of broken shells piled up on the shingle that told their own tale of reckless fishermen gouging out the estuary beds in a search for a quick sale.

The season was short in the summer and other pearl dealers were tramping round the traveller camps for a quick exchange. Farm boys and town lads with tents were lining the inland rivers hoping to make a fortune on their weekend jaunts.

Eben was not downhearted. He was one of the best in the business. There was not a pearl of note that passed him by. He had a nose for a paragon gem and his nose was twitching. Those unios were still sitting proud, those margaritaferas, mussels making beauteous Scottish fresh water pearls were famous since Roman times.

He had learned his calling the hard way in a London apprenticeship: examining, selecting, grading pearls to be drilled through and strung into the finest of necklaces. It was years of hard slog spent at the beck and call of a tyrant jeweller, but now he was ready to strike out on his own. Now he needed stock – quality stock – but even more than that, he needed a clutch of priceless pearl eggs to warm his heart and set him up in business.

His earliest memory was clutching at his mother’s string of pearls and the scent of her porcelain skin. He had fallen in love with the pearls’ lustre and subtle hues. They reminded him of her before she died, leaving him to the mercy of those two cold aunts. No mention was ever made of his father who abandoned them before Eben was born, leaving him only a second name, Alfred.

As a boy he read the legend of how the pearl oyster rose to the surface of the sea once a year to catch a drop of moon dew. His head told him this was scientific nonsense but in his heart he wished it could be true. Out of such an ugly casing came the gift of a teardrop from the gods. To his eyes, the pearl was the queen of gems and from those earliest years his desire to know more had grown.

Eben could repair a timepiece, solder gold links. He could assess a fine Ceylon sapphire or Burmese ruby, a well-cut African diamond, but there was only one gem that lifted his spirits. Now he was back in his old hunting ground ready for the chase.

He smiled, feeling into the deep recesses of his old coat for a nest of pearls in a chamois leather pouch that no pick-pocket would ever reach without having his throat cut.

It never paid to look prosperous. He was young enough to look like any other town boy off to chance his luck in the fast-flowing Tay river outside Perth. He’d come up on the train from Edinburgh and he was intending to take lodgings in the town and wander around the farmsteads in the winter months when trade would be easier to come by. Housewives needed shoes and tweeds, coats for their offspring, he reckoned. Selling a few good pearls was an easy way to augment the family coffers.

He consoled his conscience with the thought that he was only doing what others in the trade were doing. He was what they called round here, ‘canny’. He struck a hard bargain but his prices were fair enough – though woe betide any fool who tried to foist fakes on him: alabaster beads covered in salmon-skin paste. He knew a dull ‘sleepy’ pearl, fit only for background decoration or ground up for medicines in the Orient to treat yellow eye and snake bites. It wasn’t his fault if the seller had no idea of the value of what he held in his hand or if the pearls had been mishandled. Ignorance was no excuse in his trade. Ignorance was stupidity. If someone spent all day fishing these river mussels and gave them no respect, then he didn’t enlighten them.

How could anyone treat a precious pearl with careless abandon, scratching the surface, squashing them together? He had heard one of the greatest pearls ever to see daylight was ruined because it was baked for a meal, and only found when eaten. How Eben yearned to find a rarity so fine that all the world would come to his door; kings, maharajahs, empresses, coming to be in its presence and buy from his emporium.

He learned early that no jewel could bring warmth to a cold heart and an unloving embrace, that no pearl could have ever cured his mother’s madness or stopped his father from deserting them. Yet in the calm beauty of a fine pearl there was cheer and the inspiration to collect others, to become rich and respected in the trade. Now the search for such treasures was taking over his life.

In his mind his pearls were symbols of love and perfection, purity and wisdom. Even the Bible said the same thing – and he’d read that they were luckiest in life who were born in the pearl month of June, which he was.

On that bright autumn morning of 1879, Eben was a young man on a mission to make his fortune in discovering the finest of Scottish pearls. ‘Search and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened up to you,’ was his mantra. There was a spring in his step as he got off the train north, for he sensed in his very bones they were here for his taking.

As the summer faded into golden leafed autumn, Sam Baillie’s cough grew worse and no amount of Jeannie’s hedge doctoring could shift the phlegm or the shivers. Jem feared for his father. They had told no one of their rich find and Sam, like a man possessed, returned again to the same spot just in case, but his hoard yielded just a few more button-sized pearls – nothing to compare with the dream pearl. The winds blew over the river making it brown and swirling with mud. Sam took to his bed and Jem was afraid it was for the last time.

The Laird’s guns were out in the bracken and Jem skipped school to help out, much to the schoolmaster’s dismay. He knocked on the door demanding an explanation. ‘James should be at his desk, not tramping the forest. I had him for college in Dundee or Edinburgh school. He would then see you in comfort, Jean Guthrie.’

No one in the village understood why a respectable widow should take to her bed a man such as Sam Baillie. Though sure enough, the boy had his father’s fine looks, with a head of wild jet curls and dark winsome eyes. He was not afraid of hard graft but he was half tinker. Everyone knew that there was no holding them when the spirit put the wanderlust in their feet.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she promised, knowing full well that Sam would not last the winter and there’d be precious little to be spending on books and education. ‘Send for the doctor,’ Jem ordered.

‘He’ll not come out this far to see him. We’ll take him into town.’ But both of them knew Sam was too ill to travel.

When his mother left the room, Jem sat by the box bed and whispered. ‘It’s time to sell yon pearl. We have to buy you medicines. Then next summer you’ll back by the river and I’ll do the fishing for you.’

‘I’ve done my last fishing, son. It’s enough to have found the queen of the river. All yer life you can tramp and never have a moment like ours.’ Sam smiled up at his son’s worried face, his eyes glassy with fever.

‘I’m for the next journey to Tir Nan Og, the land far away. You must take care of Queenie, she’ll be yours when I’m a goner.’

‘Don’t talk like that,’ Jem protested.

‘Look after yer mother and see her right. Then go and see the world for yourself, go travel and find Queenie some mates. You’re a lucky one, Jem. This is yours by right, you found her and she will bring good fortune.’

‘Och away with you! What good is it sitting in the pouch when she can buy medicines and cures.’

‘Too late for all that as you know. But I want you to have an eddicashun so no one will cheat you. There’s a few more good pearls in ma box; get yerself some learning, you never know when it will serve you well.’

‘What’s he blethering about now, Jemmy?’ His mother was now hovering in earshot.

‘He’s away with the faeries. His fever’s up and I’m afeard for him.’

That night, Jem and his mother took turns to sit with Sam, covering him with everything to sweat out the fever, giving him sips of feverfew tea which he spat out for its bitterness. Jem sat into the wee small hours, his eyes heavy, until he woke in the dawn and his father’s hand was cold. His mother was weeping.

‘It’s just the two of us now,’ she cried. ‘How will we get by?’

Jem sat holding his mother’s hand, knowing he must take care of her now. ‘There’s some pearls in the chest. We’ll get by. I can work on the estate, lopping branches, barking logs and building up the banks for the log rolling. We won’t starve.’

‘But what about schooling?’

‘That’s over and done with,’ he sighed, sensing a relief that he could take over his father’s work. But there was a sadness too; his chance to travel and see far off places was gone now. He would have to wait and see his mother safe and warm. When she was gone, he searched in the wooden press for the little tin of pearls but it wasn’t there. His father must have put them in his old wooden travelling box with the lock. All he found in his Pa’s jacket were a few coins and a clay pipe. He touched the pipe and wept for the loss of such a good man, knowing it would never glow by the camp firelight again. The heaviness of grief covered him like a blanket and Jem sobbed, knowing that at sixteen he was now man of the house.

Read on for an extract from Leah Fleming’s

The Postcard

Remember before God

those men and women of

The European Resistance Movement

who were secretly trained in Beaulieu to fight

their lonely battle against Hitler’s Germany

and who before entering Nazi occupied territory,

here found some measure of the peace

for which they fought.

From the plaque in the Cloisters of Beaulieu Abbey,

unveiled 27 April 1969.

Prologue

Adelaide, Australia, 2002

The summons from the hospital came in the middle of the night. Although it was expected, it was still a shock.

‘Your father’s asking for you, Melissa. I think he wants to make his peace,’ said the concerned-sounding nurse.

Why should I go? Mel’s head was spinning. Why should I bother? He’s never been the greatest dad in the world. Where was he when I needed him after Mum died? When did he ever give me anything but cheques and empty promises?

Yet something stronger than her anger made her shoot out of bed, ring for a taxi, then throw on her jeans and T-shirt before dunking her face in cold water.

Lew Boyd was all the flesh and blood she had left in the world. Years of heavy drinking had taken its toll on his liver, and all his success in the world couldn’t spare him now. Besides, Mel owed it to her mother to hear him out one last time.

The hospital corridors were silent but for her scurrying footsteps, and Mel’s heart sank at the thought of what was waiting for her in the private ward. The one and only time she’d visited, she’d breezed in with a bunch of grapes and a smile to tell him she’d won the coveted Post-Grad Music Scholarship to the Royal Academy in London, but her excitement had been quickly doused by the sight of the once big man reduced to skin and bone. They’d made small talk, but she had been shocked at the change in him and glad to escape.

This was different. This was the last goodbye. With a sinking heart she wondered what he wanted to say that couldn’t have been said before now.

Lew sat propped up with an oxygen mask by his side. His tanned skin was now a papery yellow, his cheeks pinched, his hair in sparse tufts from the chemo. He looked a shadow of his former handsome self. At the sight of his daughter he held out a bony hand.

‘You came,’ he croaked. ‘I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t.’

‘They rang and said you wanted to see me.’ Mel’s voice trembled as a nurse retreated discreetly from the room. Mel sat down, staring at this frail figure struggling for breath, shocked at his deterioration. How could she have thought of not coming?

He turned slowly, those blue eyes fixed on her. ‘Not been much of a dad, have I?’

‘You’re the only one I’ve got,’ she replied, trying to hide years of resentment. He’d been such a driven man, developing his building empire, making a fortune, and for what?

‘Time to come clean, Melissa. I’m sorry for letting you down so many times. I really loved you and yer mom, but when she was killed in the car I couldn’t handle it, lost the plot, as they say now. I’m sorry, kiddo. I’ve always been so proud of you and those lungs of yours.’ He paused as if saying each word was agony to him. ‘I’ve often wondered just who gave you that wonderful voice. Not me or your mom, for sure. She was tone deaf, bless her. Must have skipped a generation, I reckon.’

‘You didn’t bring me here to talk about my voice,’ she snapped. ‘Sorry, but I don’t understand you.’

‘Of course you don’t. I don’t understand myself, but I need to tell you a story and I’m hoping you’ll be able to finish it.’ He took a gulp of oxygen.

‘Long ago I came on a ship from England with Ma, yer gran Boyd. It was after the war. I don’t remember why we came or where we went. The truth is I don’t know who I am, Mel. You’ll not find a birth certificate for me. Granny Boyd was not my mother. You need to know all this in case . . .’ Lew tailed off and Mel could see tears in his eyes. She reached out her hand to take his.

‘It doesn’t matter now, Dad. It’s all in the past.’

‘You’re wrong. I’ve lived with these blanks all my life. I once saw a shrink in rehab who wanted me to have some hypnotherapy but I wouldn’t go there. Now I wish I had. It might have made me face this head-on instead of just drowning my sorrows. I’ve been a closed book to you with my binges and my moods. I never deserved the love your mom gave me.’ Lew stared at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time. ‘I sense such a waste of potential in me, love. I worked so hard to blot out bits of my childhood. My folks were kindness itself but they never shared my past and I never asked until it was too late. When I asked your gran about things, she clammed up tight.’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘Your mom opened my heart to such loving possibilities but I let you both down. I’m ashamed of how I neglected you. I’ve messed up on you and your mom big time. I thought if I was successful it would prove I was a proper provider, but it all went too far. I wanted you to be proud of me but no one is proud of a drunk.’

‘Stop this! It doesn’t matter now.’ Mel felt the tears rising.

‘If only I knew . . . There’s blanks in my memory but there’s one thing I do remember when I was a kid . . . One day you’ll have kids of your own and they ought to have a proper history to blame for all their failings. I’ve left some stuff for you with Harry Webster, my lawyer. Promise me you’ll go and see him when I’m gone?’

‘What are you trying to say?’ Mel leaned forward, the better to catch his words.

‘When you go to England you might find the places, people who might recognize my stuff. I meant to do this for myself but I was always too busy and now I’ve run out of time. I just know Gran was not my real mom. There was a lady who once came from England when I was little . . .’ He paused, staring towards the wall. ‘Would you find out who she was and why she never came back? She may be still alive. Please, Mel, before it’s too late. Will you do it for me?’

Panic rose in Mel at the thought of what he was asking of her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before? We could have searched together.’

‘I just never gave it much thought until I got crook, and then with the chemo it went out of my mind.’ Lew sank back as if all the breath was leaving his body. ‘See Harry – he’ll help you – and forgive me for letting you down . . .’ Those were the last of his words she heard through her tears.

The nurse slipped back into the room. It was almost dawn. ‘You take a break, Miss Boyd. It won’t be long now.’

‘I’ll stay,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not leaving him alone.’

One afternoon two weeks later, Mel, wearing her black audition suit, found herself walking along the busy King William Street, climbing up the steps to the offices of Harry Webster Associates for an appointment with the senior partner. Having delayed the meeting until she felt strong enough to face this stranger, now she felt nervous. So many questions were racing through her mind and here was someone who might provide some answers.

Webster was a squat little man of her father’s age. He looked like a rugby player, with his squashed nose and his arms bulging beneath his jacket sleeves. His cheeks were ruddy as he smiled and ushered her into his office, which was a clutter of files, books and coffee mugs. The walls were covered with certificates stating his legal qualifications, but sports trophies acted as paperweights.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, Melissa. Lew was so proud of you – I hear you are in for the Elder Hall Award. We go back a long way, yer dad and me . . . school and that sort of thing. Great man for keeping stuff in order,’ he laughed, glancing around his room. ‘Not like this. My father knew the Boyd family and looked after their affairs . . .’ He looked straight at her, then made for a cupboard and pulled out a shoe box from the bulging shelves, catching the files before they clattered onto the floor. He took the box to his desk, swiping away some papers to make a space for it. Mel sat expectant. She realized she was holding her breath and let it out slowly. At last, some answers were on their way.

Harry tapped his finger on the box. ‘Lew came to see me six months ago as soon as he knew . . . He said to open the package after his death so I’ve opened it. There’s a letter for you and some bits and pieces of private stuff. He’s made good provision for you. It’s all straightforward: the apartment; moneys, should you wish to travel. His will is in order.’ He pushed the box across the desk to her. ‘I think his whole life is in that box . . . what little he knows of it. The Boyds were not his birth parents. I reckon he meant to follow up on his real history but you know what he was like.’ He hesitated. ‘He could get easily distracted.’

Oh, yes, full of promises never fulfilled was Lew Boyd: birthdays forgotten, outings cancelled. She’d learned early to take any contact if and when it came, but now he was gone she felt bereft.

‘There’s been a lot in the papers about child migrants,’ Harry continued. ‘But I don’t think he was one of those poor sods who got shipped out here after the war. He never said much, only that the Boyds saved his life.’

‘Do you realize I only found out they weren’t my real grandparents at his bedside?’ Mel snapped. ‘Why couldn’t he have shared all this with me himself instead of making it all a mystery?’

Harry sat down and sighed. ‘I’ve met a few guys like Lew, guys with no history. They can’t remember and there’s no one left to jog their memories. He just didn’t talk to anyone about his past. Perhaps he had a bad start. Humankind copes as best it can, but I think this is the nearest we’re going to get unless that box holds any clues. I’ve not opened anything addressed to you. I hope it’s all in there – what he wanted you to know, Melissa. I realize he wasn’t much in the dad department but he was proud of you.’

Mel took the box from him, shaking her head. ‘Thank you. I prefer to open it alone.’

‘If I can help in any way, feel free to ask,’ Harry said, ushering her to the front door.

She nodded curtly and fled down the steps into the bustle of the busy traffic and the bright afternoon, heading straight back to the Music School to shove the box in her locker, where it stayed for a week until all the formalities of her future studies were confirmed and she took it home.

The box stayed unopened for another week. She just couldn’t face what might be inside. One evening, however, curiosity got the better of her, so armed with a bottle of Shiraz and a large block of milk chocolate, she carried it to her father’s flat in his apartment block. It was all black leather sofas and glass, the sort of soulless place she’d hate to live in. Now it felt emptier than ever.

This was a private wake between the two of them. She poured herself a large glass of the wine before she sank down to open the letter addressed to her. Her heart lurched to see that familiar scrawl. From out of the envelope a postcard fell to the floor. She picked it up. It had an old British stamp with a King and Queen’s head on it and it was addressed to ‘Master Desmond Lloyd-Jones c/o Mrs Kane, Ruby Creek, South Australia’.

Opposite, the message read: ‘TO DARLING DESMOND . . . from Mummy with lots of love’.

She flipped over to the picture, a sepia-tinted photograph of some village by a lake.

She picked up his letter with trembling fingers.

Dear Mel

Sorry to spring all this on you but I wondered if you were up to solving the mystery I never got round to sorting in my life. I feel I owe you an explanation . . .

I’ve had this postcard for years. Found it when I was clearing out old Grandma Boyd’s effects. It was stuffed in with Pa’s love letters. She’d kept it for a reason and when I saw the picture and the name, I just knew it was something to do with me. Don’t ask me why, I got a tingle of something, a fuzzy memory that just wouldn’t surface, but when I asked Pa he just laughed and offered to chuck it out. He said she liked the picture. It reminded her of her home in Scotland before the war. I knew he was telling fibs so I kept the postcard, and the other bits.

I don’t recall much how I came to be in Australia. My memories are like shards of broken glass: fragments, flashes of colours in a kaleidoscope. I recall the taste of the metal of a ship’s railings, flaking grey paint, salt spray on my cheeks; these are images that come to me in dreams. Some bits are heavy as lead, dark memories. It’s as if I am peering through a hole in a huge wall at a garden full of flowers. I’m not one for flowery lingo, as you know – don’t know one plant from another – but I can tell the smell of roses anywhere.

I’m not making excuses, but there are memories and bits of my life I’ve worked hard to blot out. Perhaps if I could have faced up, I might have made you proud of me instead of ashamed. The Boyds were kind folk but not ones to lavish the praise and affection I craved. It was your mom who opened my heart. I wish things could have been different for all of us . . . I’m handing on the baton to you. You have a right to know what made me the way I am, warts and all. There’s a Berlin Wall between me and my past.

I know once you get your claws into a job you see it through, but don’t let this interfere with your future. Have a wonderful life. I just hope you are curious. If you can find out who I really am, you’ll know where you belong too. The answers are out there somewhere but time may not be on your side.

Remember I never stopped loving you both, so forgive the apology who was your father, Lew.

The room swam around Mel as the tears flowed for all the misunderstandings and arguments they’d had in the past. Now she was completely alone.

Eventually, she gathered herself to see what else the box contained. At the bottom were swimming badges, snapshots, a postcard of some old-fashioned lady in a cartwheel hat smiling up at her, and a medal, its ribbon faded, its inscription in a foreign language.

For one angry moment, she wanted to ditch the whole box of tricks into the bin. What had all this junk got to do with her? Why should she burden her new life in London with a search for mystery ancestors? She knew in her heart, however, that she could not let her father down.

Perhaps fate was taking her to England for a reason.

Darling boy. Mummy is safe and coming home to you soon.

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