Abbeyford Remembered (8 page)

Jamie's eyes were hard, his mouth a grim line as he took hold of her arms and released himself from her limpet hold upon him. He held her away from him by the shoulders. He looked into her tearstained face, not an ounce of sympathy in his expression.

“You belong here? To the railway people?” His voice was harsh.

The hope died on Carrie's face. She closed her eyes and groaned aloud. “ I can't help that. Jamie – I love you.”

He thrust her aside and walked towards where Lloyd Foster and Evan Smithson stood watching. Behind him – unobserved by any of them now – Carrie sank to the ground and buried her face in her hands.

“Who's the contractor?” Jamie Trent demanded.

Foster and Evan exchanged a glance.

“Well, 'tis like this, d'you see. I am – but I'm in the process of handing the remainder of the contract over to Mr Smithson here. So – perhaps if you were to tell the both of us what it is troubling you, me boy.”

“Are you Foster?”

“I am dat. Me fame must be spreadin' far an' wide,” he grinned.

“Fame?” Jamie's lip curled. “Is that what you call it? Infamy more like!”

Foster, instead of being insulted, threw back his head and roared with laughter. For a moment Jamie seemed disconcerted and then his anger grew as he thought his grievance was not being taken seriously.

“You've swindled an old man – a drunken, confused old man – out of his – and my – inheritance. There's not enough land left now to be worth the working!”

Evan Smithson's eyes glittered and a slow smile spread across his mouth. He folded his arms and leant against the door-frame.

“Drunk as ever, then, is he?” he said quietly.

Jamie met his gaze squarely and for a moment there was silence as the two men stared at each other: one, young, angry and a little unsure of himself; the other, older by some twenty or more years, a self-satisfied expression on his face.

“You – you know my grandfather?”

Evan Smithson continued to stare disconcertingly into the young man's troubled eyes.

Quietly and deliberately, Evan said, “I should do. I'm his son!”

The reactions to Evan's dramatic statement were varied.

“Well now,” Foster murmured softly. “An'don't that be explaining a lot o' t'ings.”

Jamie Trent was motionless, his stare fixed upon Evan. His tanned face turned pale.

Carrie raised her head slowly, disbelievingly, from her hands, her sobs stilled in shock. Her violet eyes, still brimming with tears, gazed at her father and then at Jamie's rigid back. “Oh, no,” she whispered hoarsely. “ No, no,
no
!” her voice rising to hysteria.

“His –
son
?” Jamie Trent's voice was no more than a whisper. “But how – who …?”

The enormity of Evan's words seemed to dawn upon the bewildered young man. “You mean – you're illegitimate!” he said baldly.

Evan's mouth tightened and his eyes hardened. “Aye, Squire Trent's bastard by a village girl.”

Slowly Jamie nodded as understanding came. “Sarah Smithson.” And the way in which he uttered her name told the onlookers that the revelation of these facts answered questions which had puzzled him for years.

There was no need for confirmation – they all realised the truth of Jamie's statement.

Not that gentle little old woman in the cottage and that drunken old man – it wasn't possible! Carrie closed her eyes and rocked to and fro on her haunches. And yet they, too, must have been young once, must have laughed and loved in secret – just as she and Jamie had done.

“So,” Jamie was saying, “you'd bring ruin to your own father, would you?”

Evan stepped close to him, his eyes filled with hatred, only inches from Jamie's, so close that Jamie could feel the spittle rain upon his face as Evan spat out the words. “Father?
Father?
What sort of father has he been to me? Look at the ruin he's brought to people's lives. Ruined a pretty young village girl. Ruined Henry Smithson's life – to say nothing of mine. I've waited years for this moment – all me life! So don't expect no sympathy from me. I'll see the whole lot o' you in hell first!”

He turned his back on Jamie and strode away towards the railway, as if he would push the line – single – handed – through the Trents' land, so deep was his bitter desire for revenge.

For a moment Jamie seemed too stunned to move, then suddenly he turned and ran to his horse and mounted. Ignoring Carrie's desperate cry, “ Jamie, oh Jamie!” he rode away at a breakneck gallop.

Carrie watched him go through a blur of tears, the sobs shaking her body. She felt a hand upon her shoulder.

“Don't, me darlin', don't,” Lloyd Foster said, gently comforting. He drew her, unresisting, to her feet and put his arms about her. Hardly realising who was offering her support, Carrie clung to him, still weeping brokenly. He stroked her hair and rocked her. Then suddenly she tore herself free and rushed into the shack. Lloyd Foster watched her go with misery in his eyes. Slowly he turned away and followed Evan's path to the railway. The railway! There was still the railway …

That evening, before Evan returned home, Carrie slipped away from the shack. Lucy, unable to help her daughter, for after years of misery and hardship she had no strength to fight any more, watched her go with unhappy eyes. Calm now, Carrie was resolved to seek out Jamie.

“It doesn't matter that we're cousins,” she said aloud to herself as she tramped determinedly across the hills towards Abbeyford.

“In Society circles lots of cousins marry. It doesn't
matter
!” She tried to convince herself.

There was a cold October wind blowing and, by the time she neared the Manor House, Carrie was shivering. She drew the old shawl closer round her shoulders and slipped through the stableyard gate. There was no movement in the yard, no light from the windows on this side of the house. She moved towards the back door which she guessed led into the kitchens. Her heart was pounding now. She was afraid she would meet with some servant who would bar the way of the gypsy girl, but no one came to impede her entry to the house. She pushed open the door and went in. She stopped a moment, waiting whilst her eyes accustomed themselves to the dimness. She felt her way through the kitchen and up the stairs leading to the upper house. Through the swing door cutting off the servants' domain from the main part of the house, and into the entrance hall. Here a candelabrum burnt, casting eerie shadows. A grandfather clock ticked heavily in the corner, but the whole place was as neglected inside as outside in the stable-yard. Dust covered the furniture and the floor was dull and mud-stained. Carrie jumped as she heard a shuffling noise and turned to see an old man moving towards her, his back so bent he could hardly lift his head to look at her.

“What do you want?” He was dressed in a shabby black suit and Carrie guessed he must be a servant of sorts, probably the only one who remained in the service of the Trents now.

“I want to see Mr Jamie Trent, please,” Carrie said boldly, drawing herself up and trying to sound as if she had every right to be there.

“He's gone,” the old man sniffed.

“G-gone? Where's he gone?”

“How should I know? Went galloping off on his horse as if the devil himself were after him.”

“Is – is Squire Trent here?” Her tone was more hesitant now.

“Oh, yes.” The man stretched his mouth into the semblance of a grin. “ Drinking himself into his usual stupor.” He waved his hand towards the left-hand side of the hall and said, his tone heavy with sarcasm, “The Master is in his study, ma'am, if you'd care to step this way!”

Opening the door he indicated and peering round it, she saw Squire Guy Trent slumped over his desk, an empty glass in one hand and an empty bottle at his elbow. This room, too, was dusty and littered with papers, empty bottles and dirty glasses.

Carrie cleared her throat, but when there was no response from him she moved closer.

“Squire Trent?” Still no reply, so tentatively she put her hand on his shoulder.

“Wha' …?” His movement was so sudden that Carrie snatched her hand away in fright and sprang back a pace.

Bleary eyes gazed up at her, his head rolling from side to side. “Who is it? Can't see …”

“It's Carrie. Carrie Smithson.” She bent closer now, desperation giving her courage. After all, he was only drunk and hadn't she seen
that
many times before?

“Squire – where's Jamie?”

“Carrie? Carrie Smithson?”

“Yes. Where's Jamie? I must see Jamie. It's – important!”

“Jamie?” he repeated stupidly, whilst Carrie grew more impatient.

“Yes. Where is he?”

“I don't know. Gone. Gone away. Left me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Left me all alone. He was in a rage. Wouldn't speak to me. Looked as if he – he could – kill me. Never been frightened of Jamie before. Not Jamie. Wallis, yes. I was always afraid of Wallis. My own son – and I was afraid of him.” The words were drawling and slurred but Carrie could plainly understand. She sat down in a chair opposite the desk. She would have to be patient with him if she were to learn anything. Perhaps if she encouraged him to ramble on like this, she would find out what she wanted to know.

“Your son, Jamie's father?” she prompted.

“Yes. He was a hard man, so cold and ruthless! I've been a failure all my life. Failed my parents, failed my wife and son and worst of all, I failed the only girl I ever really loved. My Sarah!”

Carrie said gently. “Jamie knows about – about you and Sarah. My father told him.”

“Your father?” The eyes peered at her, red and puffy.

“Yes. Evan Smithson. Your – son by Sarah.”

For a moment the room was still and silent. Then the old man let out such a groan that Carrie was afraid. He covered his face with his hands, knocking over the bottle, which rolled to the edge of the desk and fell to the floor, shattering into a dozen pieces. The glass dropped from his fingers to the desk, but Carrie grabbed it before it, too, fell to the floor. He was panting and moaning and Carrie thought the shock had brought on a heart attack of some kind.

“I'm sorry,” she said swiftly. “I'm terribly sorry. But please – you must help me. I love Jamie. And he loves me, I know he does,” she tried to convince herself, blotting out the picture of him riding away from her, ignoring her when he had learnt the dreadful truth.

The pathetic old man seemed suddenly, painfully sober. Slowly his hands fell away from his face, his moaning quietened and he looked at Carrie full in the face. “As I loved Sarah and she loved me.”

There was silence. Moved by pity, Carrie reached out her hand and touched the old man's. He covered hers with his other hand. “If you love him, and he loves you, let no one stand in the way of your happiness. No one! Do you hear me?”

Carrie nodded, unable to speak for the lump in her throat. “But,” she whispered at last, “he rode off without a word – after – after Pa had told him. Perhaps …”

“It'll be all right. He was hurt. Hurt beyond words, but he'll get over it.” Squire Trent, for a brief moment, was no longer the pathetic drunk, but an elderly gentleman offering comfort to a distressed young girl – his granddaughter. That fact seemed suddenly to dawn upon him. “ You're – you're my granddaughter, then?”

“I – suppose so,” Carrie said and smiled faintly at him. His grasp upon her hand tightened.

“Don't let anyone or anything stand in the way of your love,” he said hoarsely, “ or you'll spend your life lost and alone – like I have done. I fell in love with Sarah, but I was the squire's son! My parents arranged for me to marry Louisa Marchant, the daughter of a wealthy clothing manufacturer from Manchester. I tried to fight them, tried to see Sarah. But they were all against us. Her father – Joseph Miller – arranged for her to marry a distant cousin – Henry Smithson. But I still might have won,” he thumped the table with his fist, “ but I was attacked in the wood late one night.” He glanced at Carrie sheepishly. “ I was drunk. Seems as if I've been drunk ever since,” he muttered and then his voice grew stronger again. “I never saw who attacked me, but while I lay abed – my Sarah married Smithson and – and my father sent Joseph Miller to gaol!”

Carrie gasped. “ Sarah's father? Why?”

Squire Trent groaned and closed his eyes. “He
said
it was because he believed it was Miller who attacked me.”

“And was it?”

He shrugged. “We've never found out. He wouldn't admit it – nor would he defend himself. But he was a strong man, a man who stood up against my father for his rights, and my father hated him. Of course, he died in gaol, and Sarah's mother died soon after. Broke the whole family. They've hated me ever since. Your father – my own son – he's had the hate bred into him. He led the village against the Manor once. Wallis was killed.”

“I know,” Carrie said. “I heard about that.”

“And now he's ruined me – and Jamie – completely.”

There was silence again.

Carrie said gently, “ Where do you think Jamie went?”

Sadly, he shook his head. “I don't know. I thought maybe he'd gone for good, but perhaps if there's you to come back for …” He left the sentence hanging in the air like an unanswered question.

His head fell forward again. “I'm tired,” he said heavily. “So tired of it all.”

Carrie left him sleeping over the desk.

That night Carrie hid in the Manor stables, waiting in case Jamie should return. But at the first light of dawn, when she awoke from a fitful doze to move her cramped, cold limbs there was still no horse back in the stall, no sign of Jamie.

She couldn't – wouldn't – go home. But where could she go? Not her grandmother's – her father would think to look for her there. The abbey ruins! Jamie would come to her there. It was their meeting-place. The place where they had made love and spent their moments of bliss. Her cold, cramped feet moved faster and faster and she began to run both to warm herself and to reach the abbey ruins all the quicker. Why had she not thought of it before? she scolded herself. Jamie would come for her there – she was certain of it!