Replenish the Earth (3 page)

‘I doubt it, my dear. At least, not without great expense, and there is little money to spare until you sell. Mr Sewell is offering a fair price and might even be made to raise it a trifle.’ He smiled at the thought, clearly looking forward to haggling about that.

‘And what does this Mr Sewell intend to do with the Manor? Has he the money to restore it?’

Mr Jamieson sighed and avoided her eyes. ‘I’m afraid he means to pull the house down. It’s the land he wants, you see, to form a deer park. Even the cottages on the estate are to go - well, they’re in poor condition, too, and the people surly. They say a bad landlord makes for bad tenants, do they not? Though it is not your grandfather’s fault they’ve been sore plagued with cattle sickness in the district lately. No, that at least was not his fault. But as a result, some of the tenants have been unable to pay their rents in full for the last few quarters. You mustn’t be thinking yourself a rich woman. There will be very little money until the place is sold, my dear.’

Sounds in the outer office announced an arrival. Mr Jamieson excused himself and left Sarah to ponder on the news. It was a few moments before he returned, accompanied not only by Mr Peabody, who smiled at her warmly, but also by the young gentleman who had gone to fetch him. Even the clerk, Pickersleigh, came into the room. She felt embarrassed to be the object of their stares.

‘This is the lady in question,’ said Mr Jamieson in a formal tone very unlike his former manner. ‘I would be obliged, Mr Peabody, if you would tell us who she is and what you know of her.’

‘Her name is Sarah Mortonby and I have known her ever since she was born. I know her mother, too, Elizabeth Mortonby, née Bedham. I administer a small annuity which her husband set up for her soon after they married.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Jamieson in tones of satisfaction. ‘Then I shall call upon you all to witness this due and proper identification.’

‘By Jove, yes!’ exclaimed Mr Lorrimer enthusiastically, for he was still young enough to see the romance of it all.

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Pickersleigh more formally. ‘Shall I prepare the deposition?’

‘Naturally. Three copies, I think. No need to make it very long. All quite straightforward. You’ll stay and take some chocolate with us, Mr Peabody?’

‘Delighted!’ Mr Peabody eased his ageing bones down carefully into one of the armchairs and nodded to Sarah. ‘How is your mother, my dear?’

‘She’s dead. I buried her today.’

His face fell. ‘Why didn’t you let me know? I would have wished to attend the funeral.’

Sarah flushed. ‘I - it was a small affair - just myself. I couldn’t afford more.’

‘It will be necessary for you to come round to my rooms - when it is convenient, of course. There are certain formalities. And money is owing. One third of a quarter, to be precise.’

‘I hadn’t expected - I thought the annuity stopped at my mother’s death.’

‘And so it does - but not
before
her death! We are a full month into this quarter and the interest is accrued monthly, though it is only usually paid out quarterly.’

Sarah couldn’t prevent herself from sighing in relief. ‘I didn’t know. I thought I was destitute.’

Her voice quavered on the last word and Mr Jamieson looked across at her anxiously. Was she going to faint again? Poor lady, she must have felt desperate! Imagine a Bedham reduced to such circumstances!

‘I, too, have some money for you, my dear,’ he said encouragingly. ‘I have your rents, such as they are, from last year.’

‘How much?’ If it was unladylike to ask, Sarah didn’t care.

‘I have in hand thirty-two guineas, eleven shillings and sixpence. I’m sorry it isn’t more, but there is some other money outstanding, to be paid as times improve.’

‘It seems quite a fortune to me!’ 

‘My dear,’ said Mr Jamieson gently, ‘when we sell, I have every confidence that we shall get more than a thousand guineas for your estate. With such a sum, you will be able to buy a small house somewhere more convenient - Tunbridge Wells, for instance, is a fine healthy town - and then you can invest the rest, hire a maid and live comfortably for the rest of your life. Either Mr Peabody or myself would be happy to advise you on how best to invest your money.’

Sarah wasn’t really listening to him. ‘My mother often spoke about Broadhurst,’ she murmured in a bemused fashion, ‘though I never thought to see it for myself.’

‘But Miss Mortonby, I’ve just told you how it is! I cannot advise you even to visit the place. Let me arrange to sell it and - ’

‘Sell it!’ She sat bolt upright and looked him full in the eyes. ‘Sell Broadhurst! Oh, no, Mr Jamieson, I couldn’t sell my mother’s home, not without seeing it first, at least! And if it is at all possible, I should very much like to live there!’

‘No, no,
no!
Believe me,
pray
believe me, it is not to be thought of! The place is a ruin!’

‘It would seem very splendid to me, I’m sure, after Furness Road.’

He clicked his tongue. ‘Furness Road! Dear me! I hadn’t realised things were so bad. Tch! Tch! We must find you better lodgings immediately. Have you
any
money left?’

Sarah laughed, fumbled for the muff and untied the strings of her purse, emptying its contents into her lap. ‘Oh, yes, sir. See - I have six shillings and five pence three farthings.’

She laughed again at the expressions of sheer horror on the two lawyers’ faces.

Chapter 2

Three weeks later Sarah leaned her aching head against the hard back of the stage coach seat and wondered yet again whether she was doing the right thing. For she’d flown in the face of the two lawyers' considered and unanimous advice, and had insisted upon going to inspect her inheritance before she made a final decision about selling it, this in spite of all the warnings and dire prognostications of Mr Jamieson and Mr Peabody about the dangers that faced a lady travelling round the countryside on her own.

It had been a pleasant few weeks, for it was years since she’d eaten so well and that made her feel in much better health and spirits. She’d watched in the mirror as her face grew daily plumper, her cheeks rosier and her hair shinier.

Such a pleasure it had been to visit the shops with money in her purse! On one of her early outings she’d spent a delightful hour or two at a linen draper's, choosing the material for two new gowns. That hadn’t really been an extravagance, because she had nothing decent to wear. She looked down at her skirt. Should she have chosen black, out of respect for her mother? No! The dresses would have to last for years and she didn’t want to be in permanent mourning. Her mother would have been the first to agree about that.

Elizabeth Mortonby had always taken a great interest in clothes and one of her favourite pastimes had been to go out for a stroll in one of the great London parks and watch the fashionable world taking the air. After they got back to their room, her mother would discuss in minute detail what the ladies were wearing and what she would have liked to wear herself.

Sarah had finally chosen a dark blue calimanco, which she made up herself with a contrasting quilted petticoat in a blue and red figured chintz, which was not only fashionable, but warm. The other material was less sensible, but she assuaged her conscience by telling herself that it had been very reasonably priced and she would wear it only for best. It was a patterned lilac paduasoy, and she made it up into a simple closed gown, which showed off the beauty of the material. She was a good needlewoman and had contrived a modest imitation of the latest London fashions which would have delighted her mother.

She had also purchased fine lawn for her caps and kerchiefs, cambric for her under-petticoats and bodices and, rather guiltily, some lace, just a little, to trim her caps! And of course she’d visited a good staymaker.

In addition, she had ordered not one, but two new pairs of shoes from a shoemaker recommended by her new landlady. She wriggled her toes happily inside them at the thought. She’d never had such well-fitting shoes before. The cobbler had built up the sole of the left one very skilfully to reduce her need to limp. 

When the tedious two-day coach journey from London to Poole was at last over, Sarah ate a hearty meal and stayed at the coaching inn overnight. She’d asked about a conveyance to take her to Broadhurst, but was told that the inn’s small carriage wouldn’t be available until later in the morning. It was frustrating, but there was nothing she could do about it.

But oh, she longed to see her family’s home. She knew Mr Jamieson had written to Mr Pursley, the agent and tenant of the home farm, asking him to get things ready at the Manor, so was hoping to stay there.

By the time they arrived in Broadhurst, it was well into the afternoon and already dusk was threatening. Sarah felt happiness spread through her just to know that her mother and several generations of her mother’s family had once lived in this village, and that gave her a sense of coming home she’d never experienced before.

The carriage stopped at the only inn, The Golden Fleece. It was an old-fashioned, half-timbered building, and stood beside a triangular village green. The inn looked tidy and well cared-for.

A burly landlord came out to greet her, took her inside and handed her over to his wife.

‘My name is Mort-er, Bedham.’ Sarah still had trouble remembering her new name.

The landlady nodded. ‘Will Pursley told us you were coming. ‘ She studied Sarah’s face. ‘Are you really Miss Elizabeth’s daughter? You don’t look at all like her.’

‘She always said I looked like her grandfather.’

‘You do, too. Eh, a fine old gentleman he was. And to think you’ve come home at last!’

Sarah found herself being ruthlessly hugged, something she wasn’t used to, but enjoyed. After that she was swept upstairs to the comfort of a cosy bedroom with a blazing wood fire. Chilled and hungry after her journey, for the heated bricks at her feet had grown cool long before they reached their destination, she ate her fill of a tasty chicken pie, some small cakes and a rather wrinkled apple. She finished this off with a dish of tea, clasping the little china bowl in both hands as she sipped, enjoying its warmth.

When Mistress Poulter herself came to clear the things away, Sarah asked if there was a gig available to take her to the Manor in the morning.

‘Oh dear, it’s hired out till noon, I’m afraid. But Jem shall drive you then, I promise you.’

‘I can walk, surely?’

‘Best not, m’dear. ‘Tis over a mile outside the village and the lane’s in a terrible muddy state after the rain we’ve had lately.’

Sarah felt too drowsy to argue, but she didn’t intend to sit around all morning when she was so close to her new home. She had never, she thought, as she snuggled down in the big, soft feather bed, felt quite so happy in all her life.

The only sadness was that her mother wasn’t here to share her good fortune with her.

* * * *

The following morning after Sarah had broken her fast, she went to stand by the window of her bedroom and stare out at the village, then took a turn around the green. She was surprised when she saw so few people, but supposed they were mostly busy at work by this hour.

Eager to see her house, she decided to walk there. ‘Can you give me directions for getting to the Manor?’ she asked the landlady. ‘It doesn’t seem likely to rain and I shall enjoy a stroll.’

‘Oh, my dear, I don’t think that’s wise.’

‘My mind is quite made up.’

Mistress Poulter opened her mouth to protest, caught her guest’s eye and closed it again. After chewing her thumb for a moment as if uncertain what to do, she gave the necessary directions.

Donning her rather old-fashioned cloak and the stouter of her new pairs of shoes, Sarah set off. The morning was cold and the ground damp, but today the sun was shining. She had no trouble following the landlady’s directions and finding the lane leading to her house. It didn’t seem well used. High banks at each side were covered in tangles of dead vegetation and there were deep ruts in places, half-filled with mud, around which she had to pick her way with great care.

For the first time she began to wonder whether she should have waited for the trap. Or at least, sent for Mr Pursley to act as her guide.

Not used to being alone anywhere, and unaccustomed to the quiet of the countryside, she looked around her a little nervously as she walked. What a fool I am! she thought after a while. Anyone would think there were wolves and brigands in the woods. The place will be very pretty in spring when the leaves are out, I dare say. But today, she couldn’t deny that there was a sad feel to the damp brown landscape and try as she would, she couldn’t shake off a feeling of apprehension.

Suddenly, a dog came bounding down the slope on her right, a great shaggy creature, barking furiously. Sarah cried out in dismay as it leaped up at her, sending her sprawling on the ground. A man’s voice shouted angrily from somewhere and the dog, which had been standing next to her, still barking but wagging its tail furiously, rushed off again.

As she struggled to her feet, she found a strong hand under her arm making the task easier. She looked up to thank her rescuer and found herself gazing at a man of about her own age, whose face might have been deemed handsome had it not been marred by a scowl. For a moment, she forgot everything as she stared at him. He looked so healthy and strong, not pale like the gentlemen she had seen in London, nor shrunken and furtive like the people who frequented Furness Road.

It was unusual to find a man so much taller than she was. It felt - strange. It must be that which was making her heart pound and her pulse race. Or perhaps it was his stare, for he had the kind of eyes which seemed to probe right into you. Such dark, compelling eyes.

She realised he’d said something and found herself blushing like a ninny and stuttering as she tried to understand his question. What was wrong with her today? She must be more tired than she’d realised. Then she noticed the streaks of mud on her cloak and skirt, and that jerked her out of her silliness. ‘Was that your dog, sir?’