Wideacre twt-1 Read online

  Dr Rose had faithfully forwarded every one to me unopened with his monthly reports. These were clear and had done much to increase my tension. If the lawyers did not hurry, if John continued to improve, I should have him back at Wideacre before I had given his fortune away to my cousin in return for the entail. Dr Rose’s first report had been gloomy. John had completed the journey in a drugged state but when he woke to find himself in a room with a barred window he had gone crazy with fear. He had sworn that he was imprisoned by a witch, by the Wideacre witch, who had her whole family under some spell and would keep him imprisoned until he was dead.

  All this sounded sufficiently lunatic to keep him inside and safely away from Wideacre for years. But Dr Rose’s later reports were more doubtful. John was making progress. He still had a craving for drink, but for the rest of his time he was lucid and calm. He was using laudanum in controlled amounts and was taking no alcohol. ‘I think we may begin to hope,’ Dr Rose wrote in his last report.

  I was not beginning to hope. I was beginning to fear. Events were taking place outside the estate where my word was law, beyond my influence. I could not make the lawyers go faster; I could not speed the negotiations with my cousin. I could not set back John’s recovery. All I could do was to write letter after letter to the lawyers pressing them to move on with their slow processes, and the occasional sad reply to Dr Rose, assuring him that I would rather my husband stayed with him for a year than prejudice his health by bringing him home too early. I had also a hard task to keep John’s father safely away in Edinburgh. As soon as John was committed and power of attorney vested in me I wrote to him to tell him of his son’s illness and to assure him that John was receiving the best of care. Using Dr Rose’s authority I explained that no one was allowed to visit John, but as soon as he was well enough I would contact old Mr MacAndrew at once so that he could visit his once best talented son. The old man, in a storm of grief and concern, never thought to ask how John’s fortune was managed while he was inside the asylum, and I never offered information. If he had asked me I would have said that Harry held the MacAndrew shares in trust for John. But I had been holding to the hope that by the time John was released and ready to reclaim his fortune, it would all be gone. Spent to put the bastard who bore his name into the Squire’s chair in the house he hated.

  All had to happen at the right time. If only the lawyers would hurry. If only my cousin would sign the contract, surrendering his inheritance. And all I could do was wait. And Celia could only write letters. Eleven letters I had in my drawer in the desk, one for each week that John had been away. Every Monday Celia wrote on one side of one sheet of notepaper, judging perhaps that a long letter might disturb him. Uncertain yet, whether he forgave her for what he had called her betrayal of him. Tender letters they were. They were full of a love so sweet and innocent, the love that two children might share. She started each letter, ‘My dearest brother’, and she ended each one with the words, ‘You are daily in my thoughts and nightly in my prayers’, and signed herself, ‘Your loving sister, Celia’.

  And all the body of the letter was news of the children, a word about the weather, and always the assurance that I was well. ‘Beatrice is well and grows lovelier every day,’ she wrote in one. ‘You will be glad to know that Beatrice is well and, as usual, most beautiful,’ she wrote in another. ‘Beatrice is well but I know she misses you,’ wrote Celia. I smiled a bitter smile when I read them. Then I tied them together and stuffed them at the back of the secret drawer, locked it, hid the key behind a book in the bookcase and went to change for dinner with a light step and my eyes shining. I held to my private pledge not to enclose the common before the worst of the bad weather was over, and I waited until March before two days of settled clear cloudless days tipped my impatience to have done.

  I told the parish roundsman that I would be enclosing two hundred acres of common on the following day and that he should have twenty men waiting for me in the morning. He scratched his head and looked doubtful. He was a plain man, in brown fustian, with the good boots of the labouring man who is making a better living than most, on the backs of the rest. John Brien his name; he had married one of the Tyacke girls and moved into the village. A little freer of village loyalties, with book-learning from his Chichester day school, he had obtained the job of parish roundsman and could now congratulate himself that he was the best-paid and most hated working man in Acre. He had no great love for me. He disliked the tone in my voice when I spoke to him. He thought himself a cut above the rest of the Acre villagers because he could read and write and because he did a job most of them would be shamed to do. Somewhere in my heart I still held to the old ways, and if the villagers despised and disliked a man then so did I. But I had to do business with him, and so I held Sorrel on a short rein when I stopped the gig and explained to him civilly where I wanted the men to meet.

  ‘They’ll not like it, Mrs MacAndrew,’ he said, his voice expressing contempt for such people who would refuse to work when and where the Quality and their dogs like him bade them.

  ‘I don’t expect them to like it,’ I said indifferently. ‘I merely expect them to do it. Can you get enough men together for tomorrow, or should we wait a day?’

  ‘I have the men to do the work.’ His hand gestured towards the shuttered cottages where idle men were sitting, heads in hands beside empty tables. ‘Every man in the village wants work. I can pick and choose. But they will not like the job of fencing in the common, fencing themselves out. There may be trouble.’

  ‘These are my people,’ I said with the indifference of a local for a stranger’s advice. ‘There will be no trouble that I cannot manage. You get the men there. There is no need for you to tell them what job they are to do. And I will meet you there. And any trouble I shall deal with.’

  He nodded and I held Sorrel in, my hard eyes on him until he turned the nod into the full bow that I expect from my people in my village. Then I gave him a tight smile and said abruptly, ‘Good day, Brien, I shall see you at the beech coppice tomorrow, with twenty men.’

  But when next day I trotted my gig down the lane and turned the corner to the start of the common land I saw there were not twenty men, there were more like one hundred. Wives too, and children, and the old people too aged for work. And a handful of the poorer Wideacre tenants, and about a dozen of the cottagers. The whole of the poor community of Wideacre was out to greet me. I halted Sorrel and took my time in tying his reins to a bush. I needed time to think; I had not expected this. When my head came up from fumbling with the reins my face was Clear and serene, my smile as lovely as the bright morning.

  ‘Good day to you all,’ I said. My voice was as bright and as untroubled as the robin in the beech tree over my head who started a clear and lovely warble at the pale blue sky.

  The older men were in a little cluster, conferring among themselves. They jostled each other like boys caught in an orchard and then George Tyacke stepped forward, the oldest man in the village, still hanging on to life and his cottage, though he was stooped and bent with rheumatism and his hands shook with palsy.

  ‘Good day, Miss Beatrice,’ he said with the gentle courtesy of a patient man who has spent his life at other men’s bidding, and yet never lost temper or dignity.

  ‘We have all come out today to speak to you about your plans for the common,’ he said. His voice had the soft accent of the Sussex downland. He had been born and bred here, spent all his life within this circle of green hills. His family had never lived anywhere else. It was probably his ancestors whose bones lay in Norman Meadow. It was probably his land before my ancestors stole it.

  ‘Good day, Gaffer Tyacke,’ I said, and my voice was gentle. Today might see a hard act, a harsh act, against the poor of Wideacre, but I could never keep a smile from my eyes when I heard the slow drawl of my home. ‘I am always pleased to see you,’ I said with courtesy. ‘But I am surprised to see so many from Acre village, and others, too.’ My eyes flicked towards the tenants: my te