bless the squire and his relations, And keep us in our proper stations,’ went the verse of a hymn. That was how society worked. How could any army survive without discipline and rank? Rank first and foremost. Orders must be given and obeyed, that was the key to social cohesion. Charles’s generals and his staff knew how to plan battles, and their foot soldiers, under officers, must carry out the orders without question. It was always thus.
Bartley had insulted her rank and class by his insolence and now she must forbear this insult to show Christian fortitude to stomach making conversation with his children. But one thing was certain. No child of his would ever be employed on the estate. Dissenters’ children had too much spirit to be knocked back, asked too many questions. They were difficult foals to break in. Their kind were best ignored and kept a bay: a different tribe, and long may that continue.
Angus seemed comfortable enough so she gathered up some of the mess on the floor. What must the doctor have thought of the clutter—that she was slack with her servants? The eye of the mistress was worth two of her hands, she mused. Arkie must make sure the room was more presentable for his next visit. She didn’t want any tittle-tattling to his silly wife.
Hester caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing mirror. She’d never been an oil painting: tall, on the gaunt side of slender, but well corseted to give a robust shape and bolstered bosom like her heroine, the new Queen Mary. Her thin cream dress was a little frivolous for a Board of Workhouse Guardians meeting but the weather was so hot. That was the trouble with country living, you had to be so careful to set a suitable standard.
A military wife knew how to dress appropriately, to impress junior officers’ wives as to what they must aspire. There were formal school visits to endure, dressing discreetly with nothing to cause the boys embarrassment, especially being such an older parent: no fancy jewellery or lavish trimmings on her picture hats. The risk of under—or overdressing in such a backwater was a balancing act she found quite within her grasp. If she stuck to muted colours: mauve, taupe, eau-de-Nil, stone and her beloved silver grey for her palette, her spirits rose. Afternoon and tea gowns, skirts blended with tweed and dull plaids, furs and country tweeds were what she ordered from her dressmaker in London. Silk and wool, cotton lawns and simple lace trim distinguished her as top drawer at a glance.
Yorkshire might have smoke and soot but the best woollen cloth in the world was just over the hills in Leeds and Bradford. She felt dignified in such quiet shades. Colour was for the young fry and dress uniforms. She was a colonel’s lady, daughter of an earl, albeit the youngest of many sisters, well enough placed to receive calling cards from the Birkwiths of Wellerby Hall and Lady Sommerton, the aunt of the headmaster of Sharland School. His wife, Maud, was the cousin of Lord Bankwell.
It was important to know where one was placed on this ladder. There were those who tried a little too hard to climb up a rung, like the vicar’s poor wife, Violet Hunt.
Then there was Dr Mac, with his ambitious wife and their two pretty daughters, one of whom was old enough now to be brought to her sons’ attention. All to no avail, of course; her boys were far too young for such entanglements. They were destined for the army and glittering careers.
Hester sat down on the window seat, suddenly exhausted, staring out across the walled garden, through the orchard that went down to the river, across to the great moors rising above. A patchwork of bronzed squares and golden greens caught her eye where the grass had been mown off for hay. Such was the heat haze that the stone walls dividing up the fell side shimmered like silver ribbons.
This part of the West Riding of Yorkshire was remote but not unpleasantly so. There were plenty of regular trains into Leeds and a direct line to London through the Midland Railway. The Dales’ rough-hewn beauty, a grandeur of limestone scars and moor, was growing on her. She liked the fresh damp air, for they were removed from the worst of mill chimney smoke.
Most of the locals were pleasant plain folk who made few demands on her services. Once the boys were out of school and established she would think again about where to settle. Charles preferred the southern uplands, the Sussex Downs, to this rugged terrain. Soon he would finish off his career at a desk in London, if all went to plan. But she didn’t like these rumours of war. He was far too old for battle service now. Her boys were nearly sixteen. Hester shivered. Surely they would be far too young to be mobilised, should any threat occur?
‘You’re not going up to Waterloo House looking like a pig in muck, Newton!’ ordered Essie at the sight of her elder son strolling out of the forge,covered in soot. ‘Go and scrub yoursel’ down in the sink. There’s hot water in the kettle.’
‘Do I have to go?’ he moaned, pumping the well handle and dunking his head in cold water.
‘Yes, you do, and, our Frank, get into your Sunday best. It’s all laid out upstairs. Sharp on! I’m not having her ladyship peering down her nose at my family for want of a bowl of hot water. It’s half-past already, get a move on.’
She’d laid out clean shirts and their serge chapel suits. Selma was already dressed in her white cotton best with the pintucked bodice and lace frill. They’d put rags in her hair last night to coil into ringlets. She had white canvas shoes and white socks which she was under pain of death not to get dirty. Everything was a little tight and short for her but it’d have to do until next year when a parcel of hand-me-downs from Essie’s married sister, Ruth, in Bradford, would augment Selma’s meagre wardrobe. There was no money for frills.
This presentation at Waterloo was a belated thank you to the Bartley family for the rescue of Angus. He was making excellent progress and now back at school, according to Bert Smedley, who worked in the grounds. Asa was all for refusing to send them, seeing that a whole month had passed since the accident. He stood by the forge door looking like thunder, his black brows clenched, but even he recognised that as the Cantrells were their landlords, things must be done proper.
When they were all tidied up and respectable, Frank’s hair plastered down with water, Essie lined her children up against the wall. Where had her babies gone? These three were all she had to show for six labours of love; three of her babes already buried in St Wilfred’s churchyard—nothing unusual in this village but still, precious lives lost before they were two years old—and there were the other two who never made it into the world. Such was life. Two fine sons and a clever daughter made up for all those other losses. And now a public thank you for her brave children. Her heart was bursting with pride at bringing three bright stars into the world.
How handsome they all were. Newt tall, broad-shouldered like his father; Frank softer round the edges and as fair as Selma was dark; Selma herself sprouting fast, sharp as a brass tack at her schooling. They all needed kicking with a different foot but they knew how to toe the line when it came to family matters.
Everyone was proud of their part in the rescue. They had saved a life and deserved a treat. Why shouldn’t her ladyship receive them with gratitude? Working folk or not, they knew what was right and proper.
‘Don’t forget your manners and bob a curtsy when you’re spoken to. Hold your head up and don’t mumble. Remember, in the eyes of the Lord, we’re all equal so no slouching.’ Essie wished she could go with them and have a peep inside Waterloo House. Everyone knew it was very grandly furnished,with a beautiful walled garden,hidden from village eyes, but the invitation was addressed only to the children.
‘Three o’clock sharp, and come by the side entrance through the door in the wall and not up the front drive to the grand entrance,’ said Beaven, the coachman. What an experience to be received as guests. Selma would be full of it when she returned, Essie thought. Wick as weasel, the girl missed nothing.
The Bartleys were an old Sharland family, not offcomers like many of the cotton millworkers who kept the machines at High Mill on the go. There was a pecking order in any village: parish councillors, church wardens, school master, shopkeepers, tradesmen and farmers. Everyone came to them sooner or later for horseshoes, repairs of tools and harnesses,