Wintercombe, page 7
part #1 of Wintercombe Series
‘We are billeted on you by order of His Majesty the King, and the Governor of Bath, Sir Thomas Bridges, who is Colonel of this troop of horse. We have been ordered here because of the shortage of suitable forage nearer to Bath, and because it has come to the notice of Sir Thomas that the village of Philip’s Norton, and the manor of Wintercombe, have contributed less than their fair share towards the maintenance of His Majesty’s garrison at Bath, which is after all intended for the protection of this part of Somerset.’
There was a pause, filled by a brief, contemptuous and fortunately anonymous snort from the middle of the crowded servants. Silence held her breath, but Ridgeley merely sent a considering, menacing glare in that direction, and resumed. ‘Of course, we shall require provisions, and all that we take shall be paid for, either in honest coin or in promissory notes which can be exchanged on application to Quartermaster Cox in Bath. My own quartermaster, Hodges, is at present ensuring that my men are comfortably billeted in the barn. My officers and I will be housed under this roof, of course, by gracious permission of your mistress, Lady St. Barbe.’
As one, two dozen pairs of eyes swivelled in her direction, and Silence, who had naturally given no such permission, forced herself to stand still, head high, and say nothing, although within that calm, haughty exterior she was alight with anger. Ridgeley doffed his hat and gave her another mocking bow before continuing, his voice suddenly hard. ‘You are now under military rule. That means, in simple terms, that I command here. I will have no disobedience to my orders, nor to any that my officers may give, on pain of just and severe penalty.’ He produced the foxy smile that Silence detested so much. ‘I am sure that you will all comply with my instructions. The safety of north Somerset, and the protection of these parts from Roundhead attack, may well depend on this house, as it does upon Bath, Farleigh, Nunney and the other garrisons hereabouts. And I warn you all, here and now — any sign of dissent, subversion, concealment of supplies or any other hindrance of our lawful duties will be punished with the utmost severity. Do I make myself clear? With the utmost severity.’
The household stared at him in complete silence, frightened and appalled. Ridgeley paused long enough for his threats to strike home, his eyes searching them all. ‘Good. I see I have been sufficiently plain. So long as you bear what I have said in mind, we should be able to exist amicably together. Lady St. Barbe, pray endorse what I have said.’
Abruptly the focus of attention once more. Silence swallowed, trying not to display her surprise. She took a deep breath, aware that now, as never before, the people of Wintercombe would look to her to guide them. Her voice started thinly, too high to her own ears, and she made a determined and successful effort to moderate it.
‘Lieutenant-Colonel Ridgeley has the right of it — his troop is to be billeted upon us, and I have undertaken to supply them from this house.’ She paused, well aware that the piled provisions in barn and hayloft and store-rooms were ample for a household of twenty-seven souls over the leaner months of winter, but would not long sustain nearly fifty soldiers in addition. Fighting her own panic, and the alarm she saw on the faces of her more intelligent servants, she added firmly, ‘I know that there will be difficulties and problems a-plenty, but we have no choice in this matter, and nor, I think, has Lieutenant-Colonel Ridgeley. We must make the best of it, and manage as well as we can. It may mean that we have to go without certain luxuries, but I am sure that Parson Willis here would agree, a little self-denial is good for the soul, even if such a sacrifice benefits those whom we have previously considered to be our enemies.’ She eyed Ridgeley defiantly, aware that she might be provoking him, but suddenly reckless of the consequences — after all, he could hardly have her shot out of hand. ‘And so I will ask you all most earnestly, not to make any more difficulties than those under which we already labour. If you have a problem, a dispute, carry it first to me, and I will endeavour to mediate. Remember,’ she added, glancing significantly at Darby, at Eliza, at Clevinger, the stubborn bailiff, and at Goodenough, still angry at the invasion of his stables, ‘these are soldiers. They have swords and pistols. You have heard Lieutenant-Colonel Ridgeley — you provoke them at your peril. Go quietly, go in peace, and we will all be the better for it. Do not forget it, ever — for your own sakes, for my sake and my husband’s, and above all for the children.’ Her mouth trembled suddenly, thinking of them: furious at her betraying display of emotion, she added very low, ‘Thank you all,’ and turned abruptly to face the fire, fighting her helpless tears, that would serve no purpose now.
A muttered swell of approval rose from the ranks of the household, and a few more defiant spirits cheered, though not very loudly. She took a deep breath, brushed a hand across her eyes, and swung round to face Ridgeley, knowing that she was not now alone. ‘There you are, sir. You have us in your thrall. If you are a gentleman, I pray you behave as one. The house is at your disposal — but I have much to arrange, as I suspect you have. My household have their duties too, and it grows near to dinner time. Pray excuse us, sir.’
She swept him an exaggerated curtsey with a mockery the mirror of his own, and turned to the servants. ‘I think that is all. Remember what I have said, and what Lieutenant-Colonel Ridgeley has told you, and act upon it. You may go.’
She watched the muttering, unhappy men and women leave the Hall. Most averted their gaze from the three officers by the screens: only Leah and Bessie, their eyes bright, turned their faces towards them, and there was a spring in the dairymaid’s step, a merriment on her face and a toss of that magnificent red-gold hair that brought instant notice from the men. With a sinking heart, Silence saw their response, and noticed that Rob Sheppard had also seen. It was not his lucky day, she thought sympathetically: first he had been half-throttled by Darby, and now the girl he loved, however vainly, was giving the glad eye to three total strangers. But how could a humble assistant cook compete, particularly if he were by no means good-looking, with Cavalier officers dripping with lace and lechery?
She had thought, briefly and naively, that she could cope with this situation, could keep the soldiers at arm’s length and somehow preserve Wintercombe inviolate, undamaged. She was only now beginning to realise the depths of her error.
*
At least they were able to dine free of soldiers, though the meal was late, either burnt or half-cooked, and scanty. Darby had done his best, however, and she knew that she must speak to him, and give him words of praise and encouragement. The cook would be invaluable if they were to find themselves on short commons: he had a way with sauces and dressings that could disguise the most unpalatable of meats, and tempt the finicky appetites of her children.
They had always eaten well, and the sturdy figures of William and Deb proved it. White bread, fresh meat, no coarse loaf or watery broths even for the servants. She knew that she must count their blessings, and give thanks for the fact that they had all been spared the rigours of war thus far, if no longer. But all she could feel as she sat at the head of the dining table, in the dark panelled room that looked out onto the rainy courtyard, now mercifully empty of soldiers, was that rising and futile anger once more.
‘Don’t want it,’ said Deb, and pushed her plate away. The pastry coffin of the pigeon pie had been overdone and was baked hard and scorched: Silence had already expended some effort in cutting it into small pieces to fit on the child’s spoon and in her mouth. She snapped, rather more forcefully than she had intended, ‘You’ll eat it, Deborah, and be grateful. Now the soldiers are here, we have to feed them as well, and you’ll find that if you don’t want a dish there’ll be no others to choose from.’
There was a small silence. Deb, made uneasy by her mother’s rare anger, shifted in her seat and stared mutinously at the pieces of iron-hard pastry on her pewter plate. ‘But there’s beef. Can’t I have some of the beef, Mama? Please?’
‘You can have some of mine — I can’t eat any more,’ said Rachael, sliding her two remaining slices, liberally daubed with sauce, onto her half-sister’s platter. Silence saw Master Willis’s shocked face and had to hide a smile. The older children were all quite capable of perfect manners in company, but in private, just the family, standards were somewhat less formal. It was typical of Rachael to ignore the vicar’s presence, despite his interminable grace at the beginning of the meal; and also typical of her to combine her undoubtedly genuine love for her half-sister with a subtle defiance of her stepmother. Until the day I die, thought Silence with resignation, I shall never have Rachael’s allegiance.
‘Mama.’ It was Tabby, sitting beside Nat, her small face very serious. ‘Is it true, Mama? That we may not have enough to eat, now the soldiers are here?’
Silence saw Master Willis’s look of pity, and knew what the parson would advise: not the plain truth, but a careful distillation of the facts, rendered fit for infant ears. She had never liked telling lies to her children, and if she started now, it would be one more crime to lay at the soldiers’ door; she had always valued honesty, in most circumstances. Aware that they were all waiting apprehensively for her answer on this topic of vital concern, she said quietly, ‘I don’t know, poppet. We have plenty of food for ourselves, all stored up against the winter. But there are nearly fifty soldiers, far more than us. They will want feeding too. We’ll have to be careful not to use up too much of our supplies before the spring. If we are not too greedy — and if they are not either, then we won’t go without food altogether. We have the garden, remember, and cattle and sheep in the fields. And besides, Lieutenant-Colonel Ridgeley said that he would be asking for contributions from the village.’
‘But most of the villagers are in no condition to make any such contributions,’ Willis pointed out, with some agitation. ‘I grant you, my lady, some are quite comfortable, but most have only a few cows, a close of pasture or arable. They depend on the cloth trade for their bread, and that, alas, as you know, has been miserably run down, even before this terrible war. I beg your pardon, Lady St. Barbe, but at the moment Wintercombe is much better placed to feed these unwelcome and ungodly parasites than is Norton itself.’
It was a rebuke, hesitantly given, but nonetheless true: she saw the justice of it, and gave him a wry smile. ‘It is I who should beg your pardon, Master Willis. Of course I did not intend that the poor and suffering should pay more than Wintercombe. The Flowers, at Grange Farm, are as well placed as we are, and the Apprice family is flourishing, despite the slump in their trade.’ She glanced at the children, who were all sitting quite still, even William, and listening intently. ‘We are rich, and daily give thanks for our wealth, and lend help and charity to the less fortunate. But I am afraid of the soldiers’ greed, Master Willis. I can only pray that they will be reasonable — and that is not a common quality of soldiers.’
‘I am sure that they will be, Lady St. Barbe,’ said the vicar, in a falsely bright tone that must have indicated at least to the older children that he was lying. Tabby cast him a sharp glance, and then said to her mother, ‘You didn’t tell us. Will we get enough to eat?’
‘Yes,’ said Silence, knowing that she herself, and many of the household, would starve themselves before the children went without. ‘But it may not be such luxurious fare — brown bread, or salted meat, or cabbage and beans and pottage.’ She smiled rather wanly at her daughter. ‘We have been spoiled here, eating Darby’s wonderful food. It might do you good to discover what ordinary people live on, every day of their lives. And if I were you, Deb, I’d eat my pastry without complaint, for you may be glad of it in a few weeks.’
There was quiet then, while the younger children addressed themselves with peculiar vigour to their remaining food. Silence, her own plate carefully cleaned, but not replenished, saw that Rachael had eaten a similarly small quantity. By the white, sick look of her stepdaughter’s face, she was consumed with tension, with fear and anger, doubtless plotting revenge on the men who had invaded her home. It was no use warning her; in her present mood, that would only confirm the girl’s intent. With a prayer for her safety, Silence watched the younger ones finish, and rang her silver handbell to summon the fruit pies and cheese.
The hour of dinnertime proved to be a brief, illusory respite from the pressures upon her. As soon as she emerged from the dining parlour, there they were, hovering in the screens passage, the massed ranks of her supplicants. Clevinger, the bailiff, came first, white with fury, to tell her with an uncharacteristic overflow of words that the soldiers had taken a cow from the pasture behind his house, a fine beast and one of his best milkers, and slaughtered her. Even now, poor Buttercup was being roasted over a fire in the barton. Before she had had time for any reaction other than instant anger, there was Goodenough, quivering with rage, complaining that two of the stable partitions had been torn down to feed the fire, and the men had laughed at his protests. ‘If they do go on like this,’ the groom said grimly, ‘there’ll be no house left inside of a month, they’ll have burnt it all on their filthy fires.’
‘Aye, and no kine neither,’ said Clevinger bitterly. Silence glanced around at the anxious, horrified faces of the children and Parson Willis, the scattering of maids, and Ben Darby, his face ruddy with kitchen heat and temper, doubtless come to complain of similar outrage. They were looking to her to provide a lead, to intervene as she had promised, and she was not at all sure that she had the courage to do it.
She bade Master Willis goodbye: he was anxious to spread the ill news amongst his parishioners, and she supposed sadly that if one old widow saved a heifer, or a poor family hid a couple of cheeses and a sack of corn to see them through the lean winter months, it was worth it. Then she ordered the children up to their chambers, under the eye of Doraty Locke and the nursemaid. Rachael, plainly mutinous at being thus pushed out of the way, was disposed to argue: Nat took her arm and steered her with brotherly firmness towards the stairs, and the others followed meekly in their wake. Thanking God for his good sense, she turned to her household. ‘I will speak now with Lieutenant-Colonel Ridgeley. I imagine that he is in the barton with his men?’
‘’Tis where I seed him last,’ said Goodenough, ‘laughing with the rest of they ungodly buggers — begging your pardon, m’lady.’
‘Then I will go beard him in his den,’ said Silence, with a brisk confidence that deceived only those with inferior wits. ‘Mally, come with me — you too, Clevinger and Goodenough. The rest of you can go about your duties — the dinner must be cleared away, there are chimneys to sweep still, cheeses to be turned and butter to be made. Now go, and do your work.’
They went, in ones and twos, reluctant and muttering. Silence suspected that many of them would find business in rooms that had windows overlooking the barton, and could not blame them. She beckoned the two men close to her, and said clearly and quietly, ‘How many cattle do we have at present, Clevinger?’
Whatever his difficulties of character, the man was, in his limited way, a good bailiff. He reeled off the numbers as if reciting his catechism. ‘Eleven yearling and two-year-old heifers in one of they meadows anent the Wellow lane, m’lady, and fourteen calves in t’other. There be seven and twenty milch kine in the close behind my house, and four head of draught oxen in the top paddock. The bulls, as you do know, m’lady, be in the nether paddock eight and fifty in all — seven and fifty, now they’ve slaughtered old Buttercup.’ He heaved a lugubrious sigh. ‘And where will it all end, m’lady? They soldiers won’t be satisfied till there be norn left of the best herd of milkers between Bath and Shepton.’
‘Well,’ said Silence, wishing that the man possessed more energy and resource, had more gumption, as the villagers called it. ‘We shall have to make sure that they don’t. Split the cows up, Clevinger, put the best in a far pasture, as near to Wellow or Hinton parish as you can, or the closes behind the Hassage coppice. We must hide the good ones at least, or as you say, they’ll have them all.’
‘And if they give good coin for ’em,’ said Goodenough grimly, ‘I’ll turn Papist.’
It had stopped raining, Silence was sorry to see: she would have preferred, warm and dry as she was, to have faced a bedraggled and soaking officer. True, the men lounging round the barton, leaning against their horses, sitting on barrels or, most wastefully, heaps of straw, were as sorry and villainous-looking a crew as had ever worn what approximated to uniform. At least their officers presented quite a dashing appearance in their Taunton blue, but the men were another matter: unshaven faces, straggling hair, patched and stained buff coats, torn muddy breeches, filthy boots, were the rule rather than the exception.
As she walked into the barton, which formed a broad quadrangle alongside the north wing of the house, all activity ceased, and there was a mutter of coarse comment, openly leering glances and raucous laughter that set her teeth on edge. Determined not to react to such crudeness, she kept her head high, but could not prevent a betraying flush from heating her face. Her bailiff at her right shoulder, her groom at her left, and Mally at her back, she stalked purposefully across the barton to the roaring fire at its centre, noting with dismay the many signs of military damage already plain: the horses tethered in a dejected row, nosing at piles of good Wintercombe hay; the muddy stone cobbles, puddled and slippery, that so recently had been cleanly swept and ordered; the remains of poor Buttercup, topped by her gory and gruesome red head, piled in a blood-stained heap in a corner; and the fire with the makeshift spit above it, on which a haunch of prime Somerset cow sizzled wastefully.
Ridgeley, seated on a cider barrel by the flames, a hunk of bread and meat in his hand, watched her approach with an expression of sardonic amusement on his blue-jowled face, and made no attempt to still his men’s increasingly audible comments on the attributes of the two women, despite Clevinger’s glower. ‘My dear Lady St. Barbe! You should not have troubled to visit us in our quarters! And may I take this opportunity,’ he added with exaggerated courtesy, ‘of commending your estate on the magnificent quality of its beef. Such flavour, such tenderness!’
