Open Writing

Robert’s horse crested the rise and he squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun on Lumb Top reservoir below. Not far now. He smiled as he remembered the past. The horse picked its way around the swell of a hill and he reined in to look down on Musgrave Hall. The building of weathered grey stone faced east across the valley. Stables and farm buildings were built along a dog-leg to the south and faced a yard in which hens pecked. Behind the hall was a herb garden and a stretch of grass tended by a tethered goat and, beyond a dry stone wall, were the vegetable plots and shacks of a smallholding. The track from the village ended at the front of the hall, for there was nowhere else for it to go.

Ever since he had left, he had anticipated coming home to these wild hills and flawed valleys. A mile below the hall was the first of the villages that ran, like a string of black pearls, along the banks of the river, each with its mills and dyehouses fed by the incessant power of the water from the reservoir, each with its tavern and its poverty; hamlets that nudged each other all the way to the market town of Helston and then on, to the textile centre of Bradfield.

Following the river was a turnpike along which went mail coaches on traditional routes that linked Bradfield with Sheffield and Manchester, routes that were now under threat from the encroaching railways.

The horse moved down the hill, picking its way along a sheep trail, and Robert saw a stocky young man come out of the stable and set trestles in the yard. He went back into the stables. The limp told him it was Zac. Robert had planned to be dignified; he had rehearsed small speeches, but now all he could do was laugh at the surprise he was about to spring. Bugger dignity.

Zac re-emerged into the yard with two planks which he placed upon the trestles to make a long and rough table. He shielded his eyes and stared up the hill. His arm dropped in shock and Robert rode his horse into the yard, jumped down and ran to his childhood friend, arms wide to embrace him. They hugged until Zac pushed him away.

"Good God."

"Is that all you can say?" Robert slapped his friends shoulders. "You've filled out."

"Aye."

"Easy living."

"Oh, aye." Zac half smiled and raised an eyebrow with sarcasm. He shook his head again. "Where've you come from?"

"Bradfield."

"No. I mean ..."

"I docked in Liverpool three days ago and travelled to Bradfield on the railway. I spent the night there and, this being such a lovely morning, I thought I might ride out and visit friends." He laughed. "And here I am."

"Aye. Prosperous too, looks like."

"Prosperous enough."

"You made your fortune, then?"

Zac asked the question half jokingly but Robert replied in total seriousness. "I did. But it came too late."

"You know, then?" Zac appeared surprised but relieved.

"Mr Baines wrote. He said she didn't suffer. Of course, lawyers use language as they please, but being so far away, I was happy enough to be convinced."

The worry did not fully leave Zac’s face.

"Aye. I'm sorry, Robert. But Mr Baines didn't lie. It were quick."

Robert gazed down the hill, towards the village of Moorbridge.

"And she's down there? At St David's?"

"That was her wish. To be close to the Colonel in death, as in life."

"A love match made in heaven," said Robert. It was phrase his mother had often used.

"Well, that's where it's ended."

"Anyway." Robert grinned. "How about you? Still single?"

Zac pulled a face.

"Who'd have me?"

He was too off-hand and Robert suspected an affair of the heart that wasn’t progressing well but this wasn’t the time to pry. He looked past Zac at the house.

"Nothing's changed."

"There've been changes enough. You just can't see 'em."

His tone was a warning.

"Jane? She is well?"

"Mistress Jane is well," he said, guardedly.

"George?"

Zac shook his head.

"George is dead."

His heart sank. Jane would have been devastated at the loss of her brother. George had been the gentle dreamer who had wanted to grow up to be a naturalist and make Amazonian expeditions. The closest he had got had been collecting specimens from moorland ponds with net and jar on the picnic treks the four of them had made together. What an unlikely quartet they had been. Zac the stable lad to carry the basket, Robert as self-appointed guardian and lovesick fool, the beautiful golden haired Jane and gentle George.

"How did he die?"

"Drowned," said Zac. "In the dam, six months gone."

He had expected an illness, not an accident. A drowning was too dramatic for a boy of delicate health.

"Did Jane take it badly?"

"Badly aint the word. It were a bad time for a long time. I thought ..." He stopped himself and closed his mouth.

"What, Zac?"

"Nothing. It were a severe time. Her grief was deep."

"Poor Jane. Poor George."

The two had been inseparable. They had lost their parents when they were young and had been sent to the hall as wards of the colonel, their closest surviving relative. The death shadowed his homecoming.

Robert said, "How’s Harry?" The question was tinged with bitterness. "He, no doubt, is in rude health."

"He is."

"And is his preference still to be in London?"

"He spends most of his time here."

"Never." Robert pretended shock. "He's made his home in this backwater? He must be raising funds for another venture. Does he still have the knack of pouring good money after bad?"

"It's not my place to know," said Zac.

They exchanged looks and Robert smiled. His friend had always been honest and true and it would go against the grain for him to speak ill of his master. Zac had always known his place, even on the picnics, and had been determined to stay there.

"Why have you come back?" Zac asked.

"You knew I would."

"But why? These valleys are small and you've been so far."

“You know why." He glanced at the house in case she might be looking out of the window. "I intend to ask Jane to become my wife."

"I thought that would be your intention." Zac stared at him for a long second. "I'm sorry, Robert. You’re too late."

"Too late?"

"Mistress Jane gets wed today." He banged the planks on the trestle behind him. "I'm setting the tables for the feast."

"Where?" he said, his stomach suddenly a yawning pit.

"St David's."

Robert licked his lips. His throat had become dry.

"Who is she marrying?" he said, not wanting to hear what he suspected.

"She's marrying Harry. I'm sorry, Robert. Mistress Jane is marrying your brother."