The Poacher's Daughter, page 14
Time passed and the investigation into the murder of Wilfred Darby had ground to a halt. There were no witnesses and no useful evidence had been found.
William was growing impatient. ‘If they’re not going to arrest the Waterhouse girl, then I want her out of that cottage and gone from here altogether.’ Although William would never admit it, he was secretly afraid that Byron would begin meeting Rosie again. The girl was grown up now and certainly attractive. And while he was loath to acknowledge it, even William could see that Byron’s marriage was not a happy one.
‘Is that really necessary, William?’ Grace asked, greatly daring.
William frowned. ‘I don’t know who actually pulled the trigger of the gun that killed Darby, Grace, but it was one of them and because he’s done a bunk, it rather looks as if it was the father. However, she’s as guilty as he is in my eyes, but I just can’t prove it. If nothing else, she’s a poacher like her father. So, I want her gone.’
‘But she has nowhere to go.’
Now William glowered at her. ‘That is hardly my problem. And if anyone in the village tries to help her, they’ll be out too.’
‘But where could she go?’
‘There’s always the workhouse.’
Grace pictured the bright-haired girl with shining green eyes and shuddered inwardly. The grim building – a last resort for many – would likely kill her. It would certainly kill her spirit. Grace had always known her husband was a hard taskmaster. His tenant farmers, his workers – all those he employed in one way or another – even his own wife, had to obey his rules and demands, but she had never thought him to be a cruel, vindictive man. He had even forced his will on their own son, driving Byron, when he was little more than a boy, into a disastrous marriage, all for the sake of his progeny. She regretted now the part she had played in assisting him.
For a while, Grace watched William, seeing him as he was now. Overweight, florid and ill-tempered. She herself had been pushed into marrying him by her ambitious mother, but when she had married William, he had still been a fine figure of a man, albeit some years older than her. Not until later had she seen the streak of ruthlessness in him. She loved her son devotedly and feared for him, but part of her was glad that he had stood up to his father in volunteering. It would be the making of him. She just prayed that he would come back safely.
For the rest of the day, Grace sat quietly in the morning room with her cross stitch, but her mind was busy. She knew more about her husband’s tenants in the village than he did. She felt isolated and lonely for much of the time – apart from her lunches with the ‘ladies of the county’, many of whom she wouldn’t trust with her secrets. But there was one person within the household who she knew she could trust implicitly. Her lady’s maid, Sarah. A little older than her mistress, Sarah had been appointed when Grace had arrived as a young bride and had soon become Grace’s confidante. Sarah was well liked by the other members of the household staff and while she never reported tittle-tattle to the mistress, if there was a problem brewing among the staff, a discreet word with Grace often quietly solved the problem without it escalating into something serious. So, William’s household ran smoothly without him ever realizing the reason why.
When the afternoon light began to fade, Sarah entered the room and gave a little bob. Despite their closeness, Sarah never forgot her place and was happy in it. She always maintained the mistress-and-maid relationship.
‘Good evening, ma’am. It’s almost time to dress for dinner. I’ve laid out your blue silk. Is that all right?’
‘Perfect.’ Grace smiled as she looked up.
‘If you want to carry on with your embroidery a while longer, I can get Mr Baines to come in and light the lamp.’
‘No, don’t worry, Sarah. I’ve done enough for today.’ Grace laid aside her work and patted the couch beside her. It was the cue for an off-the-record chat. No one else, not even William, would come into what was regarded as Grace’s private sitting room without knocking. The unusual intimacy shared between mistress and maid would not be discovered.
‘I want you to do something for me but this must be just between ourselves.’
‘Of course, ma’am.’
‘Do you know Rosie Waterhouse?’
‘By sight, ma’am, but I do know Mrs Tranter and she is very close to Rosie.’
‘Nell Tranter who does the servants’ washing for the manor now?’
Sarah nodded. ‘That’s right, ma’am.’
Grace was thoughtful. She had kept the domestic arrangement a secret from William. No doubt he would have insisted that she dismiss the elderly woman and employ a fit, strong girl. Mrs Portus was a widow. The manor was her home and the only place she could have gone in her declining years would have been the workhouse. William wouldn’t have hesitated in sending her there, but Grace would keep her here for as long as she could.
‘And’ – Sarah was saying, bringing Grace’s wandering thoughts back to their conversation – ‘I do know that although Rosie is still living in her own cottage, she helps Nell out with the laundry. She can’t find any other work. None of the tenant farmers will employ her. I expect they fear upsetting the master if they did.’
‘Is she still poaching?’
‘No, she isn’t.’
‘I don’t think we’ll ever know the truth about what happened that night, but I don’t think Rosie had anything to do with the actual shooting, do you?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘No, I don’t, ma’am. But I think a lot of folks think that if she was with him, then she’s as guilty as him.’
Grace sighed heavily. ‘It’s what my husband thinks. Sarah, I want you to go and see Nell Tranter. You can make an excuse to visit her about the laundry, can’t you?’
Sarah nodded. ‘As it happens, there’s a bundle to go tomorrow. I’ll take it first thing before you’re ready to get up, ma’am, if you like.’
‘If you would, Sarah, thank you. I want you to tell her that my husband is planning to evict Rosie from her cottage.’
Sarah drew in her breath sharply, but made no comment.
‘So, they need to plan what Rosie is going to do,’ Grace went on. ‘I rather think that he wouldn’t be too happy if Rosie moved in with Nell Tranter either. Although he doesn’t own Mrs Tranter’s cottage now, he’d find a way to stop Rosie living with her.’
‘I’ll sort it out for you, ma’am. Don’t you worry no more.’
The following morning, Sarah walked along the path through the woods to get to Nell’s cottage, wheeling a heavy load of washing in an old perambulator.
‘What are you doing here, Sarah, and this early too?’ Nell greeted her. ‘Not that I’m not pleased to see you, but usually the kitchen maid brings the washing. But come away in and have a cup of tea with me.’ Nell dismissed the expense of drinking tea; a visit from Mrs Ramsey’s lady’s maid was something special.
‘I won’t say no to that, Nell. I’ve come this morning because the mistress has sent a private message to you.’
Nell’s face fell. ‘Is she going to stop sending the washing to me?’
‘No, nothing like that. She is very happy with your work. It’s about Rosie.’
‘Rosie? Do you want to see her? She’s in the washhouse across the backyard. We start early on a Monday.’
‘I think it would be best if you were to pass the message on. But you must both say nothing to anyone. The mistress is taking quite a risk, I might tell you. If the master were to find out . . .’
‘Ah,’ Nell said, catching on, even before quite understanding what the message was.
‘The master is going to evict Rosie from her cottage.’
‘Then she can come and live with me—’ Nell began, but Sarah was shaking her head.
‘No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. He’ll be vindictive towards anyone who tries to help her. He’s said as much.’
Nell’s face was bleak. ‘So, what you’re telling me – what the mistress is telling me – is that Rosie ought to go away?’
Sarah nodded.
‘So, I’m to lose everyone I’ve ever cared about, am I? My husband, my son, my – my friend and now Rosie too.’
Sarah said nothing. There was nothing she could say.
Flatly, Nell said, ‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘Don’t leave it too long, Nell,’ Sarah said.
Later that day, when they had both spent a hard day at the wash tub and hanging clothes on the line in the garden behind the cottage, Nell ladled rabbit stew onto two plates. Although Rosie no longer ventured into the woods or onto the farmland to poach, any creature who dared to venture into their gardens or onto the common land was fair game for her poacher’s snare.
Nell cut off a generous hunk of bread and they sat down together. Both were tired; they just wanted to eat and go to their beds. The dried washing lay in neat piles around the kitchen awaiting ironing the next day. Once again, Rosie would come to help.
When they had finished eating, Rosie stretched and yawned. ‘I’ll be off home, then, Aunty Nell. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Just stay for a cup of tea, Rosie lass. We’ve earned a special treat. There’s something I have to tell you.’
Rosie’s eyes widened. ‘It’s not about Nathan, is it?’
‘No. He’s fine. At least, he was the last time I heard.’
When they were seated by the fire, Nell explained swiftly what Sarah had told her that morning. She wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron. ‘Oh lass, I don’t want to see you go, but I think it would be for the best.’
‘I’m not surprised and I’ve been thinking about what you said about Tilly Baxter. I’d almost decided to do the same thing.’
‘It’d be the best thing for you, but like I said before, go and see PC Foster. The police are obviously not interested in you anymore, else they’d have been back before now. But the master – he’s not going to forget.’
‘Oh Aunty Nell. I don’t want to go – I don’t want to leave you.’
‘And I don’t want you to, lass, but I think you should.’
‘You’ll be all right?’
‘I’ll manage. I’ve got the washing from the manor and a few other bits and pieces from the village now and again. That’ll keep me going. Don’t you worry about me, Rosie. Just look after yourself. And don’t worry about the ironing tomorrow. I’ll cope. Just get your things together and get off as soon as you can. The carrier comes to the village tomorrow dinner time. He’ll give you a lift into Lincoln, I don’t doubt. Look, I’ve got an old carpet bag I’ll give you . . .’
The decision made, even though it was one she was loath to do, Rosie slept well for a few hours and was up early the next morning to gather her few belongings together. By eleven-thirty she was ready, the cottage left tidy. Even the garden, which she had tended regularly, was neat. With a last glance around her, she left the only home she had ever known and went to Nell’s door.
‘I’m off, then. I’m going into the village. I’ll call at PC Foster’s and then wait for the carrier on the green. That’s where he always stands for the villagers to come to him. But I just wanted to tell you to help yourself to all the vegetables in our garden before a new tenant is likely to come. It’s a shame for them all to go to waste and I’d rather you had them.’
‘I’ll see they’re used, Rosie. I’ll preserve what I can and give the rest away. I know some folks are having a hard time already with their menfolk away. You and your dad will be sorely missed through the winter months, I can tell you. There’ll be many a mouth go hungry because you’re not here.’
Rosie sighed. ‘Things can never be the same again, though, can they? And it’s best we’ve both gone. There’s just one more thing, Aunty Nell. Will you look after this for me? It’s a box with my father’s papers in it. He told me to take care of it just in case I ever needed it. I’ve had a peek. It’s got several certificates in. You know, births, marriages and that.’
‘Of course I will, lass. I’ll put it under my bed. It’s where I keep my own precious papers.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Specially the one where Mr Ramsey signed over this cottage to me after my Jim was killed on his land. It’ll be Nathan’s one day, God willing, but he might have to prove it.’
Nell clasped Rosie tightly and then with a voice that was none too steady, said, ‘Take care of yourself, lass. I’ll miss you so much.’
‘I’ll miss you too, Aunty Nell. You take care, an’ all.’
Rosie picked up her bag and turned away. As she walked towards the village centre, she turned round once or twice to wave to Nell, who was still standing at her gate watching Rosie until she was out of sight.
That night, Nell wrote a letter to Nathan, sending it to the address he had given her.
Rosie has left the village. I don’t know where she’s gone and it’s best I don’t, though she made sure Douglas knew she was leaving. Nathan would know that his mother was referring to PC Foster and she knew he would also tell Byron. I think she’s going to try to find work in a hospital somewhere to do her bit for the war effort too . . .
Nineteen
‘So, you have no nursing experience?’
‘No, ma’am. I’m sorry . . .’
‘Don’t be. There are plenty of jobs here for a strong young woman, though the work is rather menial.’
Rosie had left the village at the beginning of October. She’d headed towards Lincoln, learning on the way that a school on Wragby Road was being turned into a military hospital. She’d found the building and now she stood facing a tall, thin, middle-aged woman dressed in some kind of uniform, though she wasn’t quite sure what it represented; a navy-blue dress with stiff, white cuffs and a white cap.
‘What is your name?’
‘Rosie Skelton.’ She had decided to call herself by the same name which she knew her father had adopted.
‘Have you any references?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I haven’t.’
The woman looked her up and down with a searching glance. ‘Come into my office and we’ll have a little talk.’
Inside the small room the woman sat down behind a desk and indicated for Rosie to sit down in front of her. ‘I am Miss Archer and I am the matron of this recently opened hospital. We are known as the Fourth Northern General Hospital.’ She smiled and the severe lines of her face relaxed. ‘You might have guessed the building we are occupying was a school before the start of the war. The Lincoln Grammar School. The pupils have, of course, been sent elsewhere for the duration of the war. Additional huts for our use are being erected on the playing fields. So, tell me about yourself, Miss Skelton.’
Rosie licked her lips and began the speech she had rehearsed. She’d decided to stick to as much of the truth as possible.
‘I’m from a small village in Lincolnshire. I lived with my father, who used to work on the land, but when the war started, he volunteered. It was difficult for me to stay on in our cottage – I don’t think the master would have granted me the tenancy to stay there on my own after my father had gone. So, I decided to do the same – to volunteer for some sort of war work.’
‘Very admirable,’ the matron murmured. ‘You look like you’re a strong young woman and if you’re honest and hardworking, I can certainly find work for you. I’ll give you a one-month trial as a cleaner to start with. If you do well, you may be transferred to being a ward orderly.’ She paused and then added, ‘And even beyond that, if you prove yourself suitable, I might consider putting you forward to become an assistant nurse. You’re not squeamish at the sight of blood, are you?’
Rosie thought of all the rabbits and hares she had skinned, the fish she had gutted, the birds she had plucked and drawn. ‘No, ma’am, I am not.’
‘You would receive some basic training in first aid and nursing and would work under the trained nurses. We have a few already and they are invaluable in assisting the experienced nurses who, when we have a convoy arrive, can be quickly overwhelmed.’
Rosie beamed. ‘Thank you, ma’am . . .’
‘You address me as “Matron”. The woman in charge of you will be Mrs Duncan. She oversees all the auxiliary staff. She will put you with someone who will show you the ropes.’
Mrs Duncan was a buxom woman with a broad, welcoming smile. She reminded Rosie of Nell.
‘Now then, duck.’ She looked Rosie up and down and her smile widened. ‘You look a strong, healthy lass. Matron ses to give you a try, so that’s what we’ll do.’ Then her face sobered. ‘The work’s hard and you’ll see some horrible sights, so I hope you’re not squeamish. You don’t faint at the sight of blood and gore, do you?’
Rosie swallowed the laughter that bubbled up in her throat but she managed to keep her expression serious. ‘No, ma’am. Not at all.’
‘Call me Mrs Duncan, duck. Right, I’ll put you to work with Anna. Anna Dawson. She’s not been with us long but she’s a good lass and will show you what to do. You do whatever she tells you and you won’t go far wrong. Any questions?’
‘Only one, ma’am – sorry, Mrs Duncan.’
The woman laughed. ‘About the pay, is it?’
‘No. I was just wondering where I could sleep.’
Mrs Duncan blinked. ‘Ah. You don’t live in the city, then?’
‘No. I’ve walked here from the country. My dad volunteered and I’m on my own now so I wanted to help with the war effort.’
‘Most of our manual workers live locally but we’ll talk to Anna. She came to us from the workhouse, so she has a little room in the attic here. She might have an idea. Come along, we’ll go and find her.’
Anna was working in one of the wards, sweeping under the beds and wiping down the iron bedsteads. She didn’t, Rosie noticed, touch the patients at all, not even to straighten their rumpled bedding. Rosie glanced at the patients and drew in a sharp breath. There were about a dozen wounded soldiers in the ward; several were heavily bandaged about the head and were lying perfectly still, their eyes closed. One or two were sitting up and looking about them. Another had a cage over his left leg and yet another was propped up against pillows. His eyes were closed and his breathing was a harsh rasping sound.
