The Poacher's Daughter, page 2
‘There’s nowt to see tonight, Mr Byron.’ Amos Taylor’s voice drifted through the trees. The estate’s gamekeeper was getting on in years now and rumours were rife in the village that William was planning to retire him. Amos had served the Ramsey family all his life and was respected by everyone in the neighbourhood. The keeper wondered why Master Byron had suddenly shown an interest in coming out into the woods tonight. He’d never done so before. Amos hoped Sam was not about, as he remembered the whispered conversation he had had some years earlier with the poacher in a secluded corner of the village pub, the Thornsby Arms.
‘As long as you only take rabbits and hares and birds like rooks and pigeons, we’ll get along very nicely, Sam. And even a few fish from the stream, but mind you never touch his game birds and stay away from the lake itself. The old man’ – he’d referred to William as old, even though his employer was actually a year younger than he was – ‘has no idea of what goes on, but he trusts me. As a young man, I worked for his father, Edward Ramsey. He knew that the local poacher – which in them days was Little Titch – kept the poorer folk in the village fed when labourers’ jobs were scarce in the winter. Mr Edward was a kinder soul than his son, I have to admit, but Byron’s more like his grandfather.’ Amos had wandered a little, reminiscing about what he remembered as the good old days. ‘But I know you do the same for the villagers as Little Titch did, so, as long as you stick to the rules, I’m willing to turn a blind eye. Don’t let me down, Sam, else it’ll be my livelihood and your freedom gone.’
Sam had nodded as if giving his word, but he knew that when times got really hard, he would not stick to such a promise. He was not averse to shooting pheasant or partridge alongside rooks and pigeons if the opportunity came along. But shooting was a precarious way of poaching. The echo of a shotgun in the blackness of the night could bring the gamekeeper and his dogs running. And Amos would be honour bound to investigate the sound of a shotgun.
Now, crouching in the darkness of the woods, they heard the voices grow fainter until Sam said softly, ‘Time we was going home, lass. The daylight’s no friend to the poacher.’ Luckily, they had already collected up their poaching equipment and were ready to leave.
They paused briefly at the edge of the woods furthest from their home to watch the two figures moving away from them towards the manor, the huge lake in front of the mansion glistening in the early morning light.
‘I’m going to live in that house, Dad. One day I’ll be mistress of Thornsby Manor.’
‘Aye, an’ pigs might fly. No one in yon house would ever look at the likes of us, so don’t you go daydreaming, lass, for summat you’re never going to have.’
He’d turned away, but his dismissive words had not been able to wipe the smile from Rosie’s face or to destroy her hopes. ‘One day, Dad,’ she’d murmured. ‘One day, you’ll see.’
Two
By the time Rosie went to bed, as the daylight crept across the fields, her head was buzzing with all that she had learned. But there was one secret that she did not share with her father: her meeting with Byron Ramsey. Her night vigil with Sam, however, had taught her one important lesson; caution.
‘Trust no one, not even the villagers who seem friendly. And ’specially not the keeper.’ Sam was referring to Amos.
‘Does he know what you do?’
‘Oh yes, though up to now, he’s not been able to catch me.’ His face sobered. ‘I won’t tempt fate by saying “never” because there’s time yet, but Amos is getting old and he likes to be in his warm bed at night instead of tramping the fields looking for the likes of me. I wonder why he was out tonight?’ He frowned and a worried note crept into his voice. ‘We have an understanding of sorts, but he still has to do his job. His first loyalty has to be to William Ramsey. He gives him his livelihood and a roof over his head.’ Then Sam chuckled, a deep, infectious sound, as he added, ‘He nearly had me once, years ago now.’
‘What happened?’ Rosie whispered, almost as if she feared the walls of their cottage were listening. She pictured the gamekeeper in her mind. He was tall and thin and stooped now. His grey, almost white, hair was thinning but his weather-beaten face still broke into a smile whenever he met Rosie. If she could have got to know him better, she was sure she would have liked him, but, sadly, Amos was her enemy.
‘I was hedgin’ and ditchin’,’ her father went on, ‘and I’d set a couple of snares an’ caught two hares. I’d taken up the snares and hidden them and the hares in the hedge further along from where I was working. Amos comes up behind me with his two dogs and they were sniffing around. I was sure they were going to find the hares and me snares, but, as luck would have it, I disturbed a rabbit in the hedge bottom and the dogs gave chase.’
‘Have you ever been caught?’
Sam shook his head. ‘No, lass, but I’m not daft enough to think I couldn’t be. It’s dangerous to get complacent.’
‘But the villagers know you’re a poacher, don’t they?’
Again, Sam chuckled again – a low rumbling sound deep in his chest.
‘They’ll not give me away. They’ve too much to lose themselves if they do.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I never sell what I catch. I give away anything we don’t want to the poorest in the village. Any money we need, lass, I earn from the little jobs that Jack Pickering puts my way. Selling owt – especially to dealers – can be dangerous. If you don’t take the price they offer – say for a brace of pheasants – they’ll turn you in to the police.’
Rosie’s eyes widened. ‘Will they really?’
Sam nodded. ‘Little Titch got caught that way.’
Tales of the legendary ‘Little Titch’ had peppered Rosie’s childhood. He’d lived all his life in a small hovel at the edge of the wood about a mile from where Sam and Rosie lived now and further still away from the village. He’d had a tiny patch of ground where he’d grown vegetables and kept chickens and even a pig. After his parents had died, he’d continued to live there on his own. He’d never married; indeed, he was a recluse, but he never shunned the villagers’ kindness to him and in return he, too, had kept many of them fed through hard times. And, Rosie had been told many times, he had taught Sam Waterhouse all he knew about poaching. But, despite Sam having kept him supplied with food as he’d become too infirm to go out for himself, the old man had died alone in his hovel one harsh winter a few years ago.
‘He’d dealt with a butcher in the next village for years.’ Sam went on with his story. ‘And then suddenly the feller wouldn’t pay a fair price and when Little Titch refused his paltry offer, the butcher told the local bobby that Little Titch had offered him a brace of pheasants.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was up before the magistrate, who happened to be old man Ramsey.’
Rosie’s eyes widened. ‘Mr William?’
‘No, no. His father. Edward Ramsey.’
‘Was Little Titch sent to prison?’
‘No. He made a grovelling apology, telling them about the hard time he was going through and promising it would never happen again.’
‘And did it?’
‘What?’
‘Happen again?’
‘No.’
‘So, Little Titch gave up poaching?’
Sam laughed. ‘Nah. ’Course he didn’t. He just minded he never got caught again.’
A week after her first meeting with Byron, Rosie hid in a thicket of small trees and bushes on the bank of the stream close to where she’d been fishing. Although Byron had been so kind, she was remembering her father’s motto. Trust no one. She heard the horse’s hooves long before she saw him. He dismounted just in front of the thicket, but he did not see her, for Rosie kept still and silent; she just watched. She saw him glance about him as if looking for her. Then she saw that he was carrying a pole with a sharpened hook on one end. He let the horse loose again, but the animal stayed close, grazing contentedly. Byron sat down on the bank, still glancing to his right and left every so often. Rosie left the thicket on the side furthest away from where he was sitting and approached him from several yards away as if she had just arrived.
‘There you are,’ he said, standing up. ‘I thought you’d forgotten.’
Rosie shook her head. ‘No, I wouldn’t forget,’ she said simply.
‘I’ve brought you this,’ he said, holding out the pole. ‘I’ll show you how to use it.’ For the next hour they fished in the river, catching three fish. It was a much easier method than with a crooked branch, a piece of string and a hook.
Rosie carried home the fish with pride, but her pleasure soon evaporated when her father saw them.
‘You didn’t catch these with your bit of string and a hook,’ he said sharply. He examined the fish more thoroughly. ‘You’ve caught these with a gaff. Who’s taught you how to do that, because I haven’t?’
Suddenly, Sam – her kindly, loving father – was very angry. ‘Sit in that chair, girl, and don’t you dare leave it until you’ve explained yourself.’
But Rosie did not sit down. She stood on the hearth, planted her feet firmly on the rug and stood facing him with her arms akimbo. ‘Byron Ramsey brought me a pole with a hook on it and showed me how to use it.’
Sam gaped at her. ‘He – he helped you to poach his father’s fish?’
‘Yes, he did. He caught me one day last week fishing in the stream with my string and hook, so he brought me a gaff. And he’s promised to teach me how to tickle trout, an’ all.’
‘Why? Why would he do that?’ Sam’s eyes narrowed. ‘What did he want in return?’
Young though she was, Rosie knew the facts of life. Nell had explained it all to her at Sam’s request.
‘I can’t talk to a young lass about that sort of thing, Nell. Will you do it?’ he’d said.
Nell had laughed. ‘’Course I will, Sam, but on one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you have a man-to-man chat with my Nathan.’
Now, Rosie blushed at her father’s blunt question. And then indignation swelled in her. ‘Do you think I would let anything happen?’
‘You’d have no chance if he wanted to – to . . .’
‘He’s a gentleman,’ Rosie snapped.
‘There’s no such thing. All he sees is a young girl he could have at will. You’d not stand a chance against him. That’s all village girls are to young men of his class. They’ll use them and then cast them aside.’
Rosie felt the tears prickle. ‘You’re wrong, Dad. I know you are.’
‘Then he’s leading you on to trap you as easily as I snare rabbits and hares. He wants to catch us out and report us as poachers. Both of us, but he’s trying to do it through you to get at me. You’ll see, Rosie, we shall have the local bobby knocking at the door.’
Rosie said no more, but, stubbornly, she refused to stop meeting Byron. She was more careful now, though, about what she told him. When he asked her to show him how to set a snare, she lied and said she didn’t know. Byron smiled. He didn’t believe her, but he was a kindly young man who guessed the reason for her reticence. He said no more, but he was careful never again to ask her to show him the tricks of her father’s trade; a trade that would probably become hers as time went by.
‘And now,’ he said the next time they met. ‘I’ll show you how to tickle trout. We need to look for big rocks in the stream. Maybe we can find one close to the bank, so we don’t have to go paddling.’
They walked together along the bank, always careful to stay hidden beneath trees or behind bushes from anyone who might be watching.
‘There’s a big stone there,’ Rosie said softly, pointing to the middle of the stream, ‘but it’s not very near the bank.’
Byron nodded. ‘It’d be a good one, but I’d like to find one close to the bank for your first try. Ah, look, here we are . . .’ He glanced around, making sure they were still hidden.
‘Now, lie down on your front, with your hands in the water.’
Rosie hesitated for a moment, remembering her father’s warning, but then she shrugged and did as Byron suggested. He lay down beside her and dabbled his right hand in the water. ‘Now,’ he said softly, ‘very slowly and gently, feel right under the rock to see if a trout is hiding there.’ He demonstrated as he spoke. Rosie watched as he felt beneath the rock. ‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing there just now. Let’s try further down the stream, but not too far. They won’t go where it gets really shallow.’
For the next hour, they searched for rocks close to the bank. ‘Now you try,’ Byron said at last. Rosie lay on her stomach, slowly putting her hand into the water and feeling beneath a rock. ‘I – I think there’s something there.’
‘Careful, then. Put your fingers beneath his belly and stroke him gently.’
‘He moved,’ she whispered.
‘But he’s still there?’
‘Yes, he’s – oh!’ There was a sudden movement and the brown trout darted away. ‘Oh, I lost him.’
Byron chuckled. ‘You did very well. If he’d stayed a little longer and submitted to your gentle stroking, once you could feel your fingers beneath his gills, you could have taken hold and brought him out of the water. You’ll soon get the hang of it. But now, sadly, I must go. I’ll see you again.’
And they did meet again – often. He would appear silently beside her as she picked berries or mushrooms in the woods, always helping her, guiding her. Sometimes, he brought her a gift from the orchards at the manor. Pears, apples, raspberries and gooseberries that Rosie would carry to Nell, who wisely never asked how she had come by such luxuries. And Sam, even if he guessed, now never said a word, at least not to Rosie, but he did confide in Nell.
‘I’m worried about her. I know she’s meeting Master Byron, but what I don’t understand is what his intentions are.’
‘Master Byron must be a lonely young man. He’s never been away to school – he always had tutors at home. He doesn’t seem to have any friends either. Maybe, Sam, it’s all very innocent.’
Sam glanced at Nell, doubt in his eyes.
‘You trust her, don’t you, Sam?’ Nell asked quietly.
‘Yes, yes, I do, but I just don’t want her to get hurt. It can never come to anything – I’m sure of that – and if the master gets wind of it, he could turn us out of our cottage. And then where would we be?’
Even through the winter, when the snow lay thick on the ground and Sam was hard pressed to help the poorest in the village as well as keeping himself, Rosie, Nell and her son fed, Rosie and Byron still managed to meet. Their encounters were never by arrangement, but Rosie knew where Byron liked to ride and she would wait for him in the shadows of the trees at the edge of the woods whenever she could sneak away from home. And Byron knew where she waited. There was a wariness on both sides now. They no longer caught fish together, though Rosie would venture to the stream alone. Now, she could catch a brown trout whenever she could find one sheltering beneath a rock. Byron never referred to Sam’s night-time excursions and he certainly never asked if she went out with her father. He didn’t really want to know. As winter turned into spring, they met beneath the shade of the trees, unseen by prying eyes – or so they hoped. Byron tethered his horse out of sight and they talked and laughed together.
‘What do you want to do with your life, Rosie?’ he asked gently one day.
It was early May now and she had just passed her fifteenth birthday. Beneath the trees, the ground was carpeted with bluebells and above them birds were finding a mate and building their nests. Buttercups were beginning to flower among the daisies. Rosie began to make a daisy chain.
‘Get married, I suppose, and have a barrow load of kids. But first I’d have to find someone who loved me.’
‘That won’t be difficult,’ he said softly. ‘Have you anyone in mind?’
Rosie kept her gaze firmly fixed on the daisy chain. She had, but she could hardly tell him. Instead, she diverted his question. ‘What about you?’
Byron pulled a face. ‘My future is all mapped out for me. I have no choice but to carry on running the estate after my father.’
‘We were all surprised that you didn’t go away to boarding school. People of your class usually do.’
She saw Byron wince. ‘I don’t like the word class,’ he said. ‘We’re all the same.’
Rosie laughed wryly. ‘No, we’re not, Byron. You know we’re not.’
She looked up to see him staring intently at her. ‘We are to me,’ he whispered.
There was a rustling in the undergrowth and Queenie appeared, her tongue hanging out, her tail wagging at seeing her young mistress. Rosie scrambled to her feet. ‘I must go. Dad must be about if Queenie’s here.’
‘I’ll see you again soon,’ Byron said, as she scurried away.
Neither of them knew it, but this was to be their last meeting. Memories of that warm spring day, the scent of bluebells and Rosie’s daisy chain would stay for ever in their memories. As she hurried away through the trees, Byron picked up the daisy chain and tucked it carefully into his pocket. At home, he would press it between the pages of his favourite childhood book.
The rumours of the secret, yet innocent, meetings and the growing friendship between the two young people had reached William.
Three
It was the custom at Thornsby Manor to dress for dinner each evening, even if there were no guests. So, when the gong sounded, the three members of the family met in the dining room. The conversation usually centred around matters of the estate, with William’s wife, Grace, feigning interest, though taking little part. Her time was taken up with organizing the running of the household and socializing with the ladies of the county who ran worthy charitable causes. In her spare time, she embroidered or played the grand piano in the drawing room. The only time she involved herself in estate matters was if she heard that a villager was ill. She would then send her lady’s maid, Sarah, with a basket of fruit for the invalid. She would have liked to have become more involved personally, to have visited the sick and taken a more active part in the affairs of the village, but William would not allow it. ‘You keep your place,’ he had told her in the early days of their marriage. The only time she ever had a chance to speak to any of the villagers was at church on Sundays and at the harvest festival each September. And then the conversation was always stilted. They were in awe of her; she was the wife of the man who ruled their lives. Only one, Nell Tranter, spoke to her with friendly ease. But William frowned on that.
