SERIAL The Warmsleys Of Pedlars Down

As Rachel looked in vain for Edward, the stranger offered to come to her aid . . .

WINTER snows covered distant hills, and the only greenery in Boyo’s Wood was moss and the ivies carpeting the cold earth and cleaving to gnarled, skeletal old trees.

“I’d love to come, Jonas!” Eleanor frowned. “But it’s too risky.”

“Do you want to see Clover and her foal or not?” he demanded irritably.

“Of course!” she replied. “I’ve never seen a newborn foal. I don’t want us to get caught, that’s all.”

“What you mean is,” he went on crossly, “you don’t want old Granny Burford finding out we’re pals.”

“You don’t want your pa to find out,” Eleanor countered, adding, “it isn’t Grandma who’s going to

see us sneaking into the stable. It’ll be your sister or your pa.”

“Pa won’t be near the house. Him and Edward are away working up at Blea. Rachel’s turning the beds or summat this morning. She’ll be busy upstairs and won’t see us nipping in and out of the yard.”

He stretched his hand towards her.

“Are you coming or not?” They approached the manor house cautiously.

“Make sure nobody’s about,” she whispered. “I’ll wait here with Rupert.”

She watched him walking down toward the house and into the cobbled yard. At Jonas’s signal, Eleanor ran to join him.

“We’re safe.” He grinned triumphantly. “The kindling wagon’s out front of the stables, so you can nip behind it and inside. I’ve opened up the doors.”

Clover and her foal were settled in deep wheat and oat straw.

“I wish I had brought something for them,” Eleanor murmured, kneeling beside them. “We’ve plenty of apples at home.”

“I’ll get a carrot from the kitchen,” Jonas remarked.

He was coming out from the kitchen with a carrot when one of the upstairs casements flew open and Rachel leaned out, looking hot and dusty with a rag in one hand and a dish of beeswax in the other.

“Jonas!” she called. “Why are you still here? That kindling wagon won’t take itself down to the village.”

He spun around, glaring up at her.

“I’m taking it later.” “You’ll take it now,” she returned severely. “There’ll likely be folk in the parish waiting for that firewood.

“Don’t dawdle! Hitch up Billy and be on your way,” Rachel concluded. “I don’t want you idling about the village, either. Come right home.”

She withdrew from the window, and the casement closed firmly.

Jonas did as he was bidden, fetching Billy and hitching the horse up to the heavily laden wagon.

With a glance to check Rachel wasn’t still there watching him, Jonas dived into Clover’s stable and looked around for Eleanor.

“Where are you?” he hissed.

“Here,” she replied, emerging from an empty stall. “I hid in case your sister came down.”

“I’ll leave the stable door open and bring around the kindling wagon,” Jonas said. “When I come to shut the door, you sneak out and climb into the wagon. Lie low till I tell you.”

Once they were safely away from the manor house, Eleanor scrambled from the wagon bed and up on to the seat beside Jonas.

“I’ve had my fill,” he fumed, glancing at Eleanor. “I’m going to get a job and be done with it.”

“You said you’d never work for Fred Leach.”

“Nor will I!” Jonas retorted. “There’s other folk to work for besides him.” “Who?” Eleanor persisted. “I dunno, exactly,” he conceded. “Wait – in town, Lenny! There’s bound to be jobs going in town.”

“I suppose,” she replied, recalling trips into Liverpool with her grandmother. “I’ve seen boys working with the horses at the hotel, and lots of them down on the waterfront –”

Jonas wasn’t listening. His eyes were bright and excited and when he turned to look down at Eleanor, a huge grin was spreading across his face.

“Armstrong’s, Lenny! That’s where Rachel’s old sweetheart worked. Pa’s known Sam Armstrong since they were young.

“I’ll go down town and get a job at Armstrong’s,” Jonas vowed eagerly. “You just see if I don’t!”

Jonas’s chance came when Pa and Edward were coppicing hazel and, it being market day, Rachel was certain to be out from early morning.

After breakfast, Jonas set off for school as usual, but holed up in Boyo’s Wood until the coast was clear. Then he sped back home, dressed in his Sunday best clothes, saddled Edward’s horse and started for the Liverpool road.

Although Jonas had been into town before with Pa and Edward on the wagon, this was the first time he’d gone there alone and on horseback. He needed to find somewhere safe to leave Edward’s horse while he went looking.

Jonas had had sense enough to scoop a handful of coins from Rachel’s housekeeping tin. He’d repay the money when he got his first week’s wages.

Spotting a pie-man selling his wares, Jonas bought a pie, asked the whereabouts of a trustworthy livery, and got directions that led him into the heart of the port’s commercial quarter and to the premises of Samuel and Henry Armstrong, Cotton Merchants.

“I’m here to see Mr Armstrong,” he announced, stepping up to the clerk’s desk. “I want to work here.”

“Do you now?” the clerk remarked, raising his eyes to look Jonas up and down before returning his attention to book-keeping. “Armstrong’s has no work for the likes of you.”

Jonas stood his ground, glowering at the clerk’s bent head, a flame of anger uncurling inside him.

He’d taken Edward’s horse without asking; he’d helped himself from Rachel’s housekeeping tin; he’d gone back on his word to the schoolmaster Cumstock about school. He’d even told Lenny he’d get a job at Armstrong’s . . .

He wasn’t about to give up because some clerk reckoned he wasn’t good enough. He’d stay put till he saw Sam Armstrong, and if this clerk didn’t like it, he’d have to chuck him out.

“I’m Jonas Warmsley,” he said defiantly. “My father is Squire Ben Warmsley of Pedlars Down. He and Sam Armstrong are old friends.” The clerk looked up. “A friend of Mr Armstrong, you say?”

“Aye. Squire Ben Warmsley,” Jonas repeated firmly, squaring his shoulders. “The pair of ’em have known each other since they were lads.”

“Wait here.” The clerk disappeared into an adjoining room, emerging almost immediately.

“Mr Armstrong will see you, Master Warmsley.”

Striding past the clerk and into a high-ceilinged office, Jonas came face to face with Samuel Armstrong.

“You’re Ben Warmsley’s boy?” he barked, appraising Jonas shrewdly. “You’ll be his youngest, I take it?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Ben and I haven’t run into each other much these recent years. How’s your pa keeping?”

“Well enough, sir.” Sam Armstrong’s eyes narrowed, his gaze boring into the boy before him.

“Armstrong’s has no work for the likes of you”

“I daresay there’s work to be done at Pedlars Down,” Armstrong pondered. “It’s a family concern exactly like this one. What does your pa say about you coming down here asking me for a job?”

Jonas cleared his throat, meeting the cotton merchant’s eyes steadily.

“He don’t know about it, sir. Pa don’t know I’m here.”

Sam Armstrong leaned back in his chair, considering Jonas’s earnest face, and nodded slowly.

“You’d best sit down and tell me exactly what brings you to Armstrong’s – and why I should take you on!”

Jonas’s confidence faltered. He knew whatever he said to Armstrong would make or break him. His life was in this man’s hands.

“I want summat of me own,” he blurted out. “I’ve got nowt that’s not handed out to me by Pa or my brother or Rachel.

“I want to make summat of myself,” Jonas went on. “I want a proper job, where I earn a man’s wage and don’t have to answer to nobody.

“Give me a chance

to prove myself,” he implored urgently. “I swear I’ll work hard. I’ll not let you down.”

Sam Armstrong didn’t speak. He sat across the desk, his unblinking gaze fixed upon Jonas’s face.

“You remind me of myself when I was young,” the cotton merchant mused. “I well recall the gnawing ambition that gave me no rest, day nor night . . .

“Aye, I’ll give you your chance, Jonas Warmsley,” he concluded, adding, “but I don’t tolerate shirkers. You prove yourself worthy of your position here or you’ll be out of that door so fast your head will spin.”

“Taking Edward’s horse and going off goodness knows where,” Rachel was complaining that evening while she cleared the supper table. “Where is he?”

“Don’t worritt the lad so much,” Ben said, lighting a clay pipe. “Happen there’s a lass somewhere he’s sweet on and he’s trying to impress her. He’ll come home when he’s ready.

“Jonas is nearly a man grown,” he finished. “You can’t go on mollycoddling him like he’s still a bairn, you know.”

“Pa!” She spun around from the table. “Jonas –”

Rachel broke off when Rupert leaped up from the hearth, dashing to the kitchen door as Jonas pushed it open, his eyes unusually bright.

Before Rachel could draw breath to admonish her brother, he marched into the kitchen, glancing at her then turning to their father.

“I’m done with school,” he announced. “I’ve been to town and got a position at Armstrong’s. I’m starting work come Monday.

“I took your housekeeping money, Rachel,” Jonas went on calmly, looking around at her. “I’ll pay it back from my first wages.”

“We can discuss that later,” Rachel snapped. “As for starting work on Monday – the only place you’re going is school!”

“Steady on, Rachel,” Ben countered mildly. “The lad’s had the gumption to get himself a job with a fine firm like Armstrong’s. Sam Armstrong isn’t a man easily impressed, so you’ve done well.” He beamed at Jonas. “I’m proud of you!” “But Pa –”

“I’ve said my piece, Rachel,” Ben cut in firmly. “There’s an end to it. Fetch some supper for your brother. Jonas, you come and tell me all about it. How’s old Sam doing?”

Fuming with frustration, Rachel said nothing and busied herself with Jonas’s meal.

She had no choice but to accept her father’s decision. Nevertheless, Rachel was convinced he was dreadfully mistaken.

For all Pa’s saying Jonas was nearly a man grown, Rachel was fearful for her brother’s safekeeping. Liverpool was a crowded, unruly port and for a boy alone a town fraught with danger and temptations.

“What am I going to do now you won’t be here?” Eleanor asked, looking up into Jonas’s eager face.

They’d met up in Boyo’s Wood. It was early on a dark, frosty morning – the day he was starting work at Armstrong’s.

“I’ll have nobody to play with or talk to,” she said, stuffing cold hands into the pockets of her breeches. “Felix has gone back to school and Marjorey is getting ready for the baby.”

“I had to do it,” he responded. “A man has to make his own way.”

“You’re not a man!” she protested shakily.

“I’m man enough to get a proper job at Armstrong’s instead of never having a penny piece in my pocket!” he argued vehemently.

“I couldn’t stand it any more, Lenny. I were trapped in this village. I had to get away. Try to understand, will you?”

Eleanor bowed her head, nodding sadly, her eyes swimming with tears she was determined not to shed.

“Don’t cry,” he mumbled, patting Eleanor’s shoulder. “I need you to do summat. Will you look after Rupert for me? After me, he loves you best. I have to go now, Lenny, but I’ll find some way of seeing you after I get home later.”

Eleanor stood watching him walk away, his boots crunching in the thick frost. She watched till he turned through Boyo’s Wood and was gone.

Wandering back beneath the bare winter trees, she sank on to the lightning bole and put her arm round Rupert’s rough neck.

Tears rolled down her cheeks and the pup gazed up at her with sad eyes.

“Oh, Rupert,” she said. “I miss him already. Nothing’s going be the same.”

Five years later, the whole village was preparing for the harvest celebrations.

Since she’d arrived in Pedlars Down, harvest thanksgiving had been one of Eleanor’s favourite occasions.

This year she was especially looking forward to the festivities because her grandmother had decided that, now Eleanor was a lady, she might stay for the dancing, rather than being taken home after the harvest supper was cleared. “Miss Burford!” Ernest Cumstock put his head around the door of the tithe barn, looking within to where Eleanor was unpacking a chest of sturdy plates, bowls and mugs.

“The boards and trestles have arrived,” he went on. “Will it disturb you if we start setting them up?”

“Not at all, Mr Cumstock!”

A moment later, the elderly schoolmaster returned hefting one end of a pine board. At the other end was a dark-eyed man Eleanor didn’t recognise.

When the board was placed securely upon two stout trestles, Mr Cumstock made the introductions.

“This is Thadius Sawyer from Connecticut in New England,” he began, glancing to the young man standing beside him. “He’s painting St Cuthbert’s, Miss Burford, and offered to lend a hand with our harvest preparations.”

“It’s very kind of you, Mr Sawyer,” Eleanor responded politely.

“Glad to pitch in, ma’am.” Thadius Sawyer gave her an easy smile. “Looks like it’s going to be quite a night.”

“We hope so!” Eleanor laughed, delving into a hamper of bunting.

The two men had no sooner quit the tithe barn when Eleanor sensed somebody else entering, and was caught about her waist by strong arms.

“I thought old Cumstock and that stranger would never go.”

Jonas’s low voice was close against Eleanor’s ear, his lips brushing her cheek before she whirled round, looping her arms about his neck and raising her face to his, her hazel eyes sparkling.

“Whatever are you doing here? Why are you wearing your work clothes?”

“I’m just come from Armstrong’s, that’s why! Sam Armstrong told me I could knock off early.” Jonas grinned. “Seeing as how it isn’t every day a man gets promoted.”

“Promoted?” She gasped. “Congratulations! Tell me every last detail.”

“One of the senior clerks has taken up a commission in his father’s old regiment, so Mr Armstrong promoted me to his position,” Jonas explained proudly.

“You’ve worked hard these five years,” she said warmly. “I’m certain Mr Armstrong could not manage without you.”

“Sam Armstrong’s taught me more about the cotton trade than most men ever know. He says I remind him of himself when he was young,” Jonas went on. “I’ve not seen you for days, Lenny. What have you been doing?”

“Baking.” She laughed. “Tarts, pies, cakes, biscuits, buns – you name it, we Withencroft women have baked it.”

He grimaced.

“All anybody talks of is this blasted harvest social.”

“It’s a lovely tradition,” she countered. “The whole village celebrating after bringing in the harvest.” Jonas frowned.

“I was reckoning on

you and me celebrating tonight. Maybe start making some plans for the future.”

Catching both Eleanor’s hands, he drew her closer.

“Everyone will be at the social. For once, we can meet without sneaking around.” Jonas broke off, his breathing ragged at the girl’s nearness. “I just want to be with you, Lenny.”

“What about the harvest supper?”

“I’m not bothered about that!” He snorted derisively.

“I am,” she retorted, spinning away from him and returning to her duties. “I’ve been looking forward to this evening for weeks.”

“You’re surely never coming?” he demanded.

“Of course I’m coming.” Eleanor didn’t pause from unpacking a basket of buns. “There’ll be musicians and singers and dancing till past midnight. It’s going to be wonderful!”

He stared at her as though she’d taken leave of her wits.

“What’s the point?” he demanded. “It’s not like I can dance with you, is it?”

“I won’t mind your dancing with other girls,” she replied. “Providing you don’t enjoy it too much.”

Eleanor was smiling, but Jonas’s face was dark.

“Don’t you want us to be together?”

“Celebrating your promotion is a wonderful idea, but not this evening,” she protested reasonably. “Surely you must see that?”

He glowered down at her, his angry eyes sweeping her from head to toe.

“I’m not sure what I see any more, Lenny.”

“Jonas!” Alarmed, she reached out for him even as he turned on his heel away from her. “Don’t –”

It was too late. Jonas stormed from the tithe barn without a backwards glance.

Mellow afternoon sunlight was pouring through the doors of St Cuthbert’s while Rachel, Walter Cruickshank and Reverend Greenhalgh made ready for the blessing of the harvest.

“Mr Cruickshank,” she said, stepping back to admire the crusty, goldenbrown wheatsheaf at the heart of the harvest display of fruits and vegetables. “It’s truly a wonder!”

“Ah, you say that every year, Miss Rachel,” the baker countered. “It’s naught but flour, yeast, salt and water, you know.”

“And you say that every year!” She laughed.

Leaving the baker putting finishing touches to the display, Rachel emerged from St Cuthbert’s into the bustle of the village.

As preparations for the festivities gathered pace, you could scarce put a pin between folk darting back and forth.

As usual, Fred Leach was in the thick of it, yelling orders, and adding to the frantic flurry was the mail coach, just arrived at the inn and disgorging its passengers who had but a brief respite for refreshment before fresh horses were harnessed and the coach speeding on its route again.

Giving Fred Leach a wide berth, Rachel was skirting the green when she noticed Ernest Cumstock a short distance from the coach.

He had his head bowed, oblivious to the commotion around him.

“Ernest.” She hurried to his side. “Are you well?”

The schoolmaster started violently, turning towards her. He was holding a letter with trembling hands.

“You’ve had bad news,” she murmured, for there could be no mistaking the anguish in his eyes. “Is it your daughter, Ernest?”

“It’s her husband,” he replied, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. “He’s dead. Robert’s dead!”

Taking Mr Cumstock’s arm, Rachel guided him towards the schoolhouse.

Once indoors, she sat him at the fireside. Despite the warmth of the day, Mr Cumstock was shivering, so Rachel fetched a counterpane, wrapping it about his shoulders.

“Robert’s been killed,” he said, offering her the letter. “Accident at the foundry. He was like a son to me.”

“I know he was,” she said sadly, scanning the letter. “I’ll make enquiries to find when the next coach bound for Birmingham leaves Liverpool –”

“I can’t go,” he said. “I can’t leave the school . . .”

“You have no choice,” Rachel reasoned. “May and your grandchildren need you, Ernest.

“Drink your tea,” she concluded. “I’m going to the inn. When I get back, I’ll pack some belongings and Edward will drive you into Liverpool.”

Finding when the coach departed Liverpool was straightforward; locating her brother and the wagon not so.

After asking several folk, Rachel discovered Edward had returned home. Another arrangement for taking Ernest into town must be made, and quickly.

Rachel glanced up to the clock at St Cuthbert’s. If Ernest was to be aboard the coach tonight, he’d need to be on his way to Liverpool within an hour.

She reached the schoolhouse as a man she’d recently seen about the village was coming out.

“You must be Rachel. Mr Cumstock’s told me about his son-in-law,” he began, offering his hand. “Thadius Sawyer.”

She nodded, briefly explaining the situation.

“There’s not a moment to be lost, Mr Sawyer. Will you stay with Ernest while I hire a vehicle and driver from the inn?”

“I’ll gladly drive him into Liverpool,” Thadius offered. “I’ll fetch my horse and wagon them and be out front here directly.

“I’m a stranger in Pedlars Down, and Mr Cumstock’s befriended me,” Thadius finished, striding from the schoolhouse. “It’s the least I can do.”

Within the quarter-hour, both men were aboard Sawyer’s wagon, drawing away from the village towards the Liverpool road.

Word of Mr Cumstock’s departure swiftly spread, and some folk had gathered to offer condolences and see him off.

They were dispersing now, and Rachel was about to do the same. She hadn’t been aware of Fred Leach sidling up alongside her, and when she turned for the schoolhouse, his burly frame blocked her path.

“Sad news, Miss Warmsley,” he breathed down at her, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Sad news. Can’t run a school with no teacher, can you?”

Jonas intended putting as much distance as possible between himself and Pedlars Down that night.

He’d planned on heading into town, meeting friends at the Saracen’s Head and playing cards all night long.

He hadn’t shown up with his family for the harvest supper, but nor had he ridden into Liverpool.

Under cover of darkness, he’d tethered Blaze beneath the sprawling chestnut trees and stolen close to the tithe barn.

He saw Lenny arriving, her frock floating about her as she moved. His breath constricted in his chest.

It was everything he could do not to yell her name.

Jonas felt beads of sweat prickling his neck and ran a finger around the collar of his shirt. He should have gone straight to Liverpool.

Still, he couldn’t tear himself away. The barn doors were thrown open to the balmy night air, and he hunkered down, hidden from sight. Watching.

The musicians struck up and dancers took to the floor. Lenny danced with Captain Peter, next with Malcolm, then some redcoat officer who’d come with the Whiteheads’ party took Lenny’s hand and led her into the dance.

She was gazing up at the lieutenant as they swayed and dipped. He was holding her close. He had his arms about her and his mouth to her ear as he whispered something that made Lenny blush.

Jonas could bear no more. Seething jealousy flared. Fists clenched, Jonas got to his feet then froze. Someone was standing behind him. “Leave it be, son.” Jonas’s every muscle was taut. He didn’t

turn around.

“How long have you been there, Pa?”

“Long enough,” Ben answered evenly. “To watch you – watching her.”

“What of it?” Jonas snapped. “Nowt wrong with watching the dancing.”

“Happen not. But rush in there all riled up to thump that soldier boy, and you’ll make a fool of yourself,” Ben remarked. “Miss Burford’ll not thank ’ee for showing her up in front of the village.”

Jonas shrugged. “Makes no never-mind to me. Why would it?”

“I’m not daft, lad. I were young myself once,” Ben chided. “One look at that face of yours, and it’s plain you’re sweet on the girl.”

“I’ve a good job and brass of my own now.” Jonas rounded on his father. “I shall wed Lenny one day, as soon as we are of age. Neither you nor old Granny Burford will be able to stand in our way then.”

“That’s true,” Ben agreed. “Miss Eleanor’s a fine girl, from what I’ve heard. The kind of lass who’ll turn many a young man’s head, but no good can come of this fancy of yours, son. Her family will never –”

“I want Lenny,” Jonas cut in. “No family feud’s going to keep us apart.”

“There’s been bad blood between our families, but that’s nowt to do with it,” Ben argued. “The Burfords – they’re not our sort, lad. They’ve more brass than they know what to do with, and they’re not short on airs and graces, either!

“You go courting that girl and you’ll come off worst. When the time comes, she’ll marry well and make a good match,” he finished, adding, “The Burfords have likely got some rich gent already picked out for her.”

The fight ebbed from Jonas; the treachery of his own doubts and insecurities suddenly crowding in.

“Lenny’s the one for me,” he mumbled stubbornly. “Seeing her with that lieutenant . . . Ah, you wouldn’t understand.”

Ben bit his tongue. His eyes were troubled as he looked upon his son.

“Come in to your family and friends,” he urged. “There’s plenty of other lasses to dance with.”

Jonas shook his head, starting towards Blaze.

“I’m going to town. I’ve a promotion to celebrate.”

Brooding, Jonas rode from Pedlars Down. He made for Liverpool and the many diversions at the Saracen’s Head.

Eleanor was the topic of gossip and speculation amongst those ladies who didn’t dance, and were seated around the barn keeping time to the lively tunes, eyeing up the dancers.

“She’s a pretty one, that Miss Eleanor,” Mrs Cruickshank said, leaning closer so Rachel might hear her. “Such a nice young lady, too.”

“Yes, indeed,” Rachel agreed vaguely, her mind distant as dancers, music and merriment swirled before her.

“Now she’s grown there will be no shortage of suitors,” Mrs Cruickshank pronounced, her cheeks flushed from the tithe barn’s warmth and the potency of the sloe cordial. “I’ve lost count of the young swains begging dances. She’ll break a few hearts by and by.”

Rachel murmured some response, her thoughts with Ernest Cumstock, journeying to his bereaved daughter and grandchildren. As much as it vexed her to admit it, she couldn’t banish that altercation with Fred Leach, either. Nor his veiled threat.

The man would seize upon any opportunity to close her mother’s school.

Without a teacher, how was Rachel to argue for keeping it open?

Engrossed in the turmoil lying ahead, Rachel was unaware of a gentleman approaching her.

“May I claim the next dance, Rachel?”

She raised her face and looked into a face that had once been so dear to her.

“Hugh!”

To be continued.