Sandringham Rose Read online

  Sandringham Rose

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One Will Hamilton 22 January 1844

  Part Two Rose Mary Hester Hamilton

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Part Three Mrs Pooley

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Part Four Hester’s Girl

  One

  Two

  Three

  About the Author

  Also by Mary Mackie

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  For my husband, Chris, who discovered the story of the Lady Farmer and visualised most of the major scenes. With love, as always, and with thanks – for moral (and financial) support, and for the loan of your imagination!

  And in memory of Louisa Mary Cresswell (1830–1916), the redoubtable real-life ‘Lady Farmer’, whose pamphlets on farming and whose book Eighteen Years on the Sandringham Estate provided the genesis material for this novel.

  Part One

  Will Hamilton

  22 January 1844

  Farmer George Pooley hummed to himself as he stropped his razor to an even keener edge. He had just come in from the freezing yard, having given his men their orders for the day and set them barrowing dung. Now he was looking forward to joining his family in the kitchen where, to judge by the hints of frying bacon and potato that drifted up the stairs, his wife was preparing the usual hearty breakfast. His stomach rumbled in anticipatory delight.

  As he applied warm lather to his whiskers, a dog outside began to bark. Pooley sent a cursory glance at the window, but it was set low under thatched eaves, the corners of the glass hazed with a coating of ice; he could see nothing but the frosted front garden and the beech hedge stiff with dead brown leaves. He finished his shave, carefully wiped his razor dry, greased its blade and fastened his shirt. All the time the dog kept up its sharp warning.

  Grabbing up his coat, Pooley went to the window, wincing as his arthritic hip twinged and pain shot pins and needles down his leg. He threw up the window, bellowing, ‘Blast your eyes, bor! Quiet, for—!’

  The curse bit off as he saw what was alarming the dog: beyond the brown hedge a mist-wreathed figure, clad in clothes more fitted for drawing-room than saddle, sat slumped on an exhausted horse, too weary to move. Pooley caught his breath as he recognised the man.

  ‘Mr Will?’ he called. ‘Mr Will, is that you?’

  Very slowly, as if the effort were almost too much for him, Will Hamilton turned his head. In the cold light from the sky his face was deathly, his eyes hollowed with shadow.

  ‘Good morning, Pooley.’

  ‘Wait there,’ Pooley replied. ‘Just wait, Mr Will.’ Something was terribly wrong. He hurried down through his house, hearing his wife call to him from the kitchen. Her ‘Hurry up, Pooley, your breakfast’s ready,’ turned into an exclamation of astonishment when he opened the seldom-used front door and went out.

  As Pooley reached the garden gate and stepped into the lane, the dog came leaping round him, excited and noisy. He quieted it with a word and it fell to watching, tongue lolling, its breath visible in the cold air, while its master looked worriedly up at the young man astride the horse.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Will Hamilton said with a pale smile. ‘It’s a devil of a time to come calling, I know. To tell the truth, I don’t rightly recall how I got here. I suppose instinct drove me to your door. You seem to be the only friend I have.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that’s true, not for a minute.’ Pooley’s florid face was blotched with concern. ‘Mr Will… What’s happened that could bring you here at this hour – and in this state? Why, you’ve beaten this horse half to death! Such a fine animal, too, and you so fond of it. Whatever—’

  ‘Hester’s dead.’

  The blunt words stopped Pooley. He stared at his young friend, too shocked to respond.

  Will’s eyes were swollen, but they were dry now. ‘She died this morning. As dawn was breaking. Haemorrhage. They couldn’t…’

  ‘And the child?’

  ‘It’s a girl,’ the answer came flat, then: ‘I couldn’t bear the house, or the pity. My mother…’ He gritted his teeth but the words burst from him. ‘Dear God, Hester should never have had the child! That cursed child…’

  ‘Hush now!’ the voice of Eliza Pooley broke in sternly from the gateway as she came bustling out. ‘We’ll have no talk like that, not on my doorstep. Come along, Mr Hamilton, get down from there and come inside. Pooley, you take charge of the horse.’

  Glad to escape a scene that was becoming too emotional for his liking, Pooley did as he was bid, leading the horse round to the yard where he charged his stableman with the care of it: ‘Proper care, mind, that’s a valuable animal. It belongs to a friend of mine – a gentleman.’

  ‘That’s a pity he don’t take better care of his hosses, then,’ the stableman grunted. ‘Look at it – it en’t fit for nuthin’.’

  ‘Just tend it,’ Pooley said shortly.

  * * *

  Will sat at the scrubbed kitchen table confronting a plate piled with smoked ham sliced from the haunch that hung from the ceiling, eggs fresh from the yard, and fried potatoes left over from yesterday’s dinner. Eliza Pooley carved wedges of fresh bread and spread it with yellow butter, leaving the plate near a fat pot of her own bees’ honey. She had sent her daughters, her maid, and the two farm apprentices out of the room to find chores to do elsewhere while she fed her husband and their visitor.

  ‘Eat, Mr Will,’ she bade him. ‘Starving yourself won’t do no good to nobody, least of all your dear wife, may Heaven bless her. Or your two poor motherless little ’uns. You’ll need your strength.’

  The sight and the smell of the food had made Will’s stomach churn. He stared at the plate, feeling detached from the scene about him. ‘I have no strength, not any more. Hester was my strength. Without her I’ve got nothing.’

  ‘There’s your children! They need you! Now, eat.’

  Like an automaton without will of its own, he picked up the two-pronged fork and the knife whose blade was concave from years of sharpening. Their buckthorn handles fitted nicely into his palms, comforting in their sturdy normality. Slowly, forcing down each mouthful, he began to eat.

  The Pooleys offered companionship without intrusion, the farmer busy with his breakfast while his wife waited on both of them. For a big woman she moved gracefully and softly, expressing her concern for Will by anticipating and supplying his basic needs. Food in his stomach sent tendrils of comfort through his cold body. He was grateful for the respite, and for the silence.

  Back at Weal House, in Lynn, it had been all words, all clamour of advice, crying clichés. His scalp pricked with horror as he remembered the nightmare of voices all wanting their say. They had meant to comfort, but their cant had sickened him. God takes the good ones first, Will. Have faith. Trust in Him.

  God! God had little to do with this. This was his – Will’s – fault. His, and the child – the cursed, cursed child. What use was a mewling girl? She could never take Hester’s place, never!

  When he had escaped the house he hadn’t known where he was going. Instinct had guided him through the town and out into the frozen countryside. Where else should he go in extremity but to his old friends the Pooleys? They expected nothing from him, made no demands, forbore to judge; they offered only unquestioning friendship and support. With them, as with no other peop
le in his life, Will was able to be himself.

  How long was it since he had first come, as a boy, to Pooley’s farm and fallen under the spell that had brought him back at every opportunity? Amazingly, it must be at least fifteen years. He had known and loved this farm, these people, for more than half his life.

  Sitting there in the Pooleys’ kitchen, a great truth came to Will with a clarity and sureness that sent awe rippling down his spine: this was the life he had always wanted.

  He stared across the table at the fire, seeing visions of corn waving gold under an August sun, of cattle growing fat, and of himself walking the coverts with a shot-gun in the crook of his arm, after rabbits. He said aloud, ‘I’m going to need your help, Pooley.’

  ‘My help?’ The farmer paused in his eating, a forkful of potato dripping egg yolk on to his plate. ‘Of course, Mr Will. Anything. You know that. Anything.’

  Will looked at the honest, florid face, knowing he could count on Pooley come storm or sleet. ‘I’m going to take up farming.’

  The fork dipped, and was laid down. Pooley pulled a spotted kerchief from his pocket by one corner, roughly balled it and wiped his mouth with it, his eyes darting about Will’s face. ‘Take up farming, Mr Will? Why, what put that idea into your head?’

  ‘It’s been in my head a long time. You know that.’

  ‘A boy’s dream. That’s all that was. You’re a banker, Mr Will. It’s in your blood. Your father, your grandfather, your uncles…’

  ‘Not to mention my two older brothers, and my nephews to follow them!’ He slapped his hand down on the table, savouring the rough surface weathered by chopping and baking and scrubbing. It was real, solid, dependable, evincing a life of honest toil with the wind in his face, the sun on his shoulders, the frost breaking up the clods. ‘The bank doesn’t need another Hamilton. It’s already stuffed with them. Stuffed to stupidity.’

  Pooley pulled at his upper lip, frowning. ‘That still don’t seem right to me, Mr Will. You’re a professional gentleman.’

  ‘I was. I have been. Now I shall become a farmer. Others have done it before me, and most successfully. “Turnip” Townshend came of the nobility. So did Coke at Holkham. Jethro Tull himself was a lawyer by profession. And Marshall… Marshall believed that “attendance and attention will make any man a farmer”. You see – I’ve been reading up on it! Pooley, dear old friend, will you help?’

  As Pooley opened his mouth to protest, his wife’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. ‘’Course he will,’ she answered. ‘We’ll both do whatever we can for you, Mr Will.’

  Behind her kindly smiles Will saw that she was humouring him. She believed he was crazed by grief and voicing mad schemes in an effort to evade the bitter truth. She believed the madness would pass.

  Well, he would not argue. Time would prove his mettle.

  Bluff old Pooley, failing to divine the undercurrents, took his cue from his wife and said, ‘Well, if you’re serious, Mr Will, it so happens that Orchards Farm, on the Sandringham estate, is up for—’

  Will grasped eagerly at the name. ‘Orchards Farm? The old Motteux place?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Will.’

  Fate was opening the way. Only the previous year, Sandringham estate had been left to Mr Charles Spencer Cowper, a diplomat currently based in Sweden. He was not expected to spend much time in Norfolk or to take a close interest in his new estates. Anyone leasing a farm from him would have a free hand, so long as the rent was paid on time.

  ‘How soon will it come available?’ he asked.

  ‘The usual time. Michaelmas.’

  ‘Michaelmas?’ It seemed an inordinately long time to wait.

  ‘That’s when Norfolk farms change hands, Mr Will,’ Pooley said. ‘When the accounts are reckoned and the audits fall due.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ In his eagerness he had forgotten the tradition.

  Eliza Pooley said, ‘That’s only eight months, Mr Will. Time enough to think about it and be sure you’re doing the right thing.’

  He stabbed a piece of potato with his fork, his mind working. He didn’t want to wait eight months. He didn’t want to wait eight days. The decision made, he was impatient to make a start.

  ‘Will you come with me, to see the agent?’ he asked of Pooley. ‘Might as well get my bid in right away. Can we go today?’

  ‘Today? Why… Well, yes, if you’re sure. Why not? I have to call and see Mr Ferrers, at Esham Hall, and then we can go on to Lynn.’

  Muttering to herself, Mrs Pooley began to clear the dishes with a deal of clatter and scraping. She evidently considered the whole thing to be a foolhardy venture, and under her breath she condemned her husband as an ‘Old fool!’ Pooley ignored her, except to wink at Will behind her back.

  The interplay made Will smile to himself. How he loved this open, honest, down-to-earth pair. He, too, would find a similar contentment, among craftsmen and labourers, with horses and farm-stock to tend, crops to grow, living life to the rhythm of the sun and the seasons. In time, he would have a thriving livelihood to pass on to young Victor, his son and heir. He could hardly wait.

  Feeling elated, he got to his feet. ‘Let’s go at once. Let’s go right this minute.’ A shaky laugh escaped him. ‘Strike while the iron is hot, eh? Your business with Mr Ferrers won’t take long, will it?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Will!’ Mrs Pooley could no longer contain her agitation. ‘Mr Will, do think what you’re doing! This is no day to go dashing headlong into anything. You’re not in your right mind. What will your family say? And what about your children? Will you take them to live on a farm? Who’ll take care of them? You can’t do it alone.’

  Will stretched his mouth in what was meant to be a reassuring smile. ‘They’ll do well enough at Weal House with my mother. Victor is almost five years old, you know. In a couple of years’ time he’ll be attending school.’

  ‘And the baby? What about your daughter?’

  ‘Pray don’t concern yourself for her, my dear Mrs Pooley. There are nursemaids to be found in plenty. The child will be well cared for, I assure you.’ Avoiding the censure in her eyes, he turned away. ‘Well, Pooley, shall we go?’

  * * *

  At a great desk set centrally in the library of East Esham Hall, Squire Bartram Ferrers sat staring into space, chewing the shredded end of his pen while he considered the exact phrase that would express his feelings without giving offence. How did one tell a beloved son that one’s fortunes were not endless, that many more requests for help would lead to ruin for both? If Gervaise did not mend his ways, there would be precious little left for him to inherit.

  As for Flora… The thought of his daughter, left penniless and friendless, caused a sick chill in the pit of his stomach. He felt his heart pound, a sensation like a squeezing hand reaching inside his chest. Sweat broke out on his upper lip as he clawed in his waistcoat pocket for the small enamelled box that contained his pills.

  Forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply, he waited for the pain to subside before taking off his spectacles to rub his aching eyes. Then he pushed back his chair and went to lean on the broad window-sill, squinting against the low, pale sun. How he loved this view. Oaks and elms were placed in pleasing asymmetry across the park, and the distant lake was shrouded by a veil of mist. In a ploughed field beyond the double row of oaks that marked the driveway, sheep were penned behind hurdles, with the shepherd’s wheeled hut not far away. A thin spiral of smoke lifted from its tin chimney.

  Lambing had begun. Another year was under way. Ferrers caught himself wondering how much of it he would see. His doctors had assured him that, with care, he could live for years. What they hadn’t said, not out loud, was that he could just as easily die at any moment.

  And with him would end generations of his family’s tenure of East Esham. On inheriting from an uncle, Bartram’s father had overspent on extending the house, purely for his own aggrandisement; Bartram himself had been badly served by various advisers; his son’s vices had ha
stened the decline, and now the estate hovered on the brink of bankruptcy. It was a question of time; which would come first – financial ruin or death?

  Hearing the click of the door knob, he turned to see his daughter coming in, a warm shawl wrapped about her shoulders and slender throat. Her shy smile caused him a pang that mingled affection and concern. Dear child! So like her mother, pale and frail with huge dark eyes set in a flower-pretty face. But where his wife had been animated, her eyes sparkling with intelligence and humour, Flora had inherited his own withdrawn nature. Now twenty-five, she was still in many ways an innocent, a timid creature whose wide eyes constantly begged approval and feared reproof. Was that his fault? Had he kept her too close, too sheltered, in his efforts to protect her? If only her fiancé had lived, she might by now be safely married, but the young man had drowned in a boating accident some three years before. No one else had offered for her: her father’s penurious state was widely suspected, and few gentlemen would take a girl without hope of a marriage settlement.

  ‘Papa?’ Flora’s voice was small and breathy in the big room. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘You’re not disturbing me, my love.’ Gathering his forces, he straightened and walked across to take her hands, finding them cold and fragile. ‘You’re perished. Come to the fire. What have you been doing?’

  Flora allowed herself to be drawn nearer to the blaze in the hearth. ‘You’ll think me silly. I’ve been searching the closets for my ivory counters. Do you remember, you gave them to me one Christmas, long ago? Narnie and I wanted to play a game and I suddenly thought of those counters and nothing would do but we find them at once. They are so pretty and I haven’t seen them in such a long time. I left Narnie searching. I suddenly thought… Do you know where they might be?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, my love.’ He didn’t even recall giving her a set of ivory counters.