Maggie Prince - North Side of the Tree

“Now madam, you must marry,” says the bishop sternly as we are leaving.

“Gladly sir, if you can obtain my father’s permission,” Verity replies irritably. “It is not of my choosing to live thus.”

“If necessary we will dispense with your father’s permission.” The bishop stares along the valley to where Barrowbeck Tower dominates the horizon. “Nevertheless, we will reason with him first.”

“God bless your efforts.” Verity’s expression does not indicate a great measure of confidence in them, with or without God’s blessing.

As we are leaving, James arrives back from chopping trees for winter fuel. He is riding bareback on one of the two carthorses which are dragging the huge pallet of tree trunks. He jumps down when he sees us, and I am struck by the change in him, as he smiles and asks if we cannot stay a little longer. He is clearly overawed by the bishop, yet he makes an effort, and converses with us, instead of retreating into silence as he would have done until recently.

John explains our mission, and we bid them an affectionate farewell and set off up the valley. I have told John that I shall visit my aunt whilst he and the bishop call upon my father. I have not told him the purpose of my visit. Behind us, from all along the valley, comes the dull beat of axes on wood, as logs are chopped for winter, and I find I am worrying about our own farms winter supplies. Has anyone thought of cutting trees for Barrowbeck’s winter fuel yet? My father will not have, since he spends his time roaming the countryside causing grief of one sort or another. Wood needs at least two months to season, before being burnt. Last year we were late with it, and the burning of green wood all but smoked us out of the tower. Then there is the root cellar. When I left, it was already piled high with parsnips and carrots, safely covered with black woollen cloths to keep out the damp, but has anyone thought to lift the first of the turnips yet and bring them in? Anxiety and homesickness overwhelm me. I think with a pang of all my summer’s herbs so lovingly cut, dried and hung on their S-shaped metal hooks, filling the root cellar with pungency. This winter I shall be a guest in another house, and it will not be the same.

We part company at the edge of the clearing. “Go carefully,” says John. “We’ll meet you back at James’s farm at sundown.”

I guide my horse on to a less-used path towards Mere Point, which will keep me out of sight of Father’s watchman on the tower. The path is strewn with bright leaves. Berries like jewels glow on the stripped autumn trees. This is my first time alone in the woods since I was attacked. I duck under the low-hanging branches and ride deep into the forest, and everywhere I go two dead men with their throats cut march behind me.

At Mere Point they are also chopping wood. Hugh and Gerald, red-faced and sweating, are swinging their axes at a pile of tree trunks near the edge of the clearing.

“I’ll be along in a minute,” calls Hugh, as I head for the tower.

The sea is far out, distant and innocent-looking under a wide blue sky. Sea birds drop and swoop in the great space below the cliff, turning deftly and rising again on the breeze.

I find Aunt Juniper in the smokehouse at the side of the tower. She is standing on an old stool, hanging black sausages perilously over the glowing embers in the smoke-pit, where several sides of pork already hang. The atmosphere in the smokehouse is thick and greasy. Aunt Juniper looks round as she hooks the last looped sausage on to the chain, and turns the handle to trundle them along.

“I should be asking you to do this for me, Niece,” she comments, “since heights appear not to trouble you.” She climbs down and embraces me. Her face is blotched from the heat. “Are you well? Safe and well and in one piece? Welcome, my dear. I’faith, young women today, not willing to be locked in towers any more. I don’t know what the world is coming to.” She laughs. “Have you come to visit Hugh?”

I avoid replying, and instead wave to Hugh across the clearing as we walk towards the tower. Hugh wipes his face on his sleeve and waves back. Suddenly I feel very fond of him.

“I’m smoking the pork with applewood this year,” my aunt continues. “Your mother’s was so good last year. What is she using this year? Do you know? I have forgotten to ask her with all this business of Verity going on.”

“Rosewood and elder, I think.” I am glad to avoid more contentious topics as long as possible, but eventually the moment arrives when I am sitting opposite Aunt Juniper at the kitchen table, waiting for Hugh to come in, and there is no longer any getting away from it.

“Auntie, I am here to tell you something. I must say this to you first. I cannot marry Hugh.” I say it as fast as I can, then wait.

Aunt Juniper looks at me, then purses her lips and spreads her hands flat on the table. “Is it because of Parson Becker, Beatrice? They are saying you have a fondness for the parson… that you and he have a fondness for one another. Can this be true?”

Hugh comes in. I can see from his face that he has been listening. His hands hang tired and red from hewing the wood. He is unsmiling.

I turn in my seat. “I’m sorry, Hugh. You’re like a dear brother to me, and always will be. We’re too close to think of marrying. Please forgive me.”

Hugh looks hurt and puzzled. He looks as if his pride is wounded, but I wonder if I am imagining that he also looks a little relieved. Aunt Juniper appears distressed and bewildered. “Is this attachment of yours to the priest something of a religious or spiritual nature, Beatrice?” she demands.

I opt for the truth. “I’m not sure.”

She shakes her head. “First Verity, now you, going your own ways. What’s happening to the world, Beatrice? I warrant the queen started all this, setting her face against good husbands, God bless her. I’m sure I don’t know where it will all end.”

Uncle Juniper comes in, hurls a log on the kitchen fire and claps me on the shoulder. “They’re real killers, my new dogs, Beatrice,” he booms. “Canst hear ’em, out in t’barn?” I smile and nod, and he goes to sit in a corner and scratch himself in private places.

Aunt Juniper leans her elbows on the table. “Beatrice, I would like to think you will not make any hasty decisions about this.”

Hugh turns away, flushing with anger. “Mother, she has decided. Your plans cannot always go to order.” He marches out.

Aunt Juniper watches him in astonishment, then continues as if she had not been interrupted. “You see how much you have upset him, Beatrice? I hope now that you will reconsider. ’Tis no wonder you have been shut up in your room, with such wilfulness on display. Have you and your sister no thought at all for the work and distress your behaviour causes? Marriage is a serious business, not a matter for idle preferences. In heaven’s name, what sort of income do you imagine a village priest will have? A lot of thought and planning goes into securing your futures and your fortunes, to give you the best security you can have. I don’t mind doing it. It’s no more than my duty. But Gerald already has to be found someone else, with Verity gone. I’m considering Mistress Fairweather of Hagditch. She’s badly pocked, but has fortune enough to make up for that, and is very young to have been left a widow. Gerald would make her – or anyone – a splendid husband.” She pauses, as if struck by an idea. “You wouldn’t consider…?”

I bite my lip. “I think I’m unfitted for marriage, Aunt. To anyone. Truly, I am not ready even to think about it.”

We sit in silence for a while. Hugh returns and pours elderflower wine and hands it round. He gives me a brief, rueful look, a glimpse of the old Hugh, which fills me with a strange pang of relief and regret. Aunt Juniper intercepts it. She asks quickly, “Would you care to come and stay here, Niece, rather than at the parsonage? Your uncle and cousins would protect you from your father. You need have no fear of that. You would be closer to Verity and to your mother. It would be a blessing for me to have another woman in the house. You could read Holy Writ to me of an evening, whilst I sew.”