Brackenbeck Read online

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  Contents

  Margaret Dickinson

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Margaret Dickinson

  Brackenbeck

  Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape.

  Her ambition to be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by twenty-seven further titles including Plough the Furrow, Sow the Seed and Reap the Harvest, which make up her Lincolnshire Fleethaven trilogy.

  Many of her novels are set in the heart of her home county, but in Tangled Threads and Twisted Strands the stories include not only Lincolnshire but also the framework knitting and lace industries of Nottingham.

  Her 2012 and 2013 novels, Jenny’s War and The Clippie Girls, were both top twenty bestsellers and her 2014 novel, Fairfield Hall, went to number nine on the Sunday Times bestseller list.

  My writing career falls into two ‘eras’. I had my first novel published at the age of twenty-five, and between 1968 and 1984 I had a total of nine novels published by Robert Hale Ltd. These were a mixture of light, historical romance, an action-suspense and one thriller, originally published under a pseudonym. Because of family commitments I then had a seven-year gap, but began writing again in the early nineties. Then occurred that little piece of luck that we all need at some time in our lives: I found a wonderful agent, Darley Anderson, and on his advice began to write saga fiction; stories with a strong woman as the main character and with a vivid and realistic background as the setting. Darley found me a happy home with Pan Macmillan, for whom I have now written twenty-one novels since 1994. Older, and with a maturity those seven ‘ fallow’ years brought me, I recognize that I am now writing with greater depth and daring.

  But I am by no means ashamed of those early works: they have been my early learning curve – and I am still learning! Originally, the first nine novels were published in hardback and subsequently in Large Print, but have never previously been issued in paperback or, of course, in ebook. So, I am thrilled that Macmillan, under their Bello imprint, has decided to reissue all nine titles.

  Brackenbeck, published in 1969, was my second novel. At this time I was still working full- time as a clerk-typist and used to write in the evenings on a portable typewriter.

  Epigraph

  ‘O hard; when love and duty clash!’

  – The Princess – Alfred Lord Tennyson

  Chapter One

  Doctor Katharine Harvey paused at the top of the hill overlooking the dale of Brackenbeck. Far below the small houses huddled together as if drawing comfort from each other’s nearness. Somewhere nearby a rill tumbled down the hillside, twisting and widening into the swift flowing beck which encircled the houses and wound on through the dale.

  Katharine shaded her eyes against the sun’s glare and her gaze travelled upwards from the village, up the steep slopes of the far hills.

  The quarry must be behind those hills, she thought.

  As she picked up her black medical bag and heavy portmanteau and started down the hill, she felt she already knew Brackenbeck, even though this was her first visit. Anthony’s letters were full of description of his beloved dale and amusing anecdotes about the people who lived there.

  A small smile played at the corners of her gentle mouth. So like Anthony to forget to send a pony and trap to meet her at the station. In her ardent fight for equality between men and women, Katharine had to admit, though only to herself, that at this moment she would gladly have welcomed the usual comforts bestowed upon the weaker sex. Maybe Anthony could stride up and down his moorland, but to a city girl the roads were long and dusty.

  Resolution hardened her smile – not one word of complaint would pass her lips during the following weeks. Her small feet trod the rough track purposefully and she tried not to think of the wear on the hem of her costume.

  Neat in her plain brown skirt and matching jacket trimmed with velvet, Katharine hoped she looked worthy of the title ‘ doctor’. Her white blouse with its high neckline was demure enough, but she mistrusted the frivolity of her hat and wondered whether or not the villagers would do so too. It was a flat hat of brown straw, but trimmed with velvet and a white ostrich plume. It perched, rather coquettishly, on top of her shining auburn hair, which she wore in a simple, yet dignified, coil.

  The narrow lane wound down into the village. Here and there Katharine saw patches of heather and clumps of bracken, but mostly the hillside where it was not hard, bare rock, was covered with rough grass.

  Sheep grazed on the slopes and raised their heads to gaze sleepily at her as she passed. A small bird, with a curious spike of feathers at the back of its head, hovered above the grass, plunging and diving in idiotic acrobats. Katharine stopped to watch, but the bird soon fluttered away out of sight. The June day was fine and had been warm in London when she had left early that morning, but here a sharp breeze blew cold across the moors and Katharine shivered, knowing instinctively, the raw bleakness that winter on these moors would bring.

  But I’ll be back in London long before then, she promised herself.

  To her left another track branched away from the main path. Apparently no one had used this track recently for the grass and bracken ran wild across it, covering in part the deep ruts worn by the waggons and carriages of long ago.

  In the distance Katharine caught sight of grey walls and tall chimneys.

  Curiosity claimed her and although she had walked three or four miles already she could not resist the temptation to follow the path. Leaving her heavy travelling bag in the grass at the side of the road, but keeping her medical bag, she pushed her way through the long grass. A pair of butterflies danced before her face and the pungent smell of sweet grass filled her nostrils. A stone wall with a wrought-iron gate surrounded a square, grey stone house. It was big, but not of gigantic proportions. It was a house belonging to a family with money, but not to the wealthy gentry.

  Katharine peered through the gate. She could see the rough outline of the driveway curving up to the main entrance at the side of the house. The front windows faced out over the sloping garden overlooking the valley below. The house was obviously unoccupied. It looked deserted and lonely. Katharine felt the sadness of the place steal over her. The mullioned windows were sorrowful, misty with regret. It was a very old house, Katharine thought, at least two hundred years old, but still it stood, indestructible, on the hillside overlooking the dale.

  The grounds, once beautiful she could imagine, were now overgrown and neglected. As she turned away, Katharine’s eyes caught sight of a name-plate set in the stone wall, overgrown with green moss, which she scraped aside and read the ornate lettering ‘Kendrick House’.

  She frowned thoughtfully. Where had she heard that name before? Why, surely Anthony had spoken of someone of that name? She returned slowly to the road and with one backward glance at the desolate build
ing, she picked up her bag again.

  Katharine reached the village street and was surprised at its emptiness. Only a tabby cat sidled up and rubbed against her skirt, purring a welcome. No one else appeared from the closed doors, though she fancied she saw the movement of a curtain here and there. The only sound was the rattling wheels of a waggon some distance in front of her, making its way from the village up the track and over the hill in the direction of the quarry. And now, faintly, Katharine thought she could hear the echoing sounds from the quarry itself.

  She turned a corner and left the village centre where the houses and cottages clustered either side of the narrow, cobbled street. Crossing the small stone bridge over the beck, she began to climb again to a house set apart and aloof from the villagers’ dwellings. It was a well-proportioned house, surrounded on three sides by sycamore trees, whilst the view of the village from its front windows remained unimpaired. Without doubt, Katharine thought, it was the doctor’s house. ‘The Sycamores’. How unimaginative, she smiled to herself.

  As she pushed open the gate, Katharine thought how different was this garden to that sad and neglected one at ‘ Kendrick House’. Here a smooth, sloping lawn was surrounded by well-ordered beds alive with multi-coloured blooms – tall delphiniums and lupins and heavy-headed peonies, red and pink, and roses just beginning to burst their buds.

  The drive led up to four stone steps and on to a flagged stone terrace before another four steps brought her to the front door itself. Katharine lifted the heavy brass knocker in the cruel, yet fascinating, shape of a leopard’s head.

  She waited.

  Moments later the door opened.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Katharine said. ‘You must be Mrs. Rigby?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ was the curt reply.

  ‘I am Dr. Harvey. Dr. Stafford expects me.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  And the woman opened the door for Katharine to enter.

  Mrs. Rigby was a good deal taller than Katharine, though this could be well expected as Katharine’s stature was small and slight, giving the mistaken impression of fragility.

  The older woman’s mode of dress was as severe as her countenance. Her blouse was high-necked with long, close-fitting sleeves. The skirt, black like her blouse, fell in severe lines to the floor, flaring slightly from some eighteen inches above the hem.

  The hallway, Katharine saw as she stepped into it, was dark and austere. All the woodwork was dark oak and the wallpaper was a dingy floral design. Obviously Anthony could not be bothered with domestic interests and Mrs. Rigby looked the type who resented change of any kind.

  ‘Dr. Stafford is in the drawing-room, miss. This way, if you please.’

  The woman led the way, her head high, her hands clasped in front of her at waist height. Katharine felt Mrs. Rigby’s hostility not only in her greeting but in the rigid set of the shoulders and unyielding straightness of back.

  Mrs. Rigby opened the door on to a large room and stood aside for Katharine to enter.

  At the far end of the room Dr. Anthony Stafford sat in a deep leather armchair, his foot and ankle, heavily encased in white bandage, resting on a footstool.

  ‘Katharine, my dear girl,’ he smiled, slapping the arm of his chair. ‘Thank God you’ve come to save me from this boredom.’

  ‘Hello Anthony,’ Katharine laughed, never failing to be cheered by his boisterous good humour. ‘How’s the ankle?’

  ‘Deuced painful. It’s good of you to come at such short notice.’

  Katharine’s face sobered swiftly. She glanced back at Mrs. Rigby, unwilling to confide in Anthony in his housekeeper’s presence.

  ‘That will be all, Mrs. Rigby,’ Anthony said.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Her glance rested again on Katharine. Mrs. Rigby sniffed in contempt and left the room.

  ‘Dear me,’ remarked Anthony, ‘you don’t seem to have enslaved Mrs. Rigby as yet.’

  Katharine smiled ruefully.

  ‘No. As I was going to say, there are very few places where a lady-doctor is welcome. I’m glad you did call on me, Anthony. I’m still without employment.’

  Anthony moved uneasily in his chair.

  ‘Sit down, lass, sit down.’

  Katharine noticed the immediate change in his tone.

  ‘Kate – I’ll have to be honest with you.’ Anthony’s blue eyes looked into hers with compassion. ‘Apart from me, you’re not going to be very welcome here.’

  Katharine nodded.

  ‘I guessed as much. So why did you send for me?’

  Anthony leaned over and knocked out his pipe on the grey stone fireplace.

  ‘Several reasons, I suppose. One – I thought you were in need of occupation whilst you’re waiting to hear about your appointment to the children’s ward at St. Bernadette’s Hospital. You haven’t heard, I suppose?’ He looked up eagerly.

  Katharine shook her head.

  ‘Secondly,’ Anthony continued, ‘I thought the “challenge” might be good for you and, believe me, there’s going to be one. And lastly – but by no means least of all,’ and his blue eyes regarded her intently as he added softly, ‘I wanted to see you again, Kate.’

  ‘And you wanted a good dose of feminine sympathy,’ Katharine teased him. ‘I doubt you get it from Mrs. Rigby.’

  And their laughter filled the room.

  But Katharine was to find that in the next few weeks laughter did not come easily.

  That first evening passed pleasantly enough in Anthony’s company, but all the while the thought of tomorrow’s surgery hung like a dark cloud at the back of her mind.

  At seven o’clock the kitchen maid served their dinner, under Mrs. Rigby’s supervision.

  ‘Have you any more servants, Anthony?’ Katharine asked, when Mrs. Rigby and the young girl had left the room.

  ‘No, just Mrs. Rigby and Jane.’

  ‘One “ upper” and one “ lower” servant,’ Katharine smiled. ‘Is Mrs. Rigby married or rather, has she been, or is it one of these courtesy titles given to a housekeeper?’

  ‘No, she was married. Lost her husband in a quarry accident about twenty years ago. She has no family. She came with the practice, you might say,’ he added smiling.

  ‘You mean she was here with Dr. Leverton?’

  ‘Yes, and she doesn’t let me forget it.’

  ‘My father could only afford to employ one overworked servant girl,’ Katharine said, ‘I used to feel sorry for her – up at dawn and hardly ever finished her work before nine or ten at night.’

  ‘Yes, it must be a hard life for some of these young girls with no education to speak of and yet obliged to earn their living. I don’t think it’s too hard here. I have a man in the village come each day to do the heavy work – chopping wood and so forth. And he does the garden. Mrs. Rigby takes charge of all the cooking, of course, and takes my messages, plus, I believe, a little light dusting if she feels so disposed,’ he grinned. ‘And Jane does the rest.’

  Katharine eyed him over her soup spoon.

  ‘Mmmm,’ she said with meaning.

  ‘Let’s change the subject,’ Anthony teased her, ‘or I can see by the glint in your eye that I shall be getting a full-scale lecture on women’s rights.’

  After they had dined and had lingered by the fire, reminiscing about their university life and exchanging confidences until quite late, Mrs. Rigby once again appeared at the drawing-room door.

  ‘Miss Harvey stopping here, is she, sir?’

  Anthony looked at his housekeeper out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘You prepared her room as I requested, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I thought – well –’ Mrs. Rigby sniffed and altered her line of conversation. ‘ Shall I show her the room, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, no. I can direct Dr. Harvey adequately, I believe.’

  The thin lips were pursed tightly and the eyes glittered with disapproval.

  ‘Goodnight then, sir – miss.’

  The door clo
sed with a sharp click of annoyance.

  ‘Take no notice of her, Kate.’

  ‘But what did she mean? Why the question about my staying here?’

  Anthony laughed.

  ‘You’re alone in this house with me, Katharine Harvey – for the night, except for Mrs. Rigby and Jane, neither of whom, being servants, can suffice as a chaperon. Can’t you imagine what the village folk think to that? Mrs. Rigby did her utmost to persuade me to book a room for you at the “Delvers’ Haven” in the village.’

  Katharine stared at him – wide-eyed.

  ‘Oh Anthony – I never thought. How foolish of me. I thought there was someone else in the house too. I mean, I thought –’ she rushed on hastily, ‘that Mrs. Rigby’s presence would be sufficient. I confess I’ve never before found myself in such circumstances.’

  ‘We’re a strange folk here,’ Anthony said. ‘Some of their ideas of propriety are early Victorian – others so liberal-minded as to shock even you, Kate. It’s knowing what they expect of you – there’s the difficulty. But you don’t mind, Kate, do you?’

  ‘I don’t – no. But what is everyone going to think – to say? It’ll make things awkward for you, as well as for me, and you’ve got to stay here.’

  ‘My dear Kate, it won’t worry me – you should know that.’

  And Katharine did know it. Whatever did worry the good-humoured Anthony? His genial bantering had kept her in good spirits the whole evening.

  ‘You should know how progressively minded I am or I would not have befriended one of these dreadful suffragettes,’ he said, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes belying his sober tones.

  ‘We’re not “dreadful”,’ Katharine retorted defensively.

  ‘I know, I know, I’m only teasing. Did I not use to help you, Kate? Have you forgotten?’

  ‘No, no, of course not, Anthony. But, for a moment, I just thought that now you’re back amongst your own people, perhaps …’

  ‘That perhaps I’d gone back to their narrow-minded way of life?’