Lydia Fielding by Susan Sallis

Author:Susan Sallis [Sallis, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781446486016
Published: 2011-05-30T23:00:00+00:00

Eight

The next day began the terrible winter of ’66 and ’67 that was to decimate the Exmoor flocks and scour the thin soil of half its holding bracken and gorse. The sea mist lifted but the cloud came down low over the Heights and an icy rain blew straight from Ireland, smashing the moored boats in the tiny harbours up the coast and wreaking havoc in the orchards and gardens that clung to the south-facing slopes of the combes. Tales were told of uprooted cabbages bowling along the lanes like footballs; of a hailstorm of turnips; of a horse lost in the quagmire of the Moor. Misfortunes did not come singly; foxes, starved of their normal prey, came down to the farms for chickens and reports were heard of mangled sheep. The Garretts, back from London, were incensed by the increase in poaching and when Sir Henry sat on the Bench at Stapleford such crimes were liable to be punished with harsh prison sentences. Nathan Peters was to be tried for murder and was in Taunton Gaol gibbering and mewling and cursing the Fieldings. While Lydia Fielding lay in her room at Milton Mains not much better; her eyes open after twelve hours of unconsciousness but staring at the ceiling without expression.

The funeral of Alan and Marella Fielding took place the following Thursday. The open coffins had been placed on the dining table at Milton Mains the previous day and all who wished to pay their respects could do so. Many came from sheer curiosity to stare down at the ill-fated couple, beautiful even in death; already a legend was growing of their love in the face of the enmity between the two families. Though Mercy, Prudence and Lucy sat together in the kitchen, it made no difference. Old Nathan Peters had cursed the match; he had not allowed the Fielding boy to take his bride to Bristol; he had virtually kept them both prisoners in Granny Peters’s cottage; when his daughter had died he had killed Alan Fielding where he stood. If Lucy or Prudence heard any of this they made no attempt to put it right; the truth was stranger than the fiction and less credible. Even less creditable. As Prudence said steadily, ‘They played a silly game – both of ’em. And they died because of it.’ Lucy nodded and let the fiction grow in kindness to the two silly children who had indeed played with fire. There was a deep sadness in her; but her anxiety was for Lydia and Rupert. And perhaps Nature was healing Lydia. Rupert tried to heal himself with his old medicine, and failed as usual.

On the Thursday, Lucy, Mrs Pollard and Amos worked hard to get him ready by midday. He stood by Lucy’s side in the dining room gazing down solemnly while Mr Salmon from Carybridge screwed down the coffin lids. Lucy stepped forward and touched Alan’s forehead with her fingers and then, as an afterthought, made the sign of the Cross on the baby’s head, which was laid across Marella’s feet.

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