Authors: Leah Fleming
Lawton was a house of mourning even though no one wore black. The summer had ended on a bitter note. No one spoke of the accident and yet the events of that fateful day clung
about them like a heavy mist of sadness. William slept for many weeks and when he woke he did nothing but gibber and drool. The heir to the Dacre estate had lost his senses and was assigned to a
special asylum in York under his Aunt’s supervision.
Mirabel was distraught, blaming herself for racing him that day. Her Papa was angry that no doctor could bring his son back to his old self. Once Will was sent away with Aunt Lydia his name was
never mentioned in Papa’s hearing. Will’s room was emptied of his clothes and belongings as if he had never lived. The groom was dismissed in disgrace, Aunt Lydia took herself back to
York and Papa sat in his study with the door shut admitting no one.
Mirabel’s sister, Eliza, picked up her sampler as usual and spent hours at her needlework, burying her head in her linen, never wanting to go for walks or ride their ponies or do anything
out of doors. She’d never liked being alone and followed Mirabel around the house like a frightened lap dog.
Sometimes she woke up screaming for her brother, ‘Wake him up, Bella, wake him up!’ Eliza had started using baby talk which Mirabel found annoying.
In the days after the accident her only pleasure was to put on her riding habit, saddle up her fine pony, Mercury, and ride across the fields racing away from her chaperone, astride her horse
like a boy. She galloped across the high fields, hair flying from under her tall hat, flushed with exhilaration, chasing the wind. Here she could forget all the troubles that were waiting in the
house down below.
She loved the open fells and the warmth of her body on the straining pony. He was a friend who would never let her down. Eliza was no fun. Everyone thought they were twins but she was the eldest
by a year, stronger and more wilful. She could always bend Eliza to her schemes, though not to go riding out of doors.
They knew William was always Papa’s favourite and now he was taken to York to be nursed away from prying eyes. Papa hid his distress once more by being too busy to bother with them. There
was the Mill to oversee and he was a partner in some new District Bank. He hunted and soon she would join them. The two girls had attended a little seminary in Skelsby but Mirabel hated all that
singing and sewing and sitting around. There were no girls of her class to visit, just Eliza for company on the long dark evenings when they sat in the drawing room waiting for Papa to put in an
appearance but he never did, waiting for Aunt Lydia to write them a long letter which never came. The servants had more fun and games in the village than they did, she thought, as she raced across
the fells.
Taking the high bridleway path uphill today was no accident, for she knew it was time to make a formal visit to the farm of the young man who had rescued them. Yewbank was high on the windswept
moor, she was told, with a great view of the district. The Dacres had nothing to do with the Stockdales even though they were landowners not tenants, but this must be an exception. A lady must show
her gratitude.
She followed the track and dismounted at the open gate leading to the ancient stone farmhouse with all the pungent smells of a busy farmyard. The farm boy doffed his cap at her presence and the
dairymaids curtseyed as she waited on the doorstep while a maid rushed in to warn the lady of the house of her unexpected arrival. She could sense the flurry of tidying and clearing away before she
would be shown into their best room.
Mirabel often went with her Aunt to the low beamed stone cottar houses to dole out alms and baskets of fruit and cakes. She had learned not to turn her nose up at the rough smells assaulting her
nostrils but she had never been on a working farm before: not one so high up the hill with such wonderful views over the valley. It had a better aspect than Lawton Hall, which nestled closer to the
river and was darker facing south and east.
‘Come in, Come in! To what do we owe this honour?’ smiled the farmer’s wife in a fluster of welcome, straightening her mob cap and curtseying. She had a pleasant round face and
cloudy blue eyes. ‘I will mash a dish of tea and there are fat rascals straight off the griddle.’
Aunt Lydia trained them always to take a bite and a sip but no more for they might deprive poor children of their supper but here was such a pile of baking, bread and fancies on cream china
plates. There was a wall dresser full of pewter plates and a wall clock ticking away. Everything sparkled in the firelight. The fire in the chimney blazed with such ferocity that she could feel the
heat warming her through. Then the son came through the door as if he had been running, startled by her presence, tall and fair like his mother who clucked around him like a mother hen. There was a
different warmth here, more like the chatter in the servants hall before it fell silent when she walked in unannounced.
‘We don’t get much company passing the door, just pedlars and bog trotters but this is an honour, Miss Dacre.’
‘I came to thank your son for coming to our aid so promptly. On behalf of my father and sister I would like to express our sincere gratitude,’ Mirabel replied, sipping the tea and
biting into the spicy cake and kept on nibbling until it was all gone, not a crumb.
‘Any Christian soul would do as I done,’ the farmer replied. ‘I hope your brother is fully recovered.’
‘He has gone for a rest cure in York.’ She blushed at this lie but the truth was too painful to share with strangers.
‘Then all is well and that’s what I like to see, a hearty appetite. Have another,’ said the old lady offering the plate again but Mirabel declined.
‘I must be on my way before the light goes.’
‘Matt and I will escort you back part way. It is only proper,’ the mother said, reaching for her cloak hanging on the hook at the back of the door.
They walked slowly to her tethered horse at first with an awkward silence but then Mirabel lingered while the son opened the gate, bowing his head looking at her through the side of his eye.
‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Thank you for working so close by.’
‘Not exactly, Miss Dacre. I was experimenting . . .’
‘Experimenting?’ He’d caught her interest.
‘I were trying to get an image of Gunnerside Foss on paper.’
‘You were taking a photograph, really?’ She had seen likenesses in silver frames of local bigwigs.
‘It’s a particular interest of mine. I have a camera and saving for a stereoscope . . . It’s not easy to catch spray on moving water.’
Mirabel was surprised. He did not sound like an educated man but there was a sparkle in his eyes as he was talking about his ideas. ‘Where did you learn all this? In London there are
special studios for portraits, I’m told.’
‘Only from books and lectures. If conditions are right you can photograph anything, mountains, animals, streams and people of course,’ he paused, staring at her. ‘You would
make a very good subject for a portrait.’
Mirabel felt her cheeks flushing as he examined her face in all seriousness. ‘But Eliza and I have our likeness painted in oils.’
‘Of course, forgive my boldness. It was just an idle comment.’
‘No, no, you’ve given me an idea. If Papa will agree, we could make something to give William in his hospital to remind him of us all.’ She paused, knowing she must not give
his true condition away.
‘Ah, then you will want a proper photographer for indoor portraits with lights.’
‘No, no, William will want to see Hector, his horse recovered among the hills. It has to be out of doors. Will you help us?’
‘I’d be right honoured.’ It was his turn to blush. ‘Miss Dacre wants me to take a likeness of a horse, Mother.’
‘Oh aye,’ his mother replied, smiling. ‘That’ll be grand.’
‘I shall send word when it is convenient and you will send us a bill when it is complete,’ Mirabel said, turning her horse down towards the track, pleased that she’d come up
with such a brilliant idea and glad she’d be seeing Matt Stockdale again.
In the days that followed, Matt wondered if he had dreamed the girl’s visit but his Mother kept going over every detail of Mirabel’s fine appearance, the cut of her
riding jacket, the quality of the woollen skirt and her dainty leather gloves. How tall she was for a youngster whose poor Mother had passed away only a few years ago and whose brother lay crippled
and injured in the head. The servants had already spread the gossip up the dale how the Master’s heir was bereft of his senses, unable to walk and how the girls must now be heirs and be
brought out to make fine marriages. He felt proud that she was defending her family by pretending he was almost recovered.
‘She’s a real little lady is that one,’ she sighed. ‘You did well to rescue her.’
It was a windswept afternoon when Mirabel rode sidesaddle on Hector up the steep slope, his coat as glossy as jet in the sunlight. She had sent a note for them to meet at the crossroads. Matt
guessed she would dread seeing that cursed place again but it must look like an accidental meeting. He was waiting, dressed in his Sunday tweeds and riding breeches, looking as fine a
gentleman’s farmer as he could muster. They rode in silence to a path leading to a wooded glade where the old oak trees arched over making a frame for the horse and rider photograph. Miss
Dacre paused to dismount.
‘No, stay on. You must be in the frame too. Then your brother can see you both,’ he offered.
‘Just the horse. You can take one of me later, if you like.’
Who was he to argue? He had chosen the spot with care, checked the light, brought his tripod and equipment beforehand. Everything must be perfect. He couldn’t wait to take her portrait, a
souvenir of this momentous day. Matt was satisfied with the angle of his pose. Hector was calm and curious and he knew one plate would come out well enough.
‘Please place yourself by the big tree,’ he asked his model. ‘That’s right, lean back and look at me. Don’t stiffen, be yourself . That’s better . . . I like
that.’ He wondered how he dared to speak to her like this, but he was in charge here and he wanted to capture that special stare he was getting to know so well.
‘I can’t wait to see them. Eliza, my sister, wouldn’t believe me when I told her how light can paint pictures too, better than any artist.’
All too soon the light shifted as shadows drifted across the path, the session was at an end but neither of them was in a hurry to return. ‘Bring them as soon as you can,’ Mirabel
said. ‘I’m sure Papa will love to see them too but I must go or I will be missed. This will be our surprise for now,’ she smiled and her face lit up.
He waved her away and rushed back to Yewbank to do his chores, knowing he would spend the evening in his makeshift dark room developing those images to his satisfaction. He stayed up half the
night. The horse had come out well enough but it was Miss Dacre’s face that took his breath away. She looked so composed, her eyes looking into the far distance with a dream-like quality.
He knew he was already deeply in love with her beauty, her stillness, her courage. To have this permanent image of that wonderful afternoon was almost too much to bear.
Oh yes, he knew in his heart she was far above him in her station but a man could dream, couldn’t he? There must be some way he could raise himself to be worthy of her hand but first he
must fulfil his promise and deliver the photographs to her. He would have that copy for himself. This was to be their secret and for a second he didn’t want to share these images with anyone
but her alone. Once they were delivered how could he ever meet up with her again?
One Saturday afternoon he prepared to visit the Hall with his plates. They had made no firm arrangement about delivery but he hoped she was eager to see them. At first his
steps were bold and fast in the descent to Lawton and then he strolled through the village past the lychgate of St Peter’s church. He dawdled over the river bridge in the direction of Lawton
Hall, not sure which entrance to take through the arched gate. Would he catch a glimpse of Miss Dacre? One glance told him the stable yard and paths were not swept as well as their own yards. A
groom came out to greet him.
‘Now then, young Stockdale, what brings ’ee down these parts? Come a courtin’ Ellin Bargh in the kitchen?’ he laughed.
‘No,’ Matt blushed. ‘I’ve got a delivery for Miss Dacre,’ he stuttered.
‘Have you indeed? We’ll see about that. And what might your business be?’
‘It’s private. She will want to see me,’ he added, not sure now how to proceed.
‘Oh, I’m sure Miss Mirabel will want to see the likes of you farmers’ lads . . .’ the groom roared. ‘Hey up, lads! Young Matt has come a-courtin’ the
Squire’s daughter. He must be moon struck. It’s all that fresh air . . .’
The men stood around gawping at him and Matt wanted to flee from their teasing. He was wrong to have come without an appointment, making a fool of himself. He turned to go just as Mirabel
trotted into the yard from her ride. There was a scurry of attention to horse and rider but Matt bent his head and rode away.
‘Mr Stockdale!’ she raced after him, waving her whip at the groom to get out of the way. ‘I thought it was you.’
‘I’ll be off, Miss. Sorry to trouble you. I can see this is not a good time to call.’
‘Nonsense, wait . . . Did you bring them? The pictures . . . did they come out?’ she drew aside him whispering, her eyes burning into him with interest.
His heart leapt that he was acknowledged. ‘It’s hidden in this parcel,’ he smiled patting his long jerkin.
‘We can’t open them here,’ she whispered. ‘But wait under the river bridge on the path. I’ll change and say I’m walking down to collect berries or something.
Meet you there,’ she ordered and left him standing.
The men were watching them but then Mirabel barked at them to get on with their jobs and he was forgotten.
They stood together under the stone arch as he pulled out the plates for her to inspect from a linen pouch. ‘Do you like them?’ he said watching her face flushing as she examined the
images.