Lady in the Veil (3 page)

‘They’re good. You’ve captured old Hector,’ she offered.

‘Aye, but look on yon one of you. It’s got something too. Your father will frame this.’

‘He’s not to know about this. He won’t approve of me riding out alone after what happened. The horse, perhaps. This has to be our secret. I think we can be friends. You can
call me Miss Mirabel, if you like.’ She gave him that stare that turned his insides to mush.

‘You can call me just Matt,’ he replied.

‘Thank you for the photographs. We will reimburse all your expenses. It’s been such a hard time for us these past years and now there’s no one to take my brother’s
place.’

He sat listening to all her worries. How Eliza was always sickening and her father drank too much each evening. How the staff took advantage of him. Her world was so different from his own farm
life. How he longed to be her equal, to ride and jump for pleasure not necessity, to eat fine foods the likes of which he’d never see in his lifetime, pineapples, melons and other fancy
fare.

He told her how he wanted to build up their breeding cattle and make Yewbank the biggest and the best farmstead in the district. How his mother’s eyesight was failing.

‘We shall be going to stay with Aunt Lydia soon so she can bring us out,’ she added.

‘Out where?’ he asked.

‘Out into society to make a good marriage, silly,’ she laughed.

Her words brought a chill into his heart that soon their worlds would separate for ever. He was just a country bumpkin, a distraction to be picked up and dropped. As he rode back that afternoon,
he felt a rage inside him that there was no equality in this world. Only under Christ were they all equal but even when Mirabel Dacre was in church, she sat shielded by a tall oak pew with their
own side entrance away from the rest of the congregation. It wasn’t fair. As he muttered to himself he heard his late father’s voice ranting in his head.

‘Then make thyself her equal, laddie. Learn thy letters and make of thesen summat more than nowt!’

He turned round expecting to see him riding behind him but there was no one in sight. How strange, he thought but his pace quickened at the words. The Stockdales of Yewbank bowed to no man but
their Maker, his father once said. Well, he would show her and all the Dacres that he was worthy to be her suitor one day, not her secret amusement.

From that afternoon on, Matt Stockdale was a driven man. One day he would make Miss Mirabel not just his friend, his comforter but his bride. How or when, he had no idea but as the voice said,
first he must make summat of himself in the district. Then the rest would surely follow.

Aunt Lydia’s invitation to attend a young ladies’ seminary in York had thrown the sisters into disarray causing Eliza to dissolve into fits of weeping and making
herself sick.

‘Don’t ask me to go away, Papa. Why can’t we stay here for ever? I hate going out of doors. It makes me feel sick. When I see the sky, I can’t breathe, my chest tightens
so and I have such a pain. Let Bella go and I will look after you,’ Eliza pleaded.

‘You’ll do as you’re told, ‘Papa ranted at her. ‘How else will I ever get you both off my hands? Girls are expensive to marry off. The sooner we start, the sooner
your aunt will find you husbands to pay for all your frills and fol-de-rols. There’s no one here rich enough even to keep you in ribbons.’ How Papa ranted and raved about the output of
the Mill and the cost of wages and new machines.

Mirabel thought a change of scene might widen her own horizons. They could give Will his photograph in person. She still hadn’t told Papa about her jaunt onto the moors with the Stockdale
farmer nor had he sent a bill to them. She had caught Stockdale hovering in the churchyard and knew he was staring at her with interest. He was pleasing to the eye but his voice grated on her ears.
Father would be horrified to know she’d confided in him. How dare Mr Stockdale presume she could acknowledge him in public. She was gentry and quality and above such a thing.

Yet the thought of not riding Mercury over the hills did not bear thinking about. But Aunt Lydia promised that they would visit William and buy some new dresses and meet suitable young people in
York. Time would fly by and soon they would return back to Lawton. A whole new life was opening up for them and she ought to be delighted. The fact that she was not puzzled her.

The change in young Matt did not go unnoticed. His mother noticed the small things at first, commenting how he washed more often at the pump, how his head was always stuck in a
borrowed book . . .

‘What’s gotten into thee, lad?’ Mother snapped. ‘You’ve got ants in thy pants.’

‘Don’t talk old fashioned, Mother,’ Matt would reply.

‘I’ll talk how I like, young man. It were good enough for thee when tha’ were a lad so what’s up with it now,’ she blazed and he felt mean-hearted to draw attention
to her homespun talk.

‘Things are changing, the old wars are over. There’s money to be made in these hills if you know how to go about it. I hear the cities are crying out for coal and copper, lead and
lime off the land. I am thinking of opening up a seam or two. There’s more to farming than sheep and cows.’

He stood there in the prime of his life, tall, broad-shouldered and handsome in the Stockdale sort of way.

‘It’s about time you found a wife to keep your feet on the ground,’ Mother answered. ‘And what’s all this talk of you going to St Peter’s of a morning
worship? Is it to see if those two Dacre girls are back from their wanderings? Is this what ’tis all about?’ she laughed and seeing him go scarlet. ‘Mercy preserve us, don’t
go looking in that direction, Matt. Yer getting above thesen.’

The spies had been out and about and someone had seen him in the back pew of the church ogling the Squire’s boxed pew for signs of the girls’ return. He had caught a brief glimpse of
Mirabel once, walking out through the side door, erect and proud, not mincing or hesitant like the other sister. It was she who had taken his eye and he would not be dissuaded from this lonely
wooing path.

The two sisters were as alike as two thoroughbred fillies in their velvet jackets and big bonnets, dressed as close to town fashion as to make all the other village girls look lumpen in their
homespun cloaks. He had perused the pews hoping some spark of passion might be aroused by one of the village maids but there was none. Mirabel was a vision of beauty, dazzling all others out of his
fancy.

Matt had an eye for a good form, straight limbs and shiny coat on a horse, a thick rump on his fat stock, refined furnishings and the garments of quality that he saw in the shop windows of
Skelsby. His eye recognized good texture and form and Miss Dacre was quality.

There was spirit in her gait and boldness in her eye even if she didn’t look at the road he was on or recognize who he was when she drove past him in the street. She was to him a strange
mixture of wildness and calm like a summer’s day brewing a storm.

He must make a fortune and fast, raise his standing in the district if there was to be any hope of wooing her. To wed a Dacre was aiming higher than most would have dared but he meant to prove
that his stock was rising. He would have none other than she. To achieve this would mean a long and hard campaign but he was no shirker from hard graft so he set himself the goal of making the most
of every penny he earned to improve his income, his profit and his land. No more expensive photographic equipment until he could easily afford it. His mother stood back and watched his efforts with
wonder and not a little fear.

To this end he made himself available to the parish worthies for any duty no one else wanted to take on. He attended meetings when others gave back-word. Matt Stockdale was a by-word for
reliability. He took dancing lessons secretly in the town but however nimble his footwork was in the cotillion steps there was no entrée into the hallowed portals of Lawton Hall
Assemblies.

When the sisters were in residence he made sure that he was busy close by. There was a rhythm to their charitable expeditions into the village that wasn’t hard to gauge. He took note when
they rode abroad, making sure he wore his best jacket and waistcoat and brown hat, hoping for another chance to rescue Mirabel but none ever came. Let no one say he hadn’t a fine leg for a
boot.

Of course he guessed that the sisters were intended to marry well and secure moneys for the estate whose walls were not in as fine a fettle as his own. That was always a give-away as to how well
managed and prosperous a man’s land was. There were rumours that Sir Barnett had expensive tastes in thoroughbreds and racing and his vintner’s bills went unpaid, and shopkeepers in
Skelsby despaired when fresh orders were demanded for Lawton. Rumours of that sort of shortfall galloped up the dale and into the cattle marts. The Dacres were now not so high and mighty as they
would like to think, not among the locals. Perhaps there was hope.

At Christmas he made an excuse to visit the house on parish business but still had to go first to the back entrance, not the front porch. He hovered around hoping for a glimpse of the girls but
of course there was none. Then the freezing weather came and dew ponds and mill pond iced up and everyone took to the ice for fun, careering around arm in arm. He hovered out of sight, watching
Mirabel skating while her sister sat on the bank with her hands in her muff. If only he could have dazzled her with his prowess but he was hopeless on blades.

Sometimes Matt thought he caught her staring in his direction but that was all. He hoped he cut a dash in his corduroy jacket and worsted britches, his boots polished to glass. His mirror told
him that his figure was lean and long limbed, his shoulders were broad and his hips well tapered. He would be a catch for any of the farmer’s daughters who eyed him eagerly when dancing a
jig. He was honest and hardworking but too low-born to turn this one particular head in his direction. In his despair he turned to Parson Simcock who he knew had the ear of old man Dacre. It was
after a parish poor law meeting that few attended that he sat sipping port in the Parson’s small study and opened his heart.

‘What ails thee, young Matt? You’ve been hovering around Lawton of late, like a bad smell. Who is the maid who’s captured your heart?’

Matt took his courage in hand and declared himself.

‘I have a great affection for Miss Mirabel Dacre. She’s caught my eye with her beauty, her horsemanship and kindness to the poor,’ he galloped it all out in one breath.
‘I’d like to make my intentions plain to Squire Dacre.’

The Parson shook his head. ‘
Oh
dearie me, this is bad news. What gives you the notion that he would ever entertain the idea of his daughter being passed on to some two-penny
farmer from up the dale?’ he eyed him keenly for a response.

Matt was not cowed by these words. ‘I don’t intend to stay in this station for ever,’ he argued. ‘I’ve got plans to buy more land, renew our stock with finer
breeds, to profit from all that science has to offer us and remodel the farmhouse in a grander design with rooms suitable for any lady; a parlour with a fine coal fireplace, bedchambers, a little
park outside with a walled garden away from view. My eye is so fixed upon her I will do anything to set her like some precious jewel in a grand setting.’

‘Will you now? Thy plans are ambitious indeed but have you spoken to this jewel of your intention?’ asked the Parson sucking on his pipe with interest.

‘Nay, no, sir, not openly. It would not be seemly without her father’s consent. I’d not presume such boldness, for although I may not be a gentleman by birth, I will behave as
such.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, young man, for I fear you will face a grievous disappointment. Sir Barnett Dacre will not waste his daughters on sons of the soil. They are destined for higher
men than you but I admire your courage. Without dreams, young man, we are nothing. Aim for the stars and you might reach the sky but don’t over reach yourself in that direction. Those sisters
must marry a man with money and estate and soon, however their heart may be fixed.’

‘But if you could but speak on my behalf to the Squire and tell him I will do exactly as I promised plus mend his walls and see to his broken barns. Perhaps that will help . . .’

The Parson laughed aloud, ‘Oh Matt, go find a farmer’s daughter of your own sort. The Stockdales and the Dacres are stations apart. Don’t be a fool!’

‘Not in my great-grandfather’s day, they were not! Were the families not equals at one time and are we not all equal in the sight of the Lord?’

‘That may be so but I don’t think our Squire sees it in such a light. I will make such delicate inquiries that are befitting for a humble man of the cloth. Better to set your sights
lower and you’ll happen do better for yourself. That is my advice to you, young man. It doesn’t do to stir up the proper order of things. Be content with your station and all will be
well.’

Thus was Matt dismissed and denied hope of furthering his cause with the family, but the Stockdales were by nature a stubborn stock, no quitters in affairs of the heart and he rode back under
the stars all the more determined to woo his heart’s desire whether he had the Squire’s consent or no.

He lay in bed composing the most delicate letter to Miss Mirabel, brim full of all the admiration and praise he could muster, enclosed with a special poem he had invented to plead his cause.
Perhaps if she knew of his regard, she might give him some sign of hope. He asked her if she still kept their secret photograph safe. The missive was delivered in the dead of night and was duly
ignored, lost or undelivered, he knew not which.

Undeterred by the deafening silence, Matt decided that come what may he would set about achieving all that he described to the Parson on that winter’s night. He must rebuild the farmhouse,
expand his empire and further his standing in the district. He would wait like Jacob for his Rachel, seven years if need be until the Dacre resistance crumbled under the force of his love.

As if to deter him further, the two sisters were removed to York for the County season of balls and assemblies. This much was gleaned from servant gossip. This absence spurred him on even more
to set about the monumental task he’d set himself. When they returned to Lawton Hall, Matt Stockdale would not be so easy to ignore.