Authors: Leah Fleming
‘Eliza? Listen to me for once,’ she tapped on her door. ‘How would you like to go home and spend the rest of your life sewing a fine seam, making samplers and silk pictures?
Open the door and hear me out. I’ve got a brilliant idea. Eliza?’
Matt was up on the roof of his new extension inspecting the slate and the lead flashings, checking that the hired mason had finished everything to his specification. His mother
stood back scratching her head at all the mess cluttering the yard. ‘You’ll beggar us ’ere long with all this nonsense. Three of us will be rattling around in this empty barn; the
laughing stock of the dale, you are, with your fancy notions!’
‘Have faith, Mam. I know what I’m about. The calamine mine is not exhausted and the lead seam’s brought us in good brass. I said I’d make us a fine homestead and
that’s what I’m doing,’ he shouted down as she shook her head and walked away. His next visitor had him down the ladder in seconds. Parson Simcock was striding past the farm,
stretching his legs in the bright sunshine. He waved to his protégé to come down.
‘You’ve done a fine job, young Stockdale, but I fear all to no avail,’ he whispered. ‘I have kept my ear to the ground on your behalf, as I promised but the news is not
good.’
‘Miss Mirabel’s betrothed in York?’ Matt whispered, his heart leaping at this terrible news.
‘No, worse, I fear. There has been sickness in the family. The aunt is gone and the sisters are near unto death, the Squire fears. He awaits news daily,’ said the Parson.
‘What can I do?’ Matt cried, stunned that his dreams had crashed like slates from his new roof.
‘We can do nothing but pray for their safe recovery. The Squire has taken to his bed with a bottle, blaming himself for sending them so far from home. I told him matters were in Higher
hands than ours now and he threw me out the chamber.’ He bowed his head. ‘Ah well, time is a great healer.’
Matt felt his spirit sink at this unexpected news. There was no hope for him if Mirabel was not in this world. She must live, he cried, and took himself down to Gunnerside to pray for her
recovery. If Mirabel lived he would give her her heart’s desire, come what may. If she was spared, nothing would prevent him from making her his bride. ‘Live, my lovely one!’ he
cried into the water. Her portrait lay under his pillow every night.
Into the dark damp recesses of the Foss, he gazed down at the tumbling spray. He sat there until it grew dark, praying she was still alive. There must be hope and to this end he must continue
his good works, set about his rebuilding with renewed vigour. It would have to sustain him for many a month more.
The news of Eliza Dacre’s death was all over the village. It was carried from Lawton Hall servants to all who would hear. Poor Miss Mirabel was distraught and not fit for travel, refusing
to let her own father attend the funeral for fear of bringing more sickness home to the village. ‘She’s a broken woman and much weakened by these sufferings,’ whispered the
Parson. ‘I fear she’ll be much changed by sorrow and needs to be left to recover when she returns among us. I don’t want to hear of you pestering her. Be patient, young man. Time
is a great healer.’
How could he be patient when she would soon be living only a few miles down the valley? How he longed to comfort her and see her beautiful face once more, watch her galloping across the fells,
but first he must write a letter of condolence in his best copperplate handwriting, hoping against hope for a reply this time. Now was the time to make the final assault on the farmhouse
renovations.
The Parson restrained every sign of his eagerness to make contact with the family, saying he must make no demands but prepare the ground for his proposal only after many months of mourning had
passed and it was seemly. There had been another set-back for the Squire when the Skelsby District Bank in which he was a partner overstretched itself in some railway venture and closed its doors.
The Gazette was full of the terrible news and many a good man lost all his capital from this collapse. As a man of honour Barnett Dacre must pay off his debts by selling off land and assets or be
shunned. Suddenly the tables were turned and Matt knew that the moment had arrived to make his bid for happiness.
He chose a fine summer morning to ride his finest horse, in his best apparel, to the front entrance of Lawton Hall and this time he would not be denied access. This time the Squire welcomed him,
if a little hesitantly, into the drawing room. Suffering and disappointment and the effects of strong wine had etched lines on his once handsome face. His reception was cautious but civil.
Matt sat, trying not to be overawed by the sumptuous draperies and dark panelling, the portraits hanging on the walls, the fine porcelain in cabinets making his own efforts at decoration seem
shabby. His longed for dream was coming true but he must be patient. He gave his condolences as best he could, feeling shame that there was the relief that it was Eliza who had died and not his
beloved Mirabel. His courtesies were accepted with a brief nod.
Then it was time to assault the Squire’s ear with all he had achieved over the past year and how the plans for a new wing to Yewbank farmhouse were almost complete. He talked about his
breeding stock and the mineral deposits mined from his moorland. How his calamine ore had been bought by a Bond Street firm for brass making, taken by canal from Gargrave to Leeds and down to
London. Supply was far outstripping demand.
‘It is no secret in this district that I have long since held Miss Mirabel Dacre in high estimation,’ he continued in his best Yorkshire accent, saying that for many years he’d
wished to make his humble affection known. ‘Until now I have felt unable to pursue my suit but I hope in the past years I’ve bridged the gap between our stations in life by honest
endeavour and enterprise.’
‘And now you want to kick a dog when it’s down?’ snapped the old man.
‘Certainly not!’ Matt argued. ‘This is no fly-by-night affectation but a genuine desire to make Miss Mirabel my wife and give her the honour she deserves. I will wed no
other,’ he said with all the conviction he could muster but wondering if he’d gone too far in his enthusiasm, expecting to be shown the door any moment.
‘I like a fellow who knows what he wants, young man. Mirabel is not to be fooled with. She’s all that’s left of my brood and she’s not strong. See for yourself.’
Barnett Dacre pulled the bell summoning his beloved to the room. Matt’s heart was thumping in his chest like a hammer, knowing there must be hope in this gesture.
She came veiled in deepest mourning, sitting down quietly, listening again to his condolences, not saying a word. Mirabel was much altered by suffering, thin to the point of gauntness, shrunken
even, sharper in feature and the lustre was gone from her eyes. In truth there was little of the old Mirabel but that was understandable after the loss of a beloved sister and aunt.
She heard his stuttering offer without a word. Three times he called and three times she sat across from him with her maid sitting in the shadows like some hideous spectre, a reminder of the
smallpox that had robbed the family of its joy but had brought his beloved back safely unmarked.
Nothing now would deter him from beginning his courtship in earnest as she sat with her needlework to the light, counting and recounting stitches but pausing to look up and smile every now and
then, as if remembering he was still in the room.
In the June sunshine he asked her to take a turn around the walled garden. It was high summer and the roses were dripping over the walls in pink profusion, in cascades of blooms with a delicious
scent. Mirabel nodded and rose, getting as far as the door but then she felt faint and had to be revived.
‘Bella will go with you for we need some petals,’ she smiled, not seeing his disappointment.
The maid strode out by his side without a word. She was tall and strong enough but hideously marked. He could see the scars through the veiled netting and turned his gaze away from her,
embarrassed. He didn’t want her to see his pity as they paced the walled garden. He was glad when she fingered and sniffed the roses, collecting them in a basket and then left him standing in
the garden without so much as a by your leave.
Matt was advised that his beloved no longer went riding or attended church because of a weakness in her legs that drained her strength. She had taken up sewing in honour of her dead sister, even
though he recalled as a girl she’d no liking for needlework. How could she sit for hours stitching such fancy work and not get bored? He promised that when they were wed the windows of her
parlour would be full length, facing the sun so she might enjoy the best of the light and view. She nodded with satisfaction but hardly said a word else.
He liked her quiet absorption as she followed her intricate patterns, choosing elegant stitches to paint pictures on canvas, filling in faces and colours in her own unique style. He was so proud
of her gentility, her delicate fingers. She was the beautiful ornament who would grace his new building with nobility and charm. How eager was he now to show off this precious jewel to the whole
world; this pearl without price that he had grafted so long and hard to possess. Soon she would walk down the aisle of St Peter’s to be his bride.
Sometimes when he was struggling with his accounts, trying to balance the mounting expenses, he laid down his pen and sighed that his beloved was not as lively or bright-eyed as he recalled.
Then he chastised himself for being so unfeeling. Had she not been bereaved and sick? It was too early to expect some brightness in her spirit. He took comfort from the Parson’s words. Time
was a great healer. By the time of their marriage the house would be complete and every detail must be to her liking.
He longed for her to show some excitement at the wedding preparations and her new position as his wife. It was hoped that the fresh air and winds of Yewbank would blow away all gloomy thoughts
and she would have everything in the way of fabrics and furnishing, no matter what they cost. Even the bed and its furniture were to be transported from Lawton to Yewbank, everything replicated so
she would feel it was just as it always was.
As he worked tirelessly to this end, he gave thanks that everything he had striven for was coming to fruition! The Dacres seemed relieved when the wedding day was fixed but the Parson was beside
himself that his efforts to play Cupid were not to be rewarded with the grandest wedding the district would have seen for years.
It was agreed that it would be but a simple occasion with few witnesses and a small wedding breakfast. Everyone hoped that the beautiful vistas of Yewbank would lift her spirits away from sad
memories. Her only request was that the maid Bella Carswell must also be her companion.
‘I cannot leave her behind. She took care of me when I was sick and for this she will suffer for the rest of her life.’
How could he refuse the wishes of such a caring soul? It was petty of him to resent Bella’s presence in their home. She would be a reminder to them both of the cruelty of fate so he nodded
to his bride-to-be and briefly glanced at the poor maid, swallowing his disappointment.
‘This can’t go on, Bella! This is madness. It’s gone too far,’ Eliza cried, sitting at her dressing stool and staring into the mirror. It was almost her
wedding day and she was looking terrified seeing Mirabel without her veil.
‘You have to . . . we agreed it was the only way to secure us a future. You have to go through with your side of the bargain. He is quite fooled by you. You’ve done so well,’
Mirabel smiled, but her lips strained at the thought of their deception. Her eyes flitted past the mirror with disgust. The scars were fading but not enough to be seen without a large bonnet and
black veil. Even their own father had not realized their deception. It hurt when he looked through her when she passed him in the yard. It was hard not to run after him and confess all but Eliza
was convincing enough and must take her place as the elder sister. Matt Stockdale would never have looked twice at her little sister but how easily he was fooled now. He saw what he wanted to see
and averted his eyes from Mirabel as if she was invisible.
He was still handsome and full of ambition and when he gazed lovingly at her sister she felt the first stabs of envy. The man really believed it was her and she was touched at how ardently he
had prepared for this day. This deception was not easy to stomach. It was hard trying to behave like a servant in the hall. Mostly she was ignored and given orders. The life below stairs was not to
her liking but Eliza had insisted that her maid slept close by in their old nursery rooms and she meanwhile busied herself trying not to show her ignorance to the other staff who avoided her. Once
or twice she had caught the kitchen staff staring at her proud manner and cultured accent.
Once they had their own house up on the hill, they could live together undisturbed. She hated to deceive Papa who looked so weary of life. How could he not recognize his own daughter? Like Matt,
he too saw only what he wanted to see and servants were invisible.
‘I can’t go through with this wedding. You know I can’t cross the threshold for fear of my life. You know when I see the sky I can’t breathe, my chest tightens and I feel
faint. You can’t make me go to church or I shall die,’ Eliza whined.
‘Only a few more days to go and then we can both live together undisturbed, out of sight, and you can sew to your heart’s delight. I promise then I will be your arms and legs and
messenger. No one will trouble you up there.’
‘But the doctor in York said I had an imbalance of humours and that my womb roams around my body at will. He says the loving touch of a husband will cure me of all fears but I cannot bear
the thought of such touches. You can bleed me like a stuck pig but nothing will induce me to walk down that aisle unaided. We shall have to tell Papa the truth.’ Eliza threw her silks down in
a tantrum. ‘And you can pick them up!’
‘I said I would take care of all that business and I will’ Mirabel said through her teeth. ‘Whatever it takes, but don’t tell Papa. He has enough worries. The house may
have to be sold soon to pay all his debts. No one else will take good care of us. Believe me, this is our best offer.’