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Overview
Exmoor, 1800. When farmer’s daughter Peggy Shawe meets the charismatic Ralph Duggan, son of a so-called ‘free trader’, it’s love at first sight. Determined to prevent the match, Peggy’s widowed mother sends her daughter to live with the Duggans for six weeks, believing she will be put off marriage to Ralph when she discovers what life is like among a smuggling family.
Matters take a dramatic turn however when Ralph’s brother Philip is suspected of murder, and Ralph and Philip are despatched to distant relatives across the Atlantic. Heartbroken, Peggy vows to be reunited with her lover one day. But it will be several years before she and Ralph are destined to meet again – and in very different circumstances . . .
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780727894953 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 01/31/2017 |
| Edition description: | Large Print |
| Pages: | 384 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.75(h) x (d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Late Harvest
By Fiona Buckley
Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2016 Fiona BuckleyAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84751-697-8
CHAPTER 1
People Like Us
I was christened Margaret, but I was usually called Peggy, Peggy Shawe, of Foxwell farm on Exmoor. I was a disappointment to my father, who had wanted a son and never got one. I gave considerable trouble, I gather, when I entered the world and afterwards, my mother was never again able to conceive.
Foxwell was – and is – a prosperous place and it was unusual in that we had the freehold. We were not part of the crown lands as most of the Forest of Exmoor was, nor did we belong to any of the other great estates, such as the Luttrell or the Acland lands, but owned our property outright. It went back to some service or other rendered by one of my ancestors to Charles the First during the Civil War between the King and Cromwell. We had been granted the freehold as a reward.
Now, for the first time, there was no son to inherit, only me, a daughter and the only child. Not that my father showed it in any unkind way; indeed, he was careful to see that I had an education. I attended a small school in Exford, our nearest village, about three miles away. It was run by the Reverend Arthur Silcox, an ordained vicar although he had decided to turn to teaching for a living, and his wife Amelia. They were good teachers and did much to widen the horizons of the dozen or so local children, sons and daughters of tradesmen and farmers from round about, who were their pupils. They not only taught us to read, write and add up; they also instructed us in a certain amount of geography and history. They had a globe, showing us where the continents and the various countries were; and we learned something about the products of those distant countries, and the strange beliefs held by the people there. We learned too that we lived on a planet spinning round a sun, and that the stars that studded the sky on clear nights were also suns, far away in space.
And we were told stories about the Egyptians and the Greeks and the Romans, about the Roman emperors and Antony and Cleopatra, and how the barbarians burst in to destroy that ancient world, and how civilization flowered again after the Dark Ages. We learned about William the Conqueror and Queen Elizabeth and Shakespeare, and even read parts of his plays, including Romeo and Juliet and Antony and Cleopatra.
It was a wide education for our district, though not detailed, since most of the pupils would spend their lives tilling the land, serving behind shop counters or simply cleaning the home and raising children, and would have no need of so much knowledge.
Some parents doubted that there was any sense in us learning so many things that would be of no use to us and it was rare for any pupil to stay beyond the age of fourteen, while most were taken out of school at twelve. I enjoyed school and persuaded my father to let me stay until I was fourteen, but after that, he insisted that I left. I was to inherit Foxwell one day, and he had hopes that I would marry a local lad, perhaps a younger son, who would be happy to join me there, and that in due course I would have a son to follow me. He even had a prospective husband in mind for me, though I knew that he would not press me against my will. What he did insist on was that I should now concentrate on learning how to be a farmer's wife – or, if necessary, a farmer in my own right.
He died in January 1800, when I was in my twenty-first year, the result of an accident when his pony slipped on an icy track and threw him, causing him to crash headfirst into a rocky outcrop beside the path. And that is where my tale truly begins.
The day of the funeral wasn't icy though it was cold, with a sharp wind and an iron-grey sky. A sad little procession set out from the farmhouse, bound for the church of St Salwyn, half a mile or so beyond Exford. We used a handcart to transport the coffin. Wheels are often a trial on Exmoor, what with the steep gradients and the frequency of mud, but we had some small carts and wagons at Foxwell, as well as a light trap. However, none of these seemed quite right for a coffin, or for those who accompanied it. Somehow, the handcart for the coffin while the mourners went on foot seemed more respectful. Bearers would take over at the Lychgate and carry the coffin inside 'in a seemly fashion' my mother said.
At least, that was the original idea. In the event, things didn't work out quite that way.
In the lanes through which the bier had to be taken, there were none of the summer's dog roses or foxgloves, only tired grasses and straggling weeds. A considerable crowd set out from Foxwell, for Mr Samuel Shawe was well known locally. People from several farms round about came to us that morning to accompany us to the church. Among them were a gnarled widower, Ned Bright from Marsh Farm, a couple of miles north of us, together with his two grown sons, John and James.
John Bright, one day, would take over the tenancy of Marsh and it was the younger son, James, that my father hoped would in good time marry me. No formal words had ever been spoken, but the understanding was there. James and I were friends, though there was no great passion involved. He was a four-square, tow- headed, blue-eyed lad a couple of years older than I was; I was a brown-haired, brown-eyed wench with a good complexion; both of us types seen often in our district. I had known him all my life. I had shared a bench with him at the Silcox school and because our backgrounds were so alike, I thought of him much as though he were my brother.
It would be a very suitable alliance, however, and the prospect clearly appealed to my father. As I said, he never pressed me, but he did sometimes refer to it in a casual way. I had overheard him once say to my mother, One day, I fancy our Peggy and Jim Bright'll make a match of it; another time, he said to me, Seen aught lately of young Jim from Marsh? Nice lad, that. Make some wench a good husband one day, I shouldn't wonder. A week or two after that, he remarked to me: Saw Mr Bright at the market yesterday; says young Jim's been axin after 'ee. I had never objected. One day, James would no doubt make me a formal proposal and we would be married at St Salwyn's and he would come to live at Foxwell. Everyone would approve. It was a thing that was going to happen, but I had few feelings, let alone emotions, about it.
Our two maids, young Betty Dyer and stout Mrs Page, who was married to our placid middle-aged cowman, Bert Page, did not come to St Salwyn's with us, but stayed behind to put the finishing touches to the hospitality that must be offered when the ritual was all over. Mother and I had made the cold dishes beforehand but the hot dishes required on-the-day attention. Bert Page came with us, however, and helped with the handcart. Bert had a rim of grey beard round his jaw which made him resemble a sailor, but if anyone said so, he replied that he preferred the company of cattle to the hazards of the sea. He had a deep, soothing voice that the cows seemed to like.
Father's closest friend, Mr Josiah Duggan, would be among those meeting us at the church, my mother told me. Mr Duggan was a shipbuilder at Minehead, which was and is a port on the coast about twelve miles away from Foxwell as the crow flew, but a good bit further on horseback.
'He'll have his two boys with him,' Mother said. 'He's got a daughter as well, but she's married on the other side of Somerset.'
'I see,' I said, not very interested. I had only met Mr Duggan senior a few times and then very briefly. In fact, I had only recently come to understand the link between him and Father, although I had long known that Mr Duggan, or sometimes a messenger from him, arrived at Foxwell now and then bringing supplies of brandy and tobacco. I had gradually come to realize that these goods were contraband, and had been smuggled into Minehead by Mr Duggan without paying duty. I also understood that one never talked about these things – just in case a Revenue man should be within earshot.
Other mourners met us as we came into Exford, including Mr Silcox, tall and thin and sympathetic. His wife Amelia had died not long before and his grave face told my mother and me how well he understood our feelings. It was a really big crowd that approached the old bridge that Mr Silcox had once told his pupils was built in the Middle Ages. We should have continued over the bridge and past the big village green and up the hill on the far side, but just as the handcart was about to be trundled on to the bridge, we heard the cry of a hound pack. Everyone stopped, turning their heads.
The hunt was running over the upward sloping fields behind us. An antlered stag was racing ahead, with the hound pack pouring in pursuit. The horsemen came after, pink coats bright, the man in the lead riding a big piebald, striking even at a distance. The rest of the field streamed in the rear, strung out.
'That's be Colonel Danworth's pack from Devon!' James exclaimed. 'I know that patchwork animal in front! That be Colonel Danworth atop 'un!'
Other exclamations followed.
'They'm closin' in ...!'
'They'll get 'un soon ...'
'Poor old Samuel: he'd have loved to be following; he followed the Danworth hounds, he did; not fair, him lying on that there bier ...'
'Let's see the end of it, we can make it on foot, up to where we can see, even if we can't be right there. Let's do it for Samuel ...'
'Vicar won't mind ... follows hounds hisself when he gets the chance ...'
'You won't mind, either, Jenny Shawe – your old man loved the chase ...' That was the gnarled Ned Bright. My mother, looking bemused, said faintly: 'Yes, yes, I know. I don't mind.'
It didn't look as though it mattered much whether anyone minded, the vicar or my mother and certainly not me. The mourners had made their minds up already.
'Samuel, he'd have said yes, go after 'un; I can hear 'un cheerin' us on ...'
'We can leave 'un on 'un's cart, under the shelter of the bank yur; he'll come to no harm ... you'll stop with 'un, maybe, Mr Silcox, seein' as you don't hunt ... you can stop along with Jenny and Peggy here, you can go on to the church and wait; we won't be that long ...'
'Quick, or they'll be out of sight ...'
And it was done. The handcart, complete with the coffin, was pushed close to the bank at the side of the track, and the mourners were gone, running and scrambling up towards the fields, finding their way through hedges and up rabbit tracks, tearing uphill in pursuit of the hunt, aiming to find a vantage point from which they could see the kill. I saw Ned Bright forcefully widen a gap in a hedge and with waving arms beckon John and James to follow him, which they did without a backward glance.
In a few moments, my mother and I were alone with only Mr Silcox and an elderly man, Mr Eastley, who had once been a grocer in Exford but now took his leisure while his son and daughter ran the business.
It was Eastley who said: 'I'll stop yur with the coffin. Mr Silcox, do 'ee take the ladies into my shop. Fire's banked in the parlour at the back; keep 'un warm there.' He cocked an eye towards the receding crowd of mourners. 'My boy and girl be up there with the rest: shut the shop today, we did. Here's my keys.' He pulled them out of a drooping, overused pocket in his fleece- lined coat, thrust them at Mr Silcox, and then from the same capacious pocket tugged out pipe, tobacco and tinderbox and settled himself in the shelter of the hedge, alongside the bier. 'Go on with 'ee now!'
'You can't stop here under that hedge in this cold! You'll catch your death!' protested Mr Silcox.
The retired grocer wrapped his stout coat more firmly round him, yanked his best black hat down almost to his eyebrows and said: 'No, I shan't. Been up at dawn all my life and out in all weathers; we've allus had geese and hens and a pony along of the shop. You'll be the one catching your death, not me. Go on with 'ee now!'
Mr Silcox took the proffered keys, and we went.
The place was empty. We seated ourselves in the back parlour and Mr Silcox, leaning forward to poke the fire back into life, said: 'I was a bit shocked, ladies, seeing the Brights go off like that, without a by your leave. Young James didn't as much as glance your way, Peggy, and you two are supposed to be half engaged! I shall have a word with that young man. He was once a pupil of mine, same as you, and I hoped I'd taught my boys and girls good manners!'
'It's all right,' I said uncomfortably. 'They're like that. We're all like that, suppose. I might have rushed off with them too, only it's my father out there on that cart.'
'We understood,' my mother agreed, warming her hands as the fire responded to Mr Silcox's urging. 'Maybe Samuel is up there, lookin' down on it all and cheering them all on. He'd have done the same, in their place, I've no doubt of it.'
'I was born in Bristol and sent to school in London and then to Oxford,' Mr Silcox said ruefully. 'Maybe I don't fully understand the folk hereabouts. It's as if Exmoor's a different country with its own customs! All the same, good manners are good manners in my opinion and I shall have that word with James – and his father too. If you and James are serious, Peggy, it's time to settle things and today is no bad day to start the process. Your life, and yours, Mrs Shawe, won't be the same now and today is none too soon to think of the future.'
'I dare say you're right,' said my mother. She looked tired and her widow's black didn't suit her. Like me, she had a good complexion, but today, for the first time, it was showing lines, and her eyes were heavy, as though she had cried in the night and perhaps she had. 'But I can't think,' she said. 'Not yet. Not till this is over.'
'No more can I,' I said. 'Later, Mr Silcox. Not today.' I looked at him, meeting his kindly grey eyes, and added: 'I know we'll need help, a man to take charge and give the orders and so on, but somehow I'm not sure I'm quite ready to marry.'
'Ah.' Mr Silcox, much as Mr Eastley had done, pulled out a pipe and tobacco, fished further into his pockets and came up with a piece of paper, which he twisted into a spill and lit from the fire. His face had a reminiscent expression. When his pipe was drawing, he said: 'I can remember, when you were at my school, Peggy, how you used to enjoy hearing the stories I used to tell, about people in times past. It was a way to keep you all interested, to make you understand that in the past, people were still people, like us. Your eyes used to brighten so.'
'Yes,' I said. 'I loved those tales.'
'I know, and I sometimes wonder,' said Mr Silcox, 'if I was wise to fill your heads with them. Because quite often, the men and women whose names have come down to us in stories were not people like us. They were important people, powerful folk. They didn't live like us. They did heroic deeds, fell madly in love and died for love or made wars because of it – I told you of Helen of Troy, didn't I, whose beauty caused men to fight over her? And I told you about Antony and Cleopatra, and how Shakespeare wrote a play about them, and I recall one year, I made my class read through Romeo and Juliet.'
'I remember that,' I said, and for a moment I forgot how sad a day this was and my voice became eager. 'I really did enjoy those tales!'
Mr Silcox shook his head. 'I know; I saw it. But maybe I should have told you then – the real world, the here and now, our world, is nothing like that, young Peggy.'
'I should think not!' said my mother. I had repeated the plot of Romeo and Juliet to her and it hadn't found favour. 'Daft young things,' had been my mother's verdict. 'Life's hard enough and death comes untimely quite often enough as it is; no point in rushing on it headlong all over some dreams about true love. Juliet should have listened to her parents and married Paris. She'd have forgotten Romeo fast enough when she had a baby to rear and a good man to look after them both.'
Now, she said: 'Mr Silcox is right. Today's not the day to talk of such things but quite soon, yes, I think the banns should be called for you and James. All these great love stories be pretty tales enough but not for people like us. Folk like us take what's to hand and suitable and mostly it works out well.'
'I know,' I said soberly. 'I expect I'll feel ready to settle things before too long. My father, having that accident ... it's been a shock, that's all. So much to do, to think about ...'
'The spring is coming. Everyone feels differently in spring!' Mr Silcox said encouragingly.
'We'll have to keep wearing black for a while,' my mother said. 'But for you, Peggy, three months will be enough. You'll leave off your black in April and I'm going to see as you go to the May Day dance here in Exford. James will escort you. And maybe ...'
Her voice tailed off, though the unspoken words were audible to us all. On May Day, perhaps, James would propose and I would accept and there would be an announcement. I tried to imagine it, but it refused to seem real. By some kind of tacit agreement, we began to talk of other things. And eventually, the mourners came back. We went out to join them.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Late Harvest by Fiona Buckley. Copyright © 2016 Fiona Buckley. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Cover,A Selection of Titles by Fiona Buckley From Severn House,
Title Page,
Copyright,
Dedication,
Prologue,
People Like Us,
Recognition,
Dancing in the Spring,
Paying the Devil,
Kingfisher,
Inquest,
Escape,
Leaving It to Nature,
Wearing Away,
Weregild,
Return of the Past,
Storm,
Rockfall,
Perilous Knowledge,
Evading the Law,
No Awaking,
The Exile,
The Only Hope,
A Pale Horse in the Shafts,
Bitter Reunion,
The Sailor Comes Home,
Old Memories,
Midsummer,
The Summons,
The Overdue Reckoning,
Completion,