Chapter Fourteen #2
She set the teapot on the table. “I have that, Sir Henry, and glad I am that I do. A fine hard-working husband too. You’ll not find another tenant so hard-working as my Herbert.
” She chuckled. “But he’s not averse to our John getting the education he should.
Nor our Bartie, the one who’s at the grammar school.
Sir Geoffrey paid the fees for him. Said he was a boy that needed nurturing so he could better himself.
” Despite the pride in her voice, he also sensed a certain wariness.
She must be worrying that young Bartie’s grammar school fees would no longer be being paid.
Harry nodded, absurdly pleased at coming across something he could do for the family so easily.
“And I will continue with that, of course. I hope that in time he might be indentured to an accountant or solicitor, if that is what you and he, and his father, wish. You have my full support in this. I very much approve of the betterment of the young. Once he’s had his education, we should see about finding him a good position—perhaps in the estate office if he would like.
I find I could do with a good estate manager, as I’m not accustomed to dealing with the day to day the ownership of the Hall entails. ”
Mrs. Bannerman’s homely smile grew even wider. “Thank you kindly for your generosity, Sir Henry. But what he’d like to do, is become a doctor.”
“An admirable ambition,” Miranda said. “And Sir Henry is ideally situated to help him in his ambition, for he is himself a doctor. A military doctor.” She paused. “He served at Waterloo.”
Unbidden, Harry’s thoughts flashed back to the battlefield, to the young men lying dying in the mud, to the conglomeration of infernal noise—the thunder of the guns, the crack of carbines, the cries of men and horses alike.
The stink of gunpowder was in his nostrils, the cloying smell of blood and ruptured intestines of man and animals.
“Harry?” A gentle hand shook his arm.
He came back to the present with a jolt, aware of sweat springing out down his back and across his forehead.
Miranda was looking at him in concern and Mrs. Bannerman was on her feet, one hand to her mouth, eyes wide with shock.
“Harry?” Miranda asked again.
He dragged himself back from that faraway and long-gone battle. Gone, but not forgotten. No, never forgotten. “It’s all right,” he managed, aware that his voice was shaking and unable to do anything about it. “I…I was just remembering something.”
Mrs. Bannerman pushed a teacup towards him, the steam from it rising. “Nothing good, if you ask me. I’ve put a few spoons of sugar in that. Best thing for an upset like this. You look like you’ve had a nasty shock. You drink it down, lad. You’ll soon feel better.”
Her round face was creased with concern, and embarrassment at showing himself up so badly washed over Harry. He made an attempt to pick up the cup, but he was shaking so much he failed miserably in the endeavor.
Miranda’s hand came out and covered his, quelling the shake. “Take a few minutes to settle your mind,” she said, her voice gentle and calm, her fingers resting lightly on his pulse. “Your heart is pounding. Whatever you were remembering cannot have been pleasant.”
He nodded and managed a weak smile. “It wasn’t.”
Mrs. Bannerman, motherly and concerned, put a solid hand on his shoulder. “I’ve some Cattern cakes just out of the oven. Pardon me for saying so, Sir Henry, but you feels like you need meat on your bones.”
“Cattern cakes?” Harry glanced at Miranda in enquiry.
“Cakes made for St Catherine’s feast day, which isn’t actually until the twenty-fifth of November, but they’re so nice most people make them more often. They’re delicious.”
Mrs. Bannerman put a plate of them in front of Harry. “See they’re like a wheel? Tis supposed to be the wheel St Catherine died on. A Catherine Wheel, so called round here.”
He put out his free hand, annoyed to find it still shaking, and took one. They were still warm and, when he took a cautious bite, quite delicious.
Miranda pushed the teacup towards him again. “Have another try.”
This time he was able to drink his tea without fear of dropping or spilling it. But that didn’t lessen his embarrassment in any way.
However, feeling a little recovered, he smiled at Mrs. Bannerman, determined to leave her with the impression he was fine.
The last thing he wanted was rumors spreading that he was sickly, or touched in the head, or anything worse.
“Excellent cakes. I can see I’ll have to call again on bake day, if you don’t mind. ”
Her laugh held genuine pleasure. “It’ll have to be early, or my little ones will’ve eaten them all before you get here.” And she passed one broken in half to the two little girls.
Harry finished the cake and drank a second cup of tea, mainly out of a desire to illustrate that he was back to normal.
Only he wasn’t. He was angry with himself.
Why had that had to happen when he was out instead of in the privacy of his own home?
What would Mrs. Bannerman be thinking of him?
Miranda, too. He drained the cup, the tea at least soothing.
Time to go, though, before anything else untoward happened.
“I’m very pleased to have met you, Mrs. Bannerman, and your children.
And I’m glad to be able to inform you that I have no wish to change anything about your tenancy.
Unless, of course, there’s anything you and your husband might wish to raise?
You’re welcome to think about it and come and see me at the Hall if you’re discontented about anything. ”
Her relieved smile told him everything. She must, of course, have been worrying about a new man taking over and wanting to raise the rent she and her husband paid for their farm.
“I’ll have a word with Mr. Bannerman when he comes home tonight, Sir Henry.
When he’s at the ploughing he always takes a clanger with him.
Saves him having to bring the horses home at midday. ”
Harry looked for help from Miranda, an eyebrow raised.
She chuckled. “A pastry with meat at one end and something sweet, like apple, at the other. All made as one pie. Very common around here although I must admit I’ve never tried one.”
“Your lasses have,” Mrs. Bannerman said with pride. “Often round here asking for one, they are, though not so often since their father died.”
Harry stood up, acutely aware of the aches in his leg and back and desperately hoping neither would show him up. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Bannerman. And don’t forget. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to come up to the Hall to talk about it.”
She was on her feet as well, and bobbing him another curtsy.
“I’ll tell my Herbert just what you’ve said, but we’re more than happy here with the way everything is, so I doubt you’ll be seeing us until Michaelmas Quarter Day, although that’ll be upon us soon enough.
And thank you again for your generosity towards my boys. ”
Back out in the yard, a chair was provided for Miranda to mount from and Harry, throwing caution to the winds, also made use of it.
His leg was aching with a vengeance now, and the thought of it embarrassingly giving way overcame any worries he had about being thought feeble for not being able to mount without the chair.
Having left her children inside with a few dire threats about behaving in her absence and not going near the fire, Mrs. Bannerman held Lochinvar herself as he mounted.
As he found his other stirrup, she leaned closer, one hand on his saddle.
“Mind you look after yourself, lad.” Her brow furrowed with concern.
“And don’t you forget that any time you’re passing there’ll be a Cattern cake in here for you, or a clanger, or just a cup of tea. ” She winked at him. “Mum’s the word.”
Instinct told Harry that not only did she mean her words, but that what had happened in her house today would go no further. He covered her hand with his for a brief moment. “Thank you, Mrs. Bannerman, I won’t forget your kindness.”
She stepped back and, hands on hips, watched them ride away. At the yard gate, Harry looked over his shoulder and she raised a hand to him.
He made a vow to avoid all talk of the war and doctoring, lest it bring back further bad memories. Mrs. Bannerman might be trustworthy, but others might not be so considerate.
By the time they’d seen Farmer Seth Crawford, his butler’s older, and very similar in appearance, brother, and his wife at Tally Ho Farm, then Mrs. Haddington at Church Farm, and he’d had to dismount and remount two more times, Harry was, to his disgust, exhausted.
“I think we’d best call it a day,” Miranda said as they rode out of the yard at Church Farm, where they’d been pressed to eat a luncheon of pork pie, cheese, pickles and home-made bread.
Mrs. Haddington’s youngest son closed the gate behind them and ran off across the yard, his boots clattering on the cobbles.
“I’m feeling positively drained by all this conversation and having to be nice to everyone.
I haven’t been out to any of the farms since Geoffrey died.
” She glanced across at Harry. He couldn’t miss the concern in her eyes.
“I’m all right,” he said, perhaps a little too abruptly for politeness. “I’m not an invalid, so please don’t treat me as one. Every day my condition is improving.” Anger welled, probably due to his tiredness. “I’m not made of porcelain.”