Lady in the Veil Read online

  ‘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.

  3

  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.

  ‘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.

  4

  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.