Author's note: I've wanted to write this story for a long time. It begins in the spring of 1867 on a farm in the Argyll region of Scotland, and concludes in a small town in North Yorkshire, England shortly after the end of the Second World War. I'm going to give this story a T rating for now, but the rating will likely change to M in later chapters.
I don't own a single one of the characters from Downton Abbey. Also, I'm not a historian, and I don't have the time (or indeed, the willpower) to do extensive research on life as it was, and events taking place between the Victorian and post-WWII eras in the United Kingdom. I have done some research to help me put together Elsie's story; but please forgive any historical inaccuracies you might encounter. Thank you!
On the morning of the 26th of September 1945, my eighty-third birthday, I stood in the kitchen of the little whitewashed cottage that had been my home for the last nineteen years, and gazed out the old diamond-pane windows at the torrets of rain coming down on the front garden. From time to time, a great gust of wind blew, flattening the overgrown crowns of the elms in the hedgerow at the far end of the garden.
The wind howled and sighed in turn and sent leaves and twigs from the hedgerow flying over the piece of mossy turf the cottage sat on. A small branch from a nearby oak came crashing down onto the hedgerow. Lost in thought, I watched dispassionately as a robin burst from the sodden elms with a disgruntled squawk, disturbed by what had fallen right on top of him; and in my sorry contemplation, I almost missed the girl who suddenly appeared at the garden gate, smiling under the protection of a black umbrella, cradling a bright bouquet of flowers wrapped in newspaper in one arm while she fiddled with the gate's latch, which was in dire need of oiling, and as hard to budge as the fingers of a corpse.
At once I put the kettle on for tea and went to open the door for my young friend, whom I was quite delighted to see. ''Sybille, how nice of you to drop by!'' I exclaimed as the girl leaned back over the threshold to shake the heavy raindrops from her umbrella.
''These are for you! Happy birthday, Mrs Carson.'' Sybille put the umbrella in front of the door to dry, and handed me the damp, sprawling bundle of cornflowers, asters, daisies, and dahlias supplemented here and there with sprigs of leaves.
''Oh!'' I drew the girl in for a warm embrace. ''These are absolutely beautiful, Sybille. I thank you. Please, come in and have a cup of tea!''
Sybille hung her coat up on a hook, kicked off her shoes and left them with her umbrella before following me into the kitchen. ''I brought something else for you, too,'' she said, reaching into her coat pocket for a jar of lovely amber-pink stuff her mother had kindly allowed her to take from amongst the rations in their pantry. ''Crabapple jelly.'' She placed the jar on the kitchen table, where I was laying the table for tea, my spirits greatly improved by Sybille's unexpected visit. I put the bouquet of flowers in a many-faceted brown glass vase on a window sill in the kitchen, where it looked very pretty.
''Thank you for the jelly,'' I intoned sincerely. ''Now we have something sweet to have with our tea. You must thank your mother for me. Please, do sit...''
Chapter One: Sheep's Head Stew
Even in late spring, when the fields on either side of the farm were green and edged with banks of snowdrops and the forest brightened by innumerable daffodils, the part of the woods where the lime kilns were was a dismal, haunted place. To make quicklime in those days, limestone had to be crushed and transported to the great kilns, where it was tossed by the shovelful down the blackened brick shafts and then carefully spread by a man wielding a rake in a layer of precise consistency; next came several shovels of locally mined coal, which were spread into an even layer over the limestone, and then more limestone, and so on, until a total of thirty layers of limestone and coal had accumulated in the kilns.
This was back-breaking work that took long to complete. Francis Hughes and his brother, Alfred, along with his brothers-in-law Edward and Arthur, began shoveling the limestone and coal into the kilns early in the day. The men were obliged to work at a relatively slow pace, because it wouldn't do to strain their muscles early in the game, and also because it was essensial to count in the correct number of shovelfuls of material that it took to make each layer in the bottom of the kilns. By evening, less than half of the kiln the Hughes and Baxters were shoveling into was filled; a team of men from a neighbouring farm had worked at filling their kiln just as long, and had made about as much progress.
The men worked until it was too dark to see; then they continued to work by the rich yellow light of lanterns hung up on wooden posts that ringed the kilns for that purpose. There was no moon that night. A crawling breeze, heavy with moisture, made its way over the mouths of the kilns. Francis felt the breeze drag across the back of his neck like fingertips as he shovelled yet another layer of pale limestone into the kiln. He had been working for over twenty hours. Both kilns were nearly full. When it was finally time to light the kilns, Francis and the men of his family would be free to go home. The rest of the men would stay to watch the kilns throughout the night. And on the following night, it would be Francis' and Aflred's and Edward's and Arthur's turn to watch the kilns, which required close attention for every hour of three days and three nights once they started burning.
Though it was close to midnight, Jeanette Hughes stood at the massive oak table in the centre of the lime plaster-walled kitchen, cleaning a sheep's head in the usual way and hummed a tune under her breath. When the head was as clean as it was going to get, she put it into a deep pot waiting on the hot range and poured water over the head until it was just covered. She chopped winter vegetables and added them to the pot with dried thyme and flour to thicken the broth. When the stew came to a boil, she gave it a stir with a wooden spoon and then wiped the table, and the chairs surrounding it, with a wet towel. No doubt the men would want a clean place to eat upon their return.
In the opposite room, Elisabeth, the youngest of Jeanette's sisters, had finished sweeping the floor. ''Do you need some light there?'' she called, oil lamp in hand, perhaps a bit too loudly.
''Hush!'' Jeanette said. ''You'll wake Elsie! No, I don't need any more light, you may put that lamp out...'' She went to take the lamp from Elisabeth, who had gone over to the narrow brass bed in the corner of the room to gaze lovingly at the little girl who had fallen asleep there some hours earlier. Elsie was five and a half years old, and tall for her age; her bare feet, long and skinny as those of a hare, stuck out from underneath the heavy tartan shawl Jeanette had draped over her. The child's curling, light brown hair lay in a fan over the pillow she rested on, partly obscuring the funny, delicate little face that Jeanette was so proud of. Elsie seemed a tiny female replica of her father. She inherited her height and almost elvin features from his side of the family; even her eyes, which were as blue as forget-me-nots in the shade and made more lovely by their long dark lashes, were Francis' own.
''I didn't wake her, Jeanette,'' Elisabeth said quietly. ''The sweet wee bairn. Very soon you'll be having another, and may she be every bit as lovely!''
''She?'' Jeanette ran a hand across her burgeoning belly and winced at the sharp kick of the baby within. ''I hope this one is a boy, and so should you. Our family has far too many women. We'll need boys to help work the farm as my husband and our brothers grow old!''
Elisabeth thought for a moment. ''Rachel has given us Joseph.''
''That's true. But one boy can't manage all the work there is to be done on a farm this size. Besides, I've already got one daughter, and I would like a little boy.''
Elisabeth raised her eyebrows and said gaily, ''God willing, it's a boy, then, for your sake. But I have a feeling that our Elsie will have a sister yowling in her cradle before the month is out. Come have a cup of tea with me, Jeanette. There's no more work to be done, and I'm so weary that I'll be asleep with over there Elsie before I know it.''
The women sat down at the table with their cups of tea as the clock struck twelve, expecting to see the far-off glow of the lanterns Francis and their brothers carried to appear outside the large kitchen windows at any moment. The pot of sheep's head stew simmered gently on the range; it would undoubtedly taste very good to three men who had spent the day doing some of their hardest work as farmers. Jeanette guessed that they had enjoyed their last meal around noon.
''Thank God we're done for tonight,'' Alfred yawned as the men neared the old stone farmhouse. Francis and Arthur murmured in agreement. Their lanterns swung this way and that as they trudged wearily over the uneven ground. The sky was very black above them, causing the stars to shine all the brighter. Francis loved looking at the stars on clear nights. At last the farmhouse came into view, and Francis took an especially bright star winking imperceptibly over the roof of his home to be a good sign. Perhaps this year, 1867, would be a good year.
The previous year had brought his family a great deal of misfortune, beginning with a spring and summer that proved to be unusually cold and wet. The endless bad weather made it impossible to harvest hay. Much of it rotted in the fields, so the livestock hadn't had quite enough to eat the following winter. Elsie had been so ill with a wasting fever that no one could be sure if she would live to see her fifth birthday. Of course the doctor had to be called, and his services, as well as the medicines he perscribed, were costly indeed. Last but not least, one of Francis' horses went lame and couldn't be made to work during the wheat harvest, when a horse was most useful.
Through the kitchen windows a short distance away, Francis could see his wife laying the table with the everyday bone china that had belonged to his mother. Her sister, who would be living with them until she was old enough to marry, stood facing the range. She must have said something comical, because Jeanette threw her head back in inaudible laughter. A fine trail of smoke floated up from the kitchen chimney. Francis couldn't wait to get inside and sit down for a very late dinner with his family surrounding him.
''Good evening, my dear,'' Jeanette said as she met him at the door. She took one of his large, calloused hands between her own small ones, only a little less roughened, and smiled into his face. As always, Francis was struck by her beauty. Jeanette wore her straight chestnut blonde hair smoothed over her ears and coiled in a shining bun at the nape of her neck secured with a pair of tortoiseshell combs. Her eyes, dark as sloes, sparkled charmingly. Francis raised Jeanette's hand to his lips and held it there for a moment, until she giggled like a girl.
Francis nodded a greeting to his sister-in-law, who was bringing a steaming pot of stew to the table. She nodded in return. He and Jeanette had been married for six years, and Elisabeth had always shared their house. But she and Francis rarely spoke to one another. In fact, she nearly avoided him. Francis didn't like to think that Elisabeth was still shy of him, after all these years; perhaps it was something else? Elisabeth was a strong lass, and industrious! She pulled her weight on the farm, there was no doubt about that, and as the time for Jeanette to give birth drew ever nigh, Elisabeth took on extra tasks in and around the house without being asked. Francis wondered if Elisabeth was aware of her value on the farm. She bustled around the place like a maid hired on trial. Did she fear that Francis and Jeanette would force her off the farm and into a life of servitude amongst strangers if she didn't fairly outwork the both of them?
Francis decided to discuss this thing with Jeanette later. Now, he was weary and felt half-starved. He sank gratefully onto one of the high-backed wooden chairs at the table, and let his wife serve him a large plate of dinner. Arthur spoke a hasty blessing over the food before the men tucked in. There was plenty of stew and new bread to go around. Jeanette and Elisabeth didn't eat, but remained standing attentively in the warmth of the range. Elisabeth held a pitcher of cow's milk, and kept topping up the men's mugs as soon as they were half-empty. Francis drained his mug and held it out to Elisabeth, meaning to look her straight in the eye as she poured out more milk. But Elisabeth seemed to be staring at her feet.
It was very late. Jeanette had managed to move Elsie from the brass bed to her own small rope bed across the room without waking her; Francis had quickly washed and changed for the night and lay on the brass bed with his wife. ''You didn't have to stay awake for me, Jeanette,'' Francis admonished gently after Alfred and Arthur had gone home and Elisabeth disappeared to her attic bedroom without bidding anyone good-night, as was her habit. ''Not when you must rise so but a few hours from now. Why don't you rest for a while in the morning?'' He caressed Jeanette's thin shoulders. ''Ask Elisabeth to do your first chores of the morning. I'm sure she'd be happy to. Your sister looks after you so well.''
Jeanette chuckled softly. ''Aye, that she does. She looks after us all well. But I don't want to take advantage of Elisabeth. The child isn't due for another few weeks. There's plenty to do before the birth, and i'm sure I can do it all.''
''But don't overwork yourself, Jeanette.''
''I will not. I promise.''
''Was Elsie a good girl today?''
''Our Elsie was a good and obedient girl, as she always is. She was a great help with the washing. I had gotten a spot of ink on the cuff of my best blouse. And before I could do anything about it, Elsie said 'Mam, did you know there's nothing better to take ink out of a blouse than milk?' She was off like a shot to find a little milk to soak the spot in!''
Francis said nothing, but he was clearly pleased as his daughter's cleverness. ''And how does the little one?'' he ventured, tentatively touching Jeanette's belly, which felt hard as a stone. Jeanette made a face. ''He kicks and rolls constantly. Sometimes I feel a pain, but I don't think he'll be born just yet.''
''What should we call this one, if it's a son?''
''Oh, I don't know. Should we follow tradition and call him James? After your father?''
''James Hughes has quite a nice ring. And if it's a daughter?''
''I'm not sure. Perhaps we could name her after another one of my sisters.''
''I suppose that leaves us Maryann, Alice, or Rachel.''
''I suppose it does.'' Jeanette said dreamily.
''I like Rachel,'' Francis said. But Jeanette was asleep and didn't hear him. Though not a sentimental man, Francis was suddenly overcome with emotion. He kissed his wife tenderly on the temple. ''Good night,'' he said, eyes burning with unshed tears. Before sleeping he said a fervent prayer for the safe delivery of his second child, and for the health of his wife; for the health of his little girl; and for the continued soundness and prosperity of the farm he was master of.
Elisabeth Mary Hughes, called Elsie, began her days with the rest of the household well before sunrise. She was expected to wash her face, dress, and venture into the twilit farm yard, holding a lightweight tin lantern in front of her to see by as she tended to the primary needs of the four Shire horses, six Tamworth pigs, eight chickens, two turkeys, two sheepdogs, three mousers, five ducks, two red Dexter cows, and twenty-six Shropshire sheep that constituted their farm. Elsie was proud of her father's farm. She likened it to a great machine like the steam-powered thresher she had seen her father and uncles work during harvest time, in which people and animals interacted much like cogwheels, each one going about the jobs required of them with as little fuss as possible in order to keep the farm operating smoothly. But Elsie had never voiced this way of thinking to anyone, not even her aunt Elisabeth, with whom she was as thick as thieves. She didn't want to be laughed at or called ''odd''.
At the age of five, Elsie had the ability to understand and reason as well as many adults. She was a quiet, self-possessed creature like her mother; and along with his looks, had inherited her father's canniness and way with livestock.
Of all the beasts on the farm, the mousers were Elsie's favourites, and she often sought one out to pet and fuss over when she had a free moment. She had given a name to each of the cats as soon as the idea occurred to her. The black and white female was called Hortensia. The grey tabby was known as Alice. And the heavy, large-boned tom with the rusty eyes and dun-coloured coat as dense as a sheep's fleece was Oliver. He was the least friendly of the cats, and only allowed Elsie to stroke his enormous head if she had scraps to give him.
When Elsie was no more than three, Oliver took it upon himself to teach her an important lesson. Elsie had been standing beside her mother, clinging to her voluminous skirts with a grubby hand while Jeanette hurried with some chore, when she spied the tom sitting placidly in the sun near the chicken house, tail twitching expectantly. Elsie thought he had been watching her. She let go of her mother's skirts and walked purposefully towards the great yellow beastie. She began to pet the cat all over with both hands, wanting to explore every inch of the soft fur. For a few moments, Oliver purred and butted Elsie's stomach with such force that she took a step back. Oliver leaned into Elsie again, making a noise that was a cross between a bird squawking and a bee thrumming. Thus encouraged, the child reached towards the cat, and was sorely disappointed when he turned on his heels and sped off a little ways, stopped abruptly, then affixed Elsie with the same placid expression as before. Elsie crept up to the cat and placed her little arms around him. Oliver purred and twitched his tail some more. Perhaps he didn't expect Elsie to suddenly hoist the upper part of his body into the air, because the next thing Elsie knew, Oliver was hissing and spitting and battering her with his large muddy paws. The attack must have only lasted seconds, but to Elsie, it felt like an eternity. It left her initially in pain from a long threadlike scratch on her cheek, and several more decorating her hands and wrists; but then Elsie felt deep contrition. She realised that she had known, by instinct, that the cat hadn't wanted her to pick him up. But she did it anyway, because her will was stronger than the cat's. And look what had happened. The scratch on her cheek bled; that was the first time Elsie could remember bleeding, the first time she even knew that she could bleed. From that day on, Elsie and Oliver gave one another a wide berth. They feared one another until one day a full year later, when Oliver surprised Elsie by coming out of nowhere and rubbing himself against her legs as she exited the chicken house with an empty feed basket. Elsie accepted the rubbing as Oliver's apology, though she had been in the wrong. Did the cat know no better? Elsie reciprocated by saving scraps for Oliver in a chipped saucer and placing it by the chicken house, where Oliver liked to doze, having learned to respect the wishes of other creatures, or pay the price.
Despite her young age, Elsie had enough sense to surmise that not all creatures might be as forgiving of trespasses as Oliver was.
Carrying feed and water to all the livestock took Elsie the better part of two hours. It was a quite a job for such a little girl. Elsie had been taught to scatter grain to the poultry as a toddler, but her father had only recently deemed her old enough to go near the murky, pungent-smelling stalls in which the docile, gigantic dappled Shire horses were kept to supply them with their meals of hay and mangelwurzels. By the time Elsie had this task out of the way, she felt knackered and almost powerfully hungry. It was time to return to the farmhouse, where Jeanette and Elisabeth had set a vat of porridge to thicken on the range.
''Good morning,'' Elsie said, half out of breath, as she settled into her customary place between Elisabeth and her father at the kitchen table, which was laid for breakfast.
''Good morning, Elsie,'' Francis said brightly, ruffling his daughter's unkept hair. Elsie perked at the small unanticipated show of affection from the father she saw markedly little of. A farmer was a busy man, and Francis seldom had time to spend alongside his daughter. Elsie belonged with the women of the family, learning what women's work on a farm was all about; had she been born a member of the opposite sex, Francis would have undoubtedly found time to get to know her better.
Francis knew next to nothing about children. A man enjoyed himself begetting them, then left them in their mothers' care until they were of an age to be assigned certain responsibilities on the farm. Francis had been suitably torn-faced when his wife had given birth to a girl. No one could blame him. After all, a son was what he needed to one day help with the hardest parts of the farm work. Francis did not exactly love Elsie; he was fond of the child, and valued her cleverness and obedience, traits always welcomed in a farm wife.
Jeanette made her way around the table, ladling porridge into plates and pouring milk and tea for her family before serving herself. Everyone bowed their heads as Francis said grace, and Elsie was pleased to see that Jeanette had added a good quantity of dried currants to the oats.
Breakfast was consumed quickly, leaving little time for chat about the work or weather the day was predicted to bring; Francis intended to meet his brother with the horses and plough a newly clearned piece of land they wanted to sow with wheat, and get plenty more work done besides. In the early afternoon, Francis would come home and rest undisturbed until nightfall, when he, Alfred, Edward, and Arthur went to see how things were coming along at the lime kilns in the forest. There, the men would spend the night awake every hour near the great smoking mouths of the kilns, which were set to burn for the next two days, producing the tons of quicklime needed to ferilise the fields of the few farms in the area.
Elsie helped her mother and aunt clear away the breakfast dishes, which were left to soak in a sawed-off barrel. Then Jeanette declared that now the sun was well up and since it was a warm day, they must open every window in the house to air the rooms, scrub the grime from the stone floors, and disinfect the house against bedbugs.
''And when all that is done,'' Jeanette continued, ''We may as well start mangling the last of the wet bed linens in the laundry room until it's time to prepare dinner...'' The woman made as if to say something else, then grimaced at a sudden sharp pain in her lower back.
Elisabeth was immediatley at Jeanette's side. ''Are you all right?'' she asked in alarm. ''Is it the babe coming?''
''No,'' Jeanette said after a few moments of uneasy silence. ''No, I don't think today's the day.''
''Why don't you lie down?''
''Don't go worrying yourself about me, Elisabeth.'' Jeanette smiled comfortingly and tucked a dark strand of hair behind her sister's ear. But all the colour seemed to have drained from her face. ''Nor you, Elsie.''
Elsie realised that she must have been standing there with her mouth hanging open like a simpleton. Feeling a bit embarrassed, she quickly shut her mouth, swallowed hard, and asked in her smallest voice, ''When will the baby come, Mam?'' Elsie had never actually been told that her mother was going to have a baby, but somehow she wasn't surprised. The birth of a child seemed to be something grown-ups anticipated with hope and trepidation, but rarely spoke of.
''Soon, my dear Elsie,'' was all Jeanette said to answer her daughter's question. ''Soon. Now, look at all the time we've wasted just standing here, let's get to work!''
Elisabeth giggled. ''Let me fix your hair before we get started, Elsie. It looks like the top of a clamp!'' She found her boar's-bristle brush and began to pull it through Elsie's long, fine hair while Jeanette poured turpentine into a bucket and added a double handful of salt to make a cleaning solution that would rid the house of bedbugs. Elisabeth braided her niece's hair down her back and tied it at the end with a strip of bright red wool.
''There,'' she said, patting the braid. ''That's pretty.'' She helped Elsie go around the house and remove the rag rugs from the floors. They carried the rugs outside one by one, shook them free of dust, then draped them over a low stone wall to air. Jeanette stripped the beds and propped the mattresses against the wall so she could carefully scrub the bed frames with the solution of turpentine and salt. Elsie and Elisabeth took the old bed linens to the laundry room. Elsie began to sweep the floor while Elisabeth climbed the stairs to the attic she slept in to strip her own bed and carry the straw-filled mattress downstairs. Elisabeth took over sweeping the floor, and Elsie ran to fill a bucket with water to wash the floors with.
Elsie had often heard her mother say that many hands make light work, and knew it to be the truth. The farmhouse was not small, but two industrious women and a child who wasn't perturbed by hard work managed to clean it from top to bottom in only a few hours. By the time they finished with the house, Elsie had to feed the livestock again, with the exception of the horses, which were still off in the new field with her father and uncle. Jeanette and Elisabeth went ahead with the laundry, and soon enough it was time to make dinner.
The Hughes family subsisted almost entirely on porridge, bread, the potatoes and cabbages they cultivated, apples, sloes and bilberries gleaned in the summer, and mutton from their own Shropshires. An abundance of lambs had been born that spring. Eighteen! After the misfortunes and expenses of the previous year, things finally seemed to be looking up. They were no longer in danger of financial ruin. Nightmares of ending up in the workhouse were a thing of the past. Francis sold a pair of fine lambs to pay off the debt he owed the doctor for his time and trouble when Elsie was so ill last summer. He slaughtered enough of the older sheep to keep his family in meat until harvest time, and the money he got for their fleeces paid for a new pair of boots for Elsie and dress material for Jeanette and Elisabeth.
Jeanette had been preparing another sheep's head stew for her husband to eat his fill of before he set off for a night at the lime kilns. Jeanette showed Elsie how to wash and dry the sheep's head and hold it over an open flame to singe off all the hair. She let Elsie scrub the blackened head and wash it a second time in cold water. With a mallet and cleaver, Jeanette split the head cleanly in two, and extracted the brains with her fingers. She put the brains aside, intending to put them in the stew a minute or so before it was ready to eat. As ever before, she put the sheep's head into a deep pot on the range with winter vegetables and herbs and covered it with water to boil.
Francis had woken from his rest a short time ago. He had slept very well, and expected no trouble in staying awake through the night. He felt secure, content – even happy – as he sat with his copy of The Book of the Farm open upon his knee, though he had stopped reading. Francis regarded the tidy state of the house approvingly. He could hear Jeanette teaching Elsie a few things about cookery in the kitchen. Elisabeth was in the parlour, sewing on baby clothes. He and Alfred had gotten the new field ploughed and sown with wheat, a fine accomplishment, for it meant that they might have surplus grain for the cattle and horses this winter to make up for their lack of fodder the winter before.
Presently Elsie appeared beside him. ''Supper's ready, Da,'' she said shyly, and led him to the table, where another good meal of sheep's head stew, freshly-baked bread, and a pitcher of last year's cider awaited them.
Jeanette lingered in the doorway with her husband a few moments before he had to go. The night was chill and damp, and Francis was wearing the new coat of dark green wool with a burgundy broadcloth lining that Jeanette had recently finished sewing him. Beaming with pride, Jeanette reached up to straighten Francis' collar and the spotted handkerchief knotted at his throat. ''Be well tonight,'' she whispered.
''You, too,'' Francis replied, looking deeply into the woman's dark eyes. He turned to leave, lantern in hand; then, as an after-thought, be turned back, took Jeanette's face in his hands, and drew her towards him for a lengthy kiss.
''You make me a very fortunate man,'' Francis said gruffly, tipping his hat. And with that he was gone. Jeanette remained at the door and watched Francis saunter off into the darkness until she could no longer make out the back of his green coat.
...That was to be the last time Jeanette saw her husband alive. Years later, on her deathbed, surrounded by her four sisters, Jeanette would tell the story of how she had wakened suddenly in the darkest hour of the night, and lay in bed with her heart pounding as the front door swung open with a resounding creak and Francis stood in the doorway, stock-still and staring straight ahead of him.
''Francis, how are you home so early?'' Jeanette asked him, becoming aware of the strange, opressive atmosphere that filled the house. Francis never answered her; he was gone, just like that, having faded into the shadows before Jeanette's eyes.
Jeanette felt the blood drain from her face. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had just seen her husband's fetch. It had not been a dream. The oppresive atmosphere gradually lessened until the house seemed normal again, but Jeanette was reeling in shock. Her first impulse was to hide beneath her quilts like a child; then she was bitterly ashamed of herself for thinking like that. With trembling hands, Jeanette struck a match to light the candle by her bed. She looked sadly at Elsie, who had slept beside her that night, and waited for the sun to come up.
The woods were aglow with lantern light, and veiled in a thick, acrid smoke that hung low over the hell-bright coals within the kiln shafts. The smoke filled the mouths of Francis and Alfred with a foul taste as they panted behind the wet cloth masks they wore as protection against the poisonous vapours. Several yards below, Edward and Arthur stoked the kiln they had been assigned for the night, working to keep the fire burning at a certain height and constant temperature.
This business of making quicklime was the only job a farmer must do that Francis could say he honestly hated. It was tiresome, thirsty work that ruined the health of some men, who died coughing up black blood after years of standing around the mouths of the kiln shafts or feeding the fires below, breathing the noxious fumes into their lungs.
Francis had left his coat in a small tent housing buckets of drinking water that was set up a suitable distance from the kilns, so the water wouldn't become bitter with smoke. He felt hot and cold by turns. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his back, tickling uncomfortably and causing him to shiver. He fairly dreaded the moment when it would be his turn to stoke the kilns alongside Alfred, not only because of the fearsome flurries of sparks that spilled forth at unpredictable intervals and seemed to bore into his hands even through the thick leather gloves he wore, or the throbbing pain that would be left in his shoulders and back for days to come; but because he doubted Alfred would be willing to work as hard as he.
Laziness was Alfred Hughes' only vice. He, the son of a farmer, should have known the importance of getting a job done right. But for as far back as Francis could remember, his brother had been one to leave chores unfinished, and be careless in his treatment of the livestock; and when it was time to make quicklime for the fields, Alfred never shovelled quite as much coal and limestone as his brothers, or delivered enough fuel to satisfy the kilns. Instead, he took a great many breaks in the work, running off to have a drink of water every other minute. When their father was still alive, he had beaten Alfred savagely with a walking cane for his apathy. But the beatings had done little to improve Alfred's work ethic.
Tonight, Francis resolved to eye his brother like a falcon and put up with none of his nonsense. Upon their father's death, they had become co-owners of the farm, which in its heyday had been large and of reasonable affluence, holding twice as many sheep and several more cows, as it mostly functioned as a dairy farm. But all good things must come to an end: four consecutive years of too much rain laid waste to the crops and forced Francis' father to sell a quarter of his sheep to keep the remaining beasts in grain. Then both of Francis' parents were fallen upon by phthisis and were dead within months of one another. To pay for the funerals, Francis and Alfred had no choice but to kill or get rid of all but a scattering of the livestock left over from the last auction. At this time, Francis was in his thirtieth year. He and Alfred tried for some time to run the farm on their own; but two men could never do all there was to be done at home and in the fields, and their workload increased after the hired hands had to be let go because there was no money to pay their wages. Soon Francis found himself in want of a wife to help him manage things. He remembered Jeanette Baxter, a distant relative of his mother's who came from a farming family herself, and knew the life. Francis courted her for only a year before she agreed to marry him, a true godsend, for Jeanette made a thrifty and diligent wife who was equally responsible for bringing his father's farm back to some of its former glory. By the time their first child was born, Francis and Jeanette had ceased to scrape by, and lived in average comfort.
Ideally, Alfred would have followed his brother's example and sought a partner of his own. There was a small white house on the farm grounds with a sound thatch roof that would have made a fine place to bring a wife home to. But Alfred chose to occupy that house alone. When Jeanette's father died and Edward took over his farm and sent Elisabeth to live with them, Francis hoped that Alfred would grow fond of the girl and marry her when she was older. But now he doubted that any such thing would come to pass; Elisabeth seemed in no hurry to find a man, preferring to stay close to Jeanette and Elsie, whom she loved dearly.
''Did you see that man over there?'' Alfred remarked, pointing over his shoulder.
''Who?'' Francis replied sharply, casting his eyes the way his brother had pointed. He couldn't see clearly with so much smoke in the air. After straining to make out the figure of whomever Alfred was speaking of, Francis became annoyed at Alfred for distracting him from overlooking the kiln. ''There isn't anyone there!''
''Someone is there. It looks like a beggar. Should we send him on his way?''
Francis knew that beggars often roamed the countryside and liked to camp near the kilns if they were lit, hoping to warm their weary bones and perhaps beg a little bread from those tending them. Francis could see who Alfred was talking about now; a rather emanciated old man wearing several layers of rags which appeared to have been drug through a marsh was curled not a yard away from the opposite edge of the smoking shaft, sleeping or dead.
''We can't leave him so close to the shaft,'' Francis stated. ''What if the fumes muddle his head, and he tumbles down into the flames?'' He had heard of such things happening to beggars.
''You're right. Why don't we go over there and make him move?''
The men came around the shaft, and Alfred called out to the beggar: ''Ho! You! Do you live?''
The beggar lay silent and still. Francis and Alfred waited for the beggar to give some indication that he had heard them, but he never said a word.
''You can't stay here while we work,'' Francis told him. ''We haven't got a thing to give you. Kindly pick yourself up and leave.''
''Not dead, are you?'' Alfred snapped his fingers a couple of times close to the beggar's ear and then nudged hard in the back. No response. ''I think he is dead,'' he said to Francis. ''What a shame.''
Francis agreed that the beggar was dead; he felt stone-cold through his worn rags and didn't seem to be breathing. ''We'll have to find a place to lay the body out, and send for the vicar in the morning to say his last rites.''
''Right. Shall I go down there and tell the others about this? They'll be calling us to stoke the fires soon enough.''
''Go on down,'' Francis said. ''I'll move the old man. He can't weigh much.''
Alfred descended the rough-hewn stone stairs that led to the large furnaces where Edward and Arthur were hard at work. He felt light-headed and almost sick to his stomach; coal smoke always made him feel that way. He took several deep breaths to clear his head, but on the last one something caught in his throat, and Alfred began to cough violently. He couldn't stop coughing for the longest time, and in the end he was left breathless and weak. Edward met him at the bottom of the stairs, concern evident on his face. He hadn't liked the sound of that cough. He handed Alfred a dented tin cup filled to the brim with lukewarm water and made him drink every drop before showing the younger man how to properly fan the furnace to keep the raging fire within from losing too much heat.
''There's a beggar up there by the shaft,'' Alfred rasped, accepting another cup of water and, instead of drinking it, poured it over his head. ''He's dead. Francis is going to lay him out.''
''Pity,'' Arthur muttered, tossing a couple lumps of coal into the furnace.
''Listen, what's that noise?'' Edward said, craning his neck to look upwards. ''Francis,'' he called, ''What's going on up there?''
It was somewhat difficult to hear over the mad crackling of the fire. Edward, Arthur, and Alfred could just make out what sounded for all the world like a scuffle taking place. Someone above them cried out sharply, and another person grunted in pain or exertion.
A man was shouting, ''Help – help – ''
''Alfred, did you say that beggar was dead?'' Edward asked alarmedly, starting up the stairs. Arthur followed him, leaving Alfred to fan the furnace. It was then that Alfred heard the screams. The terrible, terrible screams – and terrible is too small a word for them – that he would remember every rise and fall of for the rest of his life. Alfred became petrified with fear, which gave way to confusion, and then a rush of adrenaline as he dropped his fan and hurried up the stairs to the highest reaches of the kilns, where Arthur had begun to howl like a madman.
''Alfred! Edward! God in heaven!'' Arthur's wretched wail attracted the team of hired men who were tending to the other kiln a short distance away. Most of them came running to see what was wrong. Edward and Alfred got up the stairs just in time to see Arthur standing over the beggar, who was laying on the ground in quite a different place than before, clutching a knife in his right hand, which was totally red with blood. There was blood on both of Arthur's hands, and plenty more in great swaths across the front of his rumpled broadcloth shirt. Arthur was in a state of shock. He moved his mouth as if to speak, but could not. He turned helplessly to face Alfred and his brother, and upon seeing their bewildered expressions, began to shake, as the unbelievable thing he had just witnessed slowly sank in.
Edward was the first to find his voice. ''What happened here? Where is Francis?''
Arthur dropped his knife on the ground, where it struck a stone with a metallic sound. He put his arms around himself in an effort to stop shaking, to no avail, and stared out at the gaping mouth of the kiln shaft, from which less smoke was rising.
''What are you louses doing?'' one of the hired men growled. ''You're letting your fires go out! Why? Do you want to ruin the whole lot – ?''
''The beggar leapt on Francis,'' Arthur cried loudly enough for everyone to hear. ''I saw Francis trying to help him up from the ground. He'd been dangerously close to our shaft. Francis was trying to help him. But he attacked Francis, and Francis fell...There was nothing I could do. I killed the beggar, because he made Francis fall.''
Then Edward and Alfred, as well as all the other men, understood what had happened. Alfred understood...He had just heard a man screaming, and thought that perhaps the beggar hadn't been dead after all and didn't want to be moved. But the nightmarish screams had belonged to his own brother, who was dead now. Burned alive at the bottom of a lime kiln. He could hardly believe it. No, he couldn't believe it, unless he saw whatever was left of Francis with his own eyes.
Alfred headed for the kiln shaft as the hired men shouted and swore excitedly amongst themselves. A couple of them ran downhill to build up the fires before the kiln lost too much temperature. Whatever terrible thing had just happened, the process by which quicklime was made must not be interrupted. The farmers' fields, and their livelihoods, depended on it. ''Don't go there, lad.'' Alfred heard Edward's voice as if from a million miles away. He stopped at the edge of the kiln and peered down. The smoke cleared unexpectedly with a shift in the wind, and Alfred beheld a shining, blackened form held aloft by dimly glowing coals, vaguely recognizable as a human being. Francis' eyes, seared white by the heat of the coals, bulged from their sockets. His skull was steaked with ash and looked fragile as a quail's egg. His mouth hung open in a silent scream of the worst agony. His clothes had burst into flame immediately upon contact with the coals, and blackened shreds of fabric smouldered in the places where they still clung to the charred corpse.
There was no retrieving Francis from the shaft. The kiln would remain lit, and what little was left of Francis would be consumed by the flames, and in days to come raked with the quicklime over the fields of nearby farms, including his own, to neutralise the acidic soil so wheat and hay would stand a better chance.
To be continued. Please, review and give me some constructive criticism! I love to write, but I'm a total amateur, I don't have the time to edit this chapter as much as it needs, and I realise that this chapter has stiff-sounding dialogue, and several rather weak spots. I just didn't know how to fix them. I would have also liked to conclude this chapter in a better place, but I didn't know how to do that. Hopefully Chapter Two will be a lot better.