The Kissing Gate Read online

  PAMELA HAINES

  The Kissing Gate

  FOR CHARLOTTE AND PAUL, LUCY, NICK, HAL, EMILY, WITH MY LOVE.

  Contents

  Prolouge

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Part Two

  Chapter One

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Acknowledgments

  A Note on the Author

  Prologue

  1820

  Sarah Donnelly, thirteen years and three months, and on an errand, walks along the last mile of the road home to Downham. If you can call Downham her home – since really it’s only the place where she works. Hawes is the town where she was brought up and where her Mam lives now (and her Da used to). Her mistress had promised Mam that this, her first post, where she will learn to be a real maid, would be a second home for her. It is in Wensleydale, in Yorkshire – like her real home. But it hasn’t seemed home. Mrs Mumford has too rough a tongue for that, and a heart not quite warm enough to offset it. Today:

  ‘I’ll have two dozen of the eggs, all on ’em to be fresh, still warm if he can and the butter to be packed either side of t’basket and nowt to pay while he’s owing me …’

  Sarah walks. Downham Bridge, humpbacked, is just in sight. The sun is shining on this May afternoon, the first fine day for a week, and a light breeze is making the clouds race. She walks but she’d much rather run: or best of all, skip. But there can be none of that – not with a basket on her arm, and such a precious load. And such possible wrath to come. Just one egg broken would take a lot of explaining. Twice she’s stopped on the way to lift the cloth and see if they’re all right. Except that: just looking at them could break them …

  When I get back, she thought, when I get back, and when I’ve prepared the tea and vegetables and washed the dishes and done the plate and trimmed me lamps, then I’ll maybe … In her tiny cupboard of a room under the eaves, there might be just enough light to make out the words that went with the pictures in her rhyming book. But even if there were, she rather feared she might just yawn and yawn and yawn – and then not remember anything at all till gone half-five in the morning.

  Although she had to be up so early, it was surprising how noisy it often was by the time she came down. Mrs Mumford’s cottage was just next to the ropeworks, in an alley turned off from the market square, on a line with the Castle. They started early enough at the works. She’d often see Samuel Rawson, ‘young Mr Rawson’, come clattering into the yard well before she’d finished her front doorstep. He always passed the time of day – once he even said that she should come in and see how the ropes were made.

  ‘We’ve space for a little lass, and I’ll not let old Marchant tie you in knots …’ But she had never dared to go in – and anyway she was afraid of old Mr Marchant who had a beard like the Giant in Jack the Giant Killer. Young Mr Rawson looked after the whole works: he owned them now, even though ‘old Mr Rawson’, or ‘old Jacob’ as they called him, wasn’t old at all but still a man in his prime. But not so many years ago, after spending no more than five shillings, he had won the largest sum of money she had ever heard of: ten thousand pounds, in the Great Yorkshire Sweepstake. Now old Jacob no longer needed to work, but lived in a fine house he had built, standing in its own grounds off the market square, at the top end. He had called it Almeida House, after the name of the horse.

  It was said that he wasn’t very generous with the money and that he hadn’t given any to his family at all. They said too that he gave himself airs, and fancied himself quite the equal now of the Ingham family (who were really grand people and lived in Downham Abbey and had used to own sugar plantations right the other side of the world …) And the very proof that they lived in the Abbey was that now as she came nearer to the bridge, she could see some of them. Ahead were a plump nursemaid and four children, coming along the path which led from the Abbey to the main road, past the church, which they called the kirk, and past the Kissing Gate (except that it wasn’t really a kissing-gate. Mam had said, when she saw it: ‘That’s never a kissing-gate …’). The nursemaid was carrying the youngest Ingham, a bonneted bundle. A little girl of about seven or eight walked alongside her, while the eldest boy – Charles, they called him – was running ahead of all of them, dressed in a heavy velveteen suit. He had reached the Kissing Gate already.

  Sarah thought he might go through the Gate and into the churchyard – the kirkgarth as she called it – because there were often stray lambs grazing there in the spring. He was certainly up the steps and pulling at the iron bars. But he only gave the Gate a shake, and then ran on.

  He would have to go in that way to get to the kirkgarth, since you weren’t allowed to use the main kirk gate (even though it was much much nearer the town), except on Sundays – or if you were the parson. Mrs Mumford had told her that, so it must be true. If you came into the kirk through the wrong gate, then you were likely soon enough to be carried through the Kissing Gate – in your coffin.

  There were lots of beliefs like that. But the new young vicar, Mr Cuthbert, he mustn’t think very much of them, for only last Sunday he’d given a very stern sermon about what he called ‘the evils of superstition’. Mrs Mumford didn’t suppose anyone would pay much attention… ‘He’s from a university,’ she said. ‘What’ll he know?’

  Sarah had to go with the Mumfords every time they went to church. That was why she was able now to recognize the Inghams: they had their own box pew in church, up some steps, so that once they were inside you could not see what they were doing. She often imagined them pulling faces at the dreadful scraping noise which George Mumford made on his
violin when he played with the musicians. She liked the look of Squire Ingham – he was what she imagined a squire should be, large and jolly and kindly-looking (although she knew she’d be quite terrified if he should actually speak to her…). Mrs Ingham was said to be very weak and delicate and was at this moment still very ill from the latest baby.

  Sarah could see that carrying this baby was what was making it difficult for the nursemaid to keep up. The little girl was ahead as well, although not very much. Besides the baby, the nurse had also a little boy in a red frock, pulling at her skirts. That was George Ingham. Charles was a long way on now – Sarah heard the nurse call for him. But he didn’t answer or even turn round. Only went on running, the Abbey far behind him. Just as the Kissing Gate wasn’t really a kissing-gate, the Abbey wasn’t really an abbey, but rather was the Ingham’s private house, and very splendid indeed. Once though, there had been monks there – they had been famous for breeding white horses. There were some ruins still: the lovely Abbey gateway, but mostly the church – fragments of walls, grave slabs, some stone knights in chain armour …

  She paused a moment – she was right by Downham Bridge now. If she hadn’t the load and the hurry to be back, she’d have liked to linger, watching the swiftly flowing river. After the gales of last week the river was very swollen and had risen to quite a height. She imagined that under the bridge it must have quite covered the mossy stones at the side and the lichen on the arch.

  Charles Ingham had run straight out on to the road now. not looking out at all for carts and carriages. She wondered if he would try to climb the stretch of new drystone wall on the other side. Beyond it the meadow and the river.

  ‘Charles, Master Charles!’ called the nurse. She and her charges had only just reached the Kissing Gate. The girl had fallen back, and was picking some flowers that grew by the edge of the gate.

  Oh, but it all looked so lovely. The Abbey and the river and the bridge all cradled in the hills and the moors. Gentle green in the pastures below, and then above, in the summer, great stretches seeming to hang over. It had been the first lovely thing she’d noticed when, eight months ago now, Mam had brought her over to the terrible interview with Mrs Mumford. Jogging along in the carrier’s cart that day, her heart had lifted when she’d seen the view, and stayed up all the way into Downham. They’d both been afraid that Mrs Mumford would ask questions about her Da (and perhaps not even believe that she had a father). ‘He’s gone back to Ireland,’ Mam had had to admit in the end, but you could see that Mrs Mumford wasn’t at all sure. ‘You can ask in Hawes about John Donnelly.’ Mam had said, proudly…

  ‘Charles, Master Charles, please now!’ Master Charles had climbed the wall and gone right into the meadow. As Sarah began to cross the bridge, she glanced down. He was playing about not on the grass but by the water’s edge. Scrambling among the branches of an alder tree, pushing them aside. That won’t do his fine suit any good, she thought.

  And then – the suddenness of the splash shocked her. For a second – it was only a second – she stood rooted like a tree. Then she glanced quickly the other way. The nursemaid was nearly at the road now. She had seen. Her scream rose. Clutching the baby to her she began to run awkwardly always screaming.

  Sarah moved. She ran back to the other side. She thought quickly: the current will pull him under the bridge. I must … Her legs wouldn’t move fast enough. Down over the flat white stones to the water’s edge. The frothy, angry, swollen river. And then – in.

  She tried to swim, because she could a little – but it wasn’t possible. It was possible only to fight the force of the water, to keep above the brown swirl. If she did not reach him, he would be dashed on to the jagged stones in the centre. She would be dashed on to the jagged stones… The water was a furious torrent now, until – Our Father which art in Heaven, oh thank God – she was near him. Then she was touching him, losing him – clutching at him again, getting hold, grabbing wet velvet.

  She had him. But even as she pulled, he pulled back. He was clinging to her. Trying to drag her. Panicky frantic grabbing. She realized with horror that he might pull her down… His hands were in her hair, her bonnet pulled over one eye. Now he was pushing down on her shoulders.

  Against the rush of the water she fought him. She was swallowing great gulps of liquid. He was unbelievably strong. Only a small child – yet in his deathly fear he was stronger. He shall not – we must – we shall both be lost.

  Then suddenly – so suddenly – it was all right. She felt him go limp against her. Now she could pull him, drag him, swim as best she could – and make for the land. The river’s edge was near, must be near now.

  Seconds after she had stumbled on to the flat boulders, Charles clinging limply to her now, she felt strong arms grasping her. She fell against the stiffness of a man’s coat. Her eyes, sore, buffeted, could hardly see.

  On the other side the nursemaid screamed still, but weakly now, from hysterical habit. The other children had joined her. Thin little wails of terror.

  She saw then that the man was young Mr Rawson. Charles had his eyes shut. ‘Is he – ?’ she began.

  ‘He’ll live,’ said Mr Rawson. And indeed Charles, already leaning forward retching violently, a great spout of muddy water, was plainly alive.

  ‘You did well,’ Mr Rawson said. ‘There’d not have been much I could do, time I’d sighted him.’ Then he said to her, ‘Wait there a minute.’

  His trap had stopped just by the bridge. He went and came back with an old blanket and a piece of sacking. First he wrapped up Charles and then Sarah. He placed them both in the trap and then set off at once. They crossed the bridge and then turned right towards the Abbey. When they came up to the Kissing Gate, the nursemaid and her charges were standing there. He took them up too. There was scarcely room. The nurse was whimpering now. Charles was white and still.

  They went through the Abbey gateway and up to the front entrance. Sarah was surprised that he didn’t go round to the back. But bold as could be, and carrying Charles wrapped in the blanket, he was going to the front door. The nursemaid, teeth chattering as if she’d been the one in the water, said to him as she climbed out of the trap:

  ‘I’ll tell the Master – someone’ll tell the Master. You’ve been good…’ She sobbed. ‘It’s Mr Rawson, Mr Samuel Rawson, isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘That’s it,’ he said shortly. ‘But it’s not much I’ve done …’ Then as she had trouble getting the little boy out: ‘On with you, quick sticks … I’ve this little lass here to fetch home.’

  Just then the front door opened. A footman took Charles from his arms. The nursemaid had begun crying again. Mr Rawson came back to Sarah:

  ‘Now we’ll away to the Mumfords,’ he said, ‘when we’ve thanked God.’ He told her as they drove along that she should pray at once, a prayer of thanksgiving that the Lord had saved both their lives. ‘It might not have been,’ he said. ‘A river in full spate – there’s been some luck there – and pluck … Let us pray,’ he said, “‘I will always give thanks unto the Lord: his praise shall ever be in my mouth …”’

  They were already almost at the market square in Downham, when she remembered the eggs.

  ‘I’d a basket –’ she’d begun to shiver. She pulled at his sleeve, ‘My basket – the eggs.’

  ‘What’s that?’ But when she told him he just gave a shake of the reins and said firmly, ‘She can whistle for them, can Mrs Mumford. We’ll not go back. You’re like to have a bad enough chill – if we don’t have you home soon.’

  When they were coming by the market cross, he said: ‘The Squire’ll be wanting to thank you, I don’t doubt …’

  She was shaking still. ‘No. I’d liefer not –’

  ‘Why’s that? You’d have nowt to fear. He’s good with childer, is Squire. Kindly.’ They turned off the square and up towards the alley. ‘And for all he’s a wencher – God forgive him – a fine man …’

  ‘What’s a wencher?’ asked Sarah.


  ‘Aye, well …’ He lifted up his head. ‘“But whoso committeth adultery with a woman lacketh understanding: he that doeth it destroyeth his own soul”, Proverbs six … Aye – well, you’ll not need to know that …’

  At the house he didn’t just set her down but actually carried her in. So that Mrs Mumford, come to the door in her apron, was quite taken by surprise. ‘Whatever next, what’s she done now?’

  Mr Rawson explained. And he made her promise that Sarah should have hot brandy and milk and a seat by the fire and her bed warmed, and no more work that day.

  ‘She did well – very well like. He’ll be more than grateful will Squire.’

  But of course it didn’t work out quite like that. I knew I’d catch it, she thought. She had the hot drink (without the brandy), and even the warming pan in her bed – but she got the reproaches as well.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what I’m to do. Twenty-four eggs the less. And I’d the custards to make. You didn’t take care, did you?’ She warmed to her subject. ‘Didn’t think – not to put them down careful like afore you run in the water. No thought, I don’t doubt… It’ll be the Irish in you. God knows your Mam, she seemed a hardworking, God-fearing Yorkshirewoman. Minding what she’s doing. Except mebbe when she tied herself up with a murphy …’

  But that’s not fair, Sarah thought later. All I want is my Da back. (And certainly her Mam did …) There seemed always someone to be rude about him – almost as if there were something bad about being Irish. Maybe some of them that came over in summertime, to help bring in the hay, maybe some of them weren’t as good as others. But Mam, when she’d been a girl on the farm in West Burton – not so far from here – and had used to take out pints of beer to them in the fields, she said they were all, or almost all, fine fellows. A bit rough maybe, but her Da he’d been the best, and the one that sang and danced like none of the others.

  So Mam had ended up keeping company with him, although her father hadn’t been at all pleased, Mam said. The next summer he’d come back, and this time he stayed on in Yorkshire so they could be wed. Her family had been very angry, and wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Sarah had never seen any of them. Da had got work helping build the drystone walls they were putting up all over the Dales, to divide off what used to be common land (Enclosure they called it. It was the law). Sometimes he had to travel with the work, but not too far.