Bitter Herbs

  BITTER HERBS

  By Amandine Moxon

  © 2018, Amandine Moxon. Except as provided by the Copyright Act 1956, The Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, Copyright and Related Rights Regulations 2003, and relevant case law interpretations, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Amandine Moxon asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Other books by Amandine Moxon:

  A Merciless Conclusion (available through Amazon)

  Dedicated to the memory of my mother and father

  Contents

  Chapters 1-29

  Footnotes

  Glossary of Shropshire dialect terms

  Acknowledgements

  Bitter Herbs

  Much Wenlock, Saturday 19th September 1829

  Chapter 1

  In the blue skies above the little Shropshire town, swallows were wheeling about the tower and spire *(1) of Holy Trinity church. Some broke away from the main flock to skim across the stubbled fields outside the town, where the very last of the corn was being harvested after a couple of wet months, and some geese were gorging on the spilt grain left by the reapers. Others hawked flies over Mr Edwards’ farm in the town, while one carefree youngster swooped north down the line of Sheinton Street and soared confidently along, until she banked and wheeled back for the sheer joy of flight, skimming low over the productive garden of the curate’s house. There the Reverend Edmund Bredwardine, catching sight of her movement, paused in his task of pruning the cordon pears in his fruit garden to watch her flight with a delighted appreciation of her beauty. He gratefully took the opportunity to ease his back for a moment from a stooping position as he pruned the lowest spurs. As if to persuade him to take a still longer pause for spiritual as well as physical refreshment, a robin immediately engaged his attention by starting to sing above him in a nearby apple tree. It was not the triumphant song of the bird’s spring time pomp, but the wistful little elegy of autumn, the lament for the waning daylight. The swallow and her fellows were gathering in greater numbers daily now on the rooftops of the little town, ready to leave the English shires behind for no one knew whither.*(2) Although it was still early in the Autumn, a perceptible chill was creeping into the air each day once the sun had set and haws and hips were ripening in the hedgerows. As the curate bent back to his task, he observed his maidservant Deborah emerge from the kitchen door of the house with a tall young stranger, who was good-humouredly submitting to her fussing about him. She straightened his neckerchief and smoothed his hair with all the officiousness of an older sister before she pointed out her employer to him. Edmund waited while the young man approached him, glad of the chance to prolong his rest even further from his chore, but the robin fled at the approach of another human.

  “Good day to you,” Edmund said pleasantly as the visitor came up. He noted with approval the lively interest with which the lad looked about him as he made his way across the garden.

  “Good day, reverend,” replied the young man, removing the cap from his head and bowing in acknowledgement.

  “You must be Deborah’s brother.” Edmund gave him an encouraging smile.

  The young man flushed visibly with relief that he was not only expected but welcome. He had worked six extra hours this week to earn the time, with his master’s leave, to walk into town for the interview. He had set out early and waited at his mother’s house for an hour before coming on, to be sure to be true to the appointed time. He pushed away a lock of brown hair which fell over his brow. He had the same lively green eyes as his sister and his smile was engaging.

  “I am, sir. Daniel Morgan is my name. Thank you for seeing me. I’ve come to ask you for a job, Reverend. My sister has told me that you stand in need of a new gardener and odd job man. I believe I could render satisfaction in that line, sir. I have been a gardener’s boy under Mr Savage, the Head Gardener at Lord Ashfield’s manor at Tickwood Hall for ten years now, since I was thirteen. I am young and strong, sir, and am well acquainted with all the yearly tasks of a garden.” He started to enumerate on his fingers, anxious not to forget any of his qualifications that might sway a new master to take a chance on employing him. “I have tended soft fruit, orchard trees and vegetables, sir, and helped in the flower borders, as well as scything the lawn grass and haymaking and trimming hedges. I can raise seedlings right well. I am handy about the place too. I can saw and hew and do simple carpentry. I have a reference here, sir,” said he, passing a paper to Edmund. “It is a letter of commendation from Mr Savage.”

  Edmund liked the lad’s frank and open face, and his manner which, though courteously respectful, was not servile. It was certainly true that he was in need of help in the garden and orchard, since losing his previous gardener in distressing circumstances in the summer*(3), which was why he was engaged on his current pruning task. Edmund was a conscientious and hardworking curate. As well as taking all services in the parish church, he conveyed communion to the sick when needful and visited every far corner of his extensive parish regularly, to dispense spiritual comfort to his parishioners. He was ever willing also to render what practical help he could, such as providing food and loans or even gifts of money, though not well off himself, to preserve someone from having to seek relief on the parish or face the trials of the workhouse. There was no one to ease his burden of clerical duties for him, since the vicar, the Reverend Enoch Moore, elected to absent himself from the unfashionable parish. Edmund had not been able to find the time to look for another servant, and the saving in wages and board had not been unwelcome to the household economy, but the situation could not continue. He had sometimes felt obliged to neglect the garden over the past few months, to concentrate on his parish work; although he found that the physical exertion often, paradoxically, gave him some useful respite from the spiritual and mental ardours of his daily round, he acknowledged that he must have more help to keep the garden fruitful and in good order, for its produce was important in feeding the mouths of his household, which in addition to himself, consisted of his mother, his Aunt Cecily and his sister Harriet, as well as their maidservants Deborah and Gwen.

  He read the letter of commendation over; it was brief and to the point. Mr Savage praised Daniel’s enthusiasm and intelligent interest in his job, and confirmed the practical experience he had gained and put to good use. Edmund looked up and addressed Daniel again.

  “Your sister will most likely have warned you that I am not in a position to offer you more than your previous wage. In fact your annual wage with us would be ten shillings less than you can earn at Lord Ashfield’s, alas.”

  “Deborah did say that you were…were..” Daniel stumbled for a moment. “As poor as a church mouse” was the actual phrase his sister had used, “but” she had gone on with affection in her voice, “the whole family is that good-‘earted!” Daniel recovered himself and carried on: “always kindly disposed to the poor, sir, because “and here he faltered again, “because you are not rich yourself, nor high and proud, if..if I may be so bold.” He blushed and looked down at his boots, cursing himself for his clumsy speech, convinced that he must have given offence and ruined his chance. He worried too that he might have inadvertently turned this man against his sister by his foolish gabble. Edmund only smiled wryly and handed him back the letter.

  “You only speak the truth, Daniel, when you talk of my lack of riches. I hope too that my motives are not only born of my circumstances, but have a Christian basis, and would remain, should I ever grow rich. However I think I am quite safe from that danger.” His outward smile broadened and he laughed inwardly at the thought. “But why would you wish
to take a cut in wages when you have a good situation already, with a prospect of promotion, I dare say?”

  The young man looked up again with renewed hope at Edmund’s encouraging tone. In his earnestness, he slipped back into the vernacular he had been striving to keep in check during his first approach.

  “I have several reasons, sir,” he said at once, “I love all things about the garden, seeing things grow and come to fruit under my care, keeping all in good heart, so it is my first wish to stay in the calling. But my mother is ailing now, and there is only Deb and me left to look after ‘er. I dunna want to see her go into the poorhouse; it would finish her and I couldna ‘old my head up if that were to ‘appen, sir. If I could find work in the town I could live with her and look after ‘er more, help her with ‘er marketing and chopping the wood, fetching her water and all that. It’s her heart, you see, sir. She runs out of puff that quick these days, and her heart jumps so if she has to walk far, or carry anything ‘eavy. I want to spare her as much as I can. Moving to a job in town would help me manage that. Deborah does what she can but she is ‘ere most of the time and she canna manage the ‘eaviest work.”

  “That being the case,” Daniel went on in great earnestness, “I’d liefer work for a man like you, sir. My sister speaks very fair of you and your ladies, always.” Daniel said no word against his current employer: the squire, Lord Ashfield, was a hard-headed but fair man, and his own immediate supervisor, Mr Savage, was everything he could wish for in a mentor, but the frosty hauteur of Lady Ashfield and her insistence on all the men and boys having to make themselves scarce or, if they could not, turning their faces away when she strolled in the gardens, was galling to a man of spirit. It was not only his sister who praised the curate’s unassuming ways; they were appreciated by most of the townsfolk, the more so as he was gentry, even if impoverished. The only hauteur ever displayed in Edmund’s family came occasionally from his mother and this was considered to be proper family pride, because she was descended from good old stock herself. Moreover it was only displayed judicially to those who “fair got above themselves”, in the opinion of the Wenlockians.

  Daniel went on: “Lastly, sir, I would rather work as the head man than carry on being another gardener’s ‘boy’, be the wages ever so good. Any chance of promotion at Lord Ashfield is a good way off, as Mr Savage is hale and hearty (and long may he be so),” he said with sincerity, “and I wunna the first boy to be taken on, so I would ‘ave to wait my turn.” He hesitated again. “I ‘ope you dunna think me too prideful, sir, about wanting to be my own man. I would always follow your orders to the letter.”

  “No, not at all, Daniel. It shows a proper self-respect in a man to be aware of his own worth. Clearly you feel ready to make your own way. Your wish to help your mother is much to your credit. But tell me, are you thinking of settling down yet? Are you courting?” Edmund was interested to see if the lad had another motivation to stay steady in his application to hard work.

  Again, Daniel blushed. “Well, sir, there is someone I am sweet on, but we are agreed that we must wait and save a good deal first before we can think of marrying. It’s Peggy Clarke, sir, as works for Mr and Mrs Wentnor.”

  “Ah, yes. I know her. A steady, hard-working girl.”

  “Ay, sir, ‘er’s a sensible lass, and as fair as a lily.”

  Edmund made his mind up swiftly.

  “Well, Daniel, I think we may suit one another very well. When could you start work here?”

  “Mr Savage asked for a fortnight’s notice. I should not like to disappoint him in that regard, sir. He has been very good to me.”

  “Yes, that is quite acceptable. So shall we say Monday the 5th of October?”

  “That would be very good, sir”

  “Excellent. Then that is settled. I will see you here at eight o’clock.”

  They shook hands with formal courtesy, both pleased with the outcome of the interview.

  “Now let me show you about the place.” Edmund took off the leather apron he had donned to protect his clothes.

  “Thank you, sir. And afterwards, let me finish your pruning for you and prove to you what I can do.”

  The tour of the compact property did not take long, but Daniel’s interest was unfeigned and he noted with approval Edmund’s proper pride in the health of his fruit trees and the good standard of care the curate had managed to maintain on his own. Tools too were well cleaned, oiled and tidily stored. Daniel felt that he had made the right choice of new master. He fulfilled his promise and finished pruning the cordons swiftly and competently, much to Edmund’s satisfaction. The striking of the church clock recalled the curate to the time.

  “I have to be away on some parish duties, Daniel, but you must take a cup of tea with your sister before you go. I think I have spied her at least half a dozen times, peeping out to see if you have succeeded. You must satisfy her curiosity at once or she may expire from sheer suspense and then I shall be obliged to look for another servant. It would be hard to find one as good.” Daniel grinned as he looked back and caught sight of his sister ducking away from the casement.

  “I will, sir. Thank you again. I am very grateful to you.” They retired indoors where they shook hands once more and parted, Daniel to regale his impatient sister with his success and Edmund to wash his hands and tidy himself before setting out on his parish visits for the day. As he was only going about town, he left his spaniel Judy behind, shutting the door gently on her imploring eyes.

  Chapter 2

  Edmund went first to the house of Mrs Bytheway, whose husband had just died of a tumour of the stomach, to agree the arrangements for the funeral five days hence. He sat with her a while, as it was clear that she welcomed his company.

  “I don’t know what will become of his garden now,” the widow sighed when Edmund expressed his admiration of its beauty. She moved to the window and looked out over the glorious dahlias, still flowering splendidly, in blithe ignorance of their green-fingered master’s passing. She could not bear to think of the garden becoming tangled and overgrown. “You know, Reverend, he spent nearly every waking moment in it. My grandson Ben has helped me lately when he is not at school but he cannot do the heavy work, he’s only ten, and when he gets big enough he will be off to work himself.” She started to sob into her handkerchief. She could not help it. Her husband had striven to hide the critical nature of his illness from her until it was too evident for further concealment and she could hardly decide whether to regard this well-meaning deception as an act of love or to resent it as something cruel, but even as she struggled with this conflict of emotions, she felt very strongly that to neglect the garden would be a betrayal. Edmund understood her dismay all too easily, having been forced to face a similar, albeit far less heart-rending, dilemma himself recently.

  “I think you must resign yourself to having the garden less immaculate than when your good man was here, Mrs Bytheway,” replied Edmund, gently, “but I am sure some of your neighbours would lend a hand with the digging and pruning. I would be happy to ask them, if they do not volunteer themselves, as I fully expect they will. With Ben’s help and theirs, you could keep it looking well enough for the time being, I think, until some more permanent arrangement can be found, when perhaps you could lease it to someone. As it happens, I have just engaged a new gardener, a capable young man, brother to my maidservant Deborah Morgan. He comes well commended. I would be happy to send him to you from time to time, if it would help, at no cost to you.”

  “Oh, sir, that is very kind of you,” cried the old lady, wiping her eyes. She felt the generosity of the offer keenly.

  “I could send him to you one afternoon a week, perhaps, in the busiest months.”

  “And I would give him his midday meal, sir,” she said eagerly, “it would only be right, sir, for it would lighten your expense in the matter a little, and I must say, it would be company for me, if that doesn’t sound selfish.”

  “That is a very kind thought, Mrs Bythewa
y, though I must ask him about that as he might prefer to eat at his mother’s, you know, as he wishes to lodge with her.”

  “Oh, yes. Mrs Morgan may not want to spare him. She is a widow too.” The old lady looked a little downcast again. She had relished the thought of regular company.

  “I’m sure we can persuade him however; it is well known that you keep an excellent table.” She looked up and beamed at him when he said this, though her eyes were still wet. He was using no flattery to please, for she was a very good cook. Edmund had just enjoyed some fruit cake that rivalled even his mother’s for flavour. He smiled at her and took her hand to bid her farewell, leaving her feeling a little brighter than he had found her.

  He moved onto the house of Mr and Mrs Roden, to arrange the baptism of their child; it was always a congenial task to Edmund to receive another soul into the church. The arrangements for the event to take place a fortnight on Sunday were speedily agreed. Consulting his watch as he left their house, he hurried along to the parish church where he had arranged to meet Mr Wood and his mother, to discuss the size and placing of a memorial to the late Mr Wood Senior within the church. This matter was not so likely to be as easily and amicably resolved as the christening of little Master Roden. Mr Wood and his mother had different views on the scale and economy of the monument to Amos, the paterfamilias, as indeed they had on a great many topics, and Edmund was not looking forward to the conference.

  Thomas Gower, the monumental mason, who had driven in from Bridgnorth, was already waiting in the church porch and greeted the curate pleasantly. He had brought along a small stepladder, and held a roll of paper, an actual-size plan of the design he had made according to his brief from Mr Wood, to hold up against the church wall. Unfortunately the brief had not yet received the approval of the senior Mrs Wood, even though her son was ready to bear all the cost himself, and as it was likely to end up being a memorial to her also in God’s good time, it was in the hope of securing the blessing of the dame, known to be testy and hard to please in most things, that the meeting had been called. Edmund could not share the happy confidence of Mr Gower, who did not know the lady, that he would soon be on his way home, but he chose not to disabuse him of the notion, as he disliked to prejudice him against the lady beforehand.