Replenish the Earth Read online

  Her iron pattens were soon encrusted with mud and who knew what else. Since she didn’t dare spend even a halfpenny on paying one of the urchins to sweep a crossing for her, she picked her own way among the refuse and slops, crossing streets when she could behind some wealthier citizen who could afford to have a path swept clear.

  Impatiently, she waved away the pie seller who accosted her, as well as the hawkers of ballads and newssheets, clasping her purse firmly inside her worn rabbit-fur muff, instead of leaving it hanging by a tape beneath her skirt. Pickpockets were everywhere. It had nearly broken her mother’s heart to be reduced to lodgings in Furness Road.

  After a while, Sarah came to a more respectable area, where the streets were cleaner and people better-dressed. She asked directions from a motherly-looking woman standing in a shop doorway, and so found her way at last to Newbury Square. Wearily she limped round it in the drizzling rain, studying the signs swinging above the doorways.

  When at last she found the Sign of the Quill she didn’t let herself stop to think, but strode immediately up the steps and into the hallway, pushing open the door, anxious to have this humiliation over and done with. She was sure the lawyer would only tell her to go away, sure her uncle would refuse to do anything for her. But she had promised her mother to ask for his help - and she would keep her word.

  Inside was warmth and order, with a cosy fire reflected in the gleaming oak panelling. She pushed her damp hood back and tried to think what to say. An elderly clerk was standing writing at a high, sloping desk by the window. The lad standing at the desk next to him didn’t even raise his eyes from his work, but kept his quill scratching across the paper as if his life depended upon the speed of it. The older man set his quill down on the inkstand and looked questioningly at the newcomer.

  ‘I would like to see Mr Jamieson, please,’ she said firmly. ‘This is his place of business, is it not?’

  ‘Is he expecting you, madam?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid Mr Jamieson cannot see you today. He’s a very busy man. Perhaps you could leave your name and come back next week?’

  She could see his glance straying back to the papers on his desk, so let the anger that had never really subsided since her confrontation with the landlady rise again. ‘My business is urgent. I must see Mr Jamieson today!’

  ‘May I inquire as to the nature of your business, madam?’

  ‘No, you may not!’

  They stood arguing for a while, with the clerk becoming less civil by the minute and Sarah standing her ground. She would carry out her mother’s last wish, and do so today.

  Suddenly, a door on the other side of the room banged open, and a small stout gentleman came storming out. He had on a maroon waistcoat beneath his grey jacket, with grey knee-breeches, and an old-fashioned, full-bottomed wig crowning his rosy face.

  ‘What is all this noise?’ he demanded. ‘Did I not expressly tell you, Pickersleigh, that I was not to be disturbed?’

  Sarah stepped forward before the clerk could speak. ‘Are you Mr Jamieson, sir?’

  ‘I am, madam.’

  ‘Sir, I beg you to grant me a few moments of your time. It’s very important.’

  He frowned at her, then pressed his lips together as if holding back a refusal.

  ‘My name is Mortonby. I . . . ‘ She stopped in bewilderment as the room grew instantly still, even the lad by the window stopping work to gape at her openly.

  ‘Mortonby? Did you say Mortonby?’ Mr Jamieson took a step towards her, his expression eager now.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your mother’s name? Her maiden name?’

  ‘Elizabeth Bedham. But . .. ’

  ‘Aaah!’ Mr Jamieson let out a long exhalation of satisfaction. ‘You have seen our notice, no doubt, madam? The broadsheet?’

  ‘No.’ Sarah was bewildered, the anger ebbing suddenly and a great weariness taking its place.

  ‘Then how did you know we were looking for you?’

  ‘I didn’t, sir. My mother died yesterday. She made me promise to come and see you.’ Sarah’s voice trembled for a moment and she had to fight for self-control.

  His voice became gentler. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, very sorry. But what am I thinking of, keeping you standing here like this? Pickersleigh, send out for a pot of chocolate and some pastries. The lady is wet and chilled, and could use some refreshment, no doubt. Leave your pattens by the door and come this way, my dear Miss Mortonby. I have a fine fire in my room. Dear me, have you hurt your foot?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve been lame since birth.’ She was used to such questions, but he coloured and tried to hide his embarrassment by whisking out a handkerchief and blowing his nose loudly.

  ‘Pray take a seat, ma’am! Pickering, the chocolate, the pastries. At once!’

  Sarah sank into a huge, leather-covered armchair and held her hands out to the blaze, the muff dropping forgotten to the floor. Such an extravagant fire and sea coal four guineas the chaldron this winter! It was a long time since she’d enjoyed such wonderful warmth. ‘Why were you seeking me, sir?’

  ‘First, can you prove who you are? I’m not doubting your word, my dear, but ’twould all be much easier if you could prove your identity. Papers, your mother’s marriage lines, for instance? Anything, really?’

  Her heart sank. ‘My room was ransacked while I was at the funeral. They burned all the papers.’ Perhaps he wouldn’t believe her now.

  ‘Then is there someone who knows you? A clergyman, perhaps, someone who could vouch for your identity?’

  ‘Not a clergyman. We have moved about so much, but,’ her face cleared, ‘would a lawyer do? My father’s lawyer? Mr Peabody has known me all my life. My mother had a small annuity, which he administered.’

  Mr Jamieson beamed at her. ‘Elias Peabody? Sign of the Red Seal, Hotham Gardens?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know him?’

  ‘I am not personally acquainted with the gentleman, but I know of him. His testimony would be quite acceptable. Ho there!’ He sent the young man who answered his call off to find Mr Peabody, then turned to beam at Sarah. ‘My dear lady, it is my pleasure, my very great pleasure, to tell you that if you are indeed Miss Mortonby, you have been left a legacy. Not a great fortune, you understand, but still . . . Miss Mortonby! Oh, my goodness! Pickersleigh, come quickly!’

  For the first time in her life Sarah had fainted clear away.

  She came round to a vile smell and feebly pushed away the burning feather, ruins of a quill, that the clerk was waving under her nose. ‘I’m sorry.’ She tried to sit up straight, but felt distant and dizzy still.

  The outer door banged and the boy came in, staggering under the weight of an enormous tray containing a bulbous pewter chocolate-pot and a platter of sticky pastries.

  Mr Jamieson brightened. ‘There you are at last, Thomas! Put it down there, put it down! Now, my dear Miss Mortonby, I shall pour you some chocolate and you’ll take a pastry, will you not? That’ll make you feel better, I’m sure.’

  This was such a rare treat that Sarah found herself eating and drinking almost as heartily as her host. She wouldn’t now need to spend money on an evening meal . . . but perhaps that didn’t matter any more? The tide of questions could be stemmed no longer.

  ‘A legacy, you said, Mr Jamieson?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Not a fortune, but enough to provide for you in modest comfort, once the house is sold.’

  ‘House! I’ve been left a house?’ she asked, dazed at the prospect. All her life she had lived in rented rooms. The thought of owning a whole house of her own was an astounding idea!

  ‘On certain conditions.’ He regretted the words as soon as he’d spoken them and added hastily, ‘But those conditions need not concern us now.’

  ‘What conditions? Why need they concern us no longer?’ she asked quietly and a little grimly.

  ‘My dear . . . ’

  ‘I insist you tell me.’

  ‘Well, the bequest is fro
m your grandfather and is upon condition you change your name to Bedham and - ’ He hesitated.

  ‘And?’ she prompted.

  ‘And that your mother does not reside in the house with you or - or ever visit it.’

  She said nothing, but he heard the quick intake of breath and leaned forward to say earnestly, ‘He was not a forgiving man, I’m afraid, and he grew quite strange after his son’s death. Sad to say, the only reason you have inherited the house is because there is simply no other family member left.’

  She banished her anger resolutely. No use being angry at a dead man. And at least her mother could no longer be upset by the unkind conditions. ‘He must have been very bitter.’

  ‘Yes. With reason.’

  ‘Whatever the reason for inheriting, it seems like a miracle to me. Tell me about my house, if you please. Where is it and why must it be sold?’

  ‘Well, the house is Broadhurst Manor, of course, your mother’s old home. And it must be sold because it’s been let run to rack and ruin, and is now scarcely habitable. The roof leaks, the place reeks of damp, the gardens are overgrown . . . Oh, it must certainly be sold! And very fortunately, I have a buyer already waiting - indeed, he is pressing for a sale. There is some land, you see, as well as the house. We shall get you a fair price, don’t worry!’

  She leaned forward, her expression eager. ‘But surely the house, or part of it, could be made habitable? Broadhurst has belonged to my mother’s family ever since the Great Queen’s day - Elizabeth, you know.’ She beamed at him, joy flooding through her suddenly. ‘My mother used to tell me all about her home, but I never thought it would belong to me one day, never expected to see it. I - I still can’t quite take it in. Surely it can be restored, at least in part . . . ?’ She looked at him pleadingly.

  ‘I doubt it, my dear. At least, not without great expense, and there is little money to spare until you sell. Mr Sewell is offering a fair price and might even be made to raise it a trifle.’ He smiled at the thought, clearly looking forward to haggling about that.

  ‘And what does this Mr Sewell intend to do with the Manor? Has he the money to restore it?’

  Mr Jamieson sighed and avoided her eyes. ‘I’m afraid he means to pull the house down. It’s the land he wants, you see, to form a deer park. Even the cottages on the estate are to go - well, they’re in poor condition, too, and the people surly. They say a bad landlord makes for bad tenants, do they not? Though it is not your grandfather’s fault they’ve been sore plagued with cattle sickness in the district lately. No, that at least was not his fault. But as a result, some of the tenants have been unable to pay their rents in full for the last few quarters. You mustn’t be thinking yourself a rich woman. There will be very little money until the place is sold, my dear.’

  Sounds in the outer office announced an arrival. Mr Jamieson excused himself and left Sarah to ponder on the news. It was a few moments before he returned, accompanied not only by Mr Peabody, who smiled at her warmly, but also by the young gentleman who had gone to fetch him. Even the clerk, Pickersleigh, came into the room. She felt embarrassed to be the object of their stares.

  ‘This is the lady in question,’ said Mr Jamieson in a formal tone very unlike his former manner. ‘I would be obliged, Mr Peabody, if you would tell us who she is and what you know of her.’

  ‘Her name is Sarah Mortonby and I have known her ever since she was born. I know her mother, too, Elizabeth Mortonby, née Bedham. I administer a small annuity which her husband set up for her soon after they married.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Jamieson in tones of satisfaction. ‘Then I shall call upon you all to witness this due and proper identification.’

  ‘By Jove, yes!’ exclaimed Mr Lorrimer enthusiastically, for he was still young enough to see the romance of it all.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ said Pickersleigh more formally. ‘Shall I prepare the deposition?’

  ‘Naturally. Three copies, I think. No need to make it very long. All quite straightforward. You’ll stay and take some chocolate with us, Mr Peabody?’

  ‘Delighted!’ Mr Peabody eased his ageing bones down carefully into one of the armchairs and nodded to Sarah. ‘How is your mother, my dear?’

  ‘She’s dead. I buried her today.’

  His face fell. ‘Why didn’t you let me know? I would have wished to attend the funeral.’

  Sarah flushed. ‘I - it was a small affair - just myself. I couldn’t afford more.’

  ‘It will be necessary for you to come round to my rooms - when it is convenient, of course. There are certain formalities. And money is owing. One third of a quarter, to be precise.’

  ‘I hadn’t expected - I thought the annuity stopped at my mother’s death.’

  ‘And so it does - but not before her death! We are a full month into this quarter and the interest is accrued monthly, though it is only usually paid out quarterly.’

  Sarah couldn’t prevent herself from sighing in relief. ‘I didn’t know. I thought I was destitute.’

  Her voice quavered on the last word and Mr Jamieson looked across at her anxiously. Was she going to faint again? Poor lady, she must have felt desperate! Imagine a Bedham reduced to such circumstances!

  ‘I, too, have some money for you, my dear,’ he said encouragingly. ‘I have your rents, such as they are, from last year.’

  ‘How much?’ If it was unladylike to ask, Sarah didn’t care.

  ‘I have in hand thirty-two guineas, eleven shillings and sixpence. I’m sorry it isn’t more, but there is some other money outstanding, to be paid as times improve.’

  ‘It seems quite a fortune to me!’

  ‘My dear,’ said Mr Jamieson gently, ‘when we sell, I have every confidence that we shall get more than a thousand guineas for your estate. With such a sum, you will be able to buy a small house somewhere more convenient - Tunbridge Wells, for instance, is a fine healthy town - and then you can invest the rest, hire a maid and live comfortably for the rest of your life. Either Mr Peabody or myself would be happy to advise you on how best to invest your money.’

  Sarah wasn’t really listening to him. ‘My mother often spoke about Broadhurst,’ she murmured in a bemused fashion, ‘though I never thought to see it for myself.’

  ‘But Miss Mortonby, I’ve just told you how it is! I cannot advise you even to visit the place. Let me arrange to sell it and - ’

  ‘Sell it!’ She sat bolt upright and looked him full in the eyes. ‘Sell Broadhurst! Oh, no, Mr Jamieson, I couldn’t sell my mother’s home, not without seeing it first, at least! And if it is at all possible, I should very much like to live there!’

  ‘No, no, no! Believe me, pray believe me, it is not to be thought of! The place is a ruin!’

  ‘It would seem very splendid to me, I’m sure, after Furness Road.’

  He clicked his tongue. ‘Furness Road! Dear me! I hadn’t realised things were so bad. Tch! Tch! We must find you better lodgings immediately. Have you any money left?’

  Sarah laughed, fumbled for the muff and untied the strings of her purse, emptying its contents into her lap. ‘Oh, yes, sir. See - I have six shillings and five pence three farthings.’

  She laughed again at the expressions of sheer horror on the two lawyers’ faces.

  Chapter 2

  Three weeks later Sarah leaned her aching head against the hard back of the stage coach seat and wondered yet again whether she was doing the right thing. For she’d flown in the face of the two lawyers' considered and unanimous advice, and had insisted upon going to inspect her inheritance before she made a final decision about selling it, this in spite of all the warnings and dire prognostications of Mr Jamieson and Mr Peabody about the dangers that faced a lady travelling round the countryside on her own.

  It had been a pleasant few weeks, for it was years since she’d eaten so well and that made her feel in much better health and spirits. She’d watched in the mirror as her face grew daily plumper, her cheeks rosier and her hair shinier.

  Su
ch a pleasure it had been to visit the shops with money in her purse! On one of her early outings she’d spent a delightful hour or two at a linen draper's, choosing the material for two new gowns. That hadn’t really been an extravagance, because she had nothing decent to wear. She looked down at her skirt. Should she have chosen black, out of respect for her mother? No! The dresses would have to last for years and she didn’t want to be in permanent mourning. Her mother would have been the first to agree about that.

  Elizabeth Mortonby had always taken a great interest in clothes and one of her favourite pastimes had been to go out for a stroll in one of the great London parks and watch the fashionable world taking the air. After they got back to their room, her mother would discuss in minute detail what the ladies were wearing and what she would have liked to wear herself.

  Sarah had finally chosen a dark blue calimanco, which she made up herself with a contrasting quilted petticoat in a blue and red figured chintz, which was not only fashionable, but warm. The other material was less sensible, but she assuaged her conscience by telling herself that it had been very reasonably priced and she would wear it only for best. It was a patterned lilac paduasoy, and she made it up into a simple closed gown, which showed off the beauty of the material. She was a good needlewoman and had contrived a modest imitation of the latest London fashions which would have delighted her mother.

  She had also purchased fine lawn for her caps and kerchiefs, cambric for her under-petticoats and bodices and, rather guiltily, some lace, just a little, to trim her caps! And of course she’d visited a good staymaker.

  In addition, she had ordered not one, but two new pairs of shoes from a shoemaker recommended by her new landlady. She wriggled her toes happily inside them at the thought. She’d never had such well-fitting shoes before. The cobbler had built up the sole of the left one very skilfully to reduce her need to limp.

  When the tedious two-day coach journey from London to Poole was at last over, Sarah ate a hearty meal and stayed at the coaching inn overnight. She’d asked about a conveyance to take her to Broadhurst, but was told that the inn’s small carriage wouldn’t be available until later in the morning. It was frustrating, but there was nothing she could do about it.