Fair Robert

CHAPTER ONE

At Old Hayward Farm, on the fertile slopes of the South Downs in West Sussex, the Hayward family had found their normal routine in some disarray since the startling accident on Fields Hill. Such accidents were unusual in this vicinity. They had taken in the injured stranger, because in contrast to the fine society of Georgian London, these rural communities were in the habit of doing their best to help one another, whoever it was.

Margaret, the elder daughter of the house, paused on the panelled landing, listening intently for any indication that she would be discovered here. Relieved by the silence around her, she waited and listened a little longer, until it seemed she would be safe to venture into the sick room in front of her. So far the strict orders forbidding her or any of the women to go inside had kept them away from the unsuitable task of nursing, and water and cloths were replaced by the male members of the household. But Margaret would not be deterred from her curiosity to see the injured stranger who had been housed there for several days. Convinced that his gruesome injuries had been greatly exaggerated and deliberately ignoring her father’s instructions, she gathered her skirts and furtively entered the sick room.

The Haywards were a farming family, well used to the hardships and cruelties nature inflicted on both livestock and people. She wasn’t some young silly girl, to be frightened by bloodied bandages or broken bones, she had retorted indignantly in response to her father’s orders, a fact she meant to prove by this act of flagrant disobedience.

Despite the warning, Margaret was unprepared for the reality of the awful mangled sight she found. Her involuntary piercing scream was accompanied by the clatter of the chair she had bumped into as she automatically stepped back. That, combined with the sound of the bowl being knocked to the floor, shattered the hushed silenced and echoed throughout the house.

The scream had been loud enough to register in the patient’s agonised blackness. Although it was fleeting and soon gone, it was the first thing that had broken that long darkness. How could he know that he had been the cause of that scream?

Confusing sensations battled with his unconsciousness. He could not even open his eyes. He heard nothing except his own laboured breathing. He had lost too much blood and he was too weak to make a sound to the outside world, yet the sudden spikes of pain which shot through him told him he must be alive. He wanted to cry out, to complain. He wanted to stop this burning fire in his head, to tear it out with his bare hands, although he had yet to discover why he could not find his arms to do so. The sensations which identified his limbs remained vague and woolly, without feeling. He did not know if he could move his body or not.

Robert Sutton, for that was his name, had no idea of his grave condition. His head wound was serious. After bathing the matted mess, the local physician had needed to shave off some of his hair before the delicate task of stitching the skin together could start. The dedicated man had attended to him for several hours, having had to stitch the open wound twice with strong gut to stem the bleeding. The deep, ugly gash across the top of his head remained looking little better than it had originally, even when the work had been so carefully completed. His face was already deformed as the patches of raw skin highlighted a black and yellow swelling which began to close one eye in particular to the narrowest of slits.

Robert had obviously been battered and bruised all over, with chunks of bone chipped from other parts of him, his elbow and shoulder in particular. Yet for ages he understood nothing of this, except to wince with every application of the salve to his injuries, despite its rapid coolness soothing the pain. His body did not seem to belong to him. It had now gained a heaviness and every effort of movement brought perspiration to his face.

Gradually, through his blurred vision, he became aware of the figures which came and went, tending to his tortured frame. He had tried to understand their words, but they merely echoed in his head, making little sense, as he battled a spinning sensation and a sickness in his throat.

It had taken time to restore his jumbled mind into any conception of the normal. He had to establish what was real, what was important. What could he remember – anything? His name – yes. His home - yes, just. What else? There were alarming flashes of memory; the thundering, creaking sounds of the wagon hurling down the lane; his horse startled and unseating him, before it took flight. The heavy wagon had bounced him against the wall, the force of the rebound sending him straight back into the path of the rear wheels, where crunching pain was followed by total darkness.

Although still unable to lift his head up or speak, gradually Robert began to recognise his generous host, who visited him every day with a few words of encouragement while his dressings were attended to. He would hear young children creep along the landing outside, to risk taking a sneaking look from the doorway before sharing a whisper and giggle, and then running off as some adult came by. He could hear the sounds of the family about their normal routines which softly drifted from the various rooms throughout the day. They seemed to have the same relaxing, contented, warm atmosphere of his own home, a home he missed and suddenly longed for.

It was a farm with orchards, on the southern slopes of the North Downs, where his uncle and aunt had cared for him and his baby sister ever since the fever had taken their parents and their other sister, over eighteen years ago. The familiar red brick house where they would always be waiting for him, eager for his return and his news. He suddenly felt very melancholy, wishing he could be there with them, to tease his sister, to pat the hounds, to be able to hold them all. He sighed a long deep sigh, letting all his breath out to softly echo around the empty room.

Margaret had been duly scolded, given extra tasks and kept under her mother’s scrutiny after her escapade. Then after a few weeks when their injured guest had shown some improvement and the physical nursing duties became less arduous, she had deliberately been given, as a punishment, the tedious task of fetching and carrying various trays and bowls to the young man’s room. Not that she minded, because she was curious to see how he fared. He still seemed exhausted and slept a lot, but that was not unexpected after what he had endured.

That evening she waited until her father had left the room before entering to clear the small tray from the table. She paused to study his face once more as she often did. His eyes were half closed as usual, as if he was somewhere else.

I wish I knew who you were, she whispered quietly, bending down to the tray. Like the rest of the family she had assumed he was one of the many itinerant travellers who had been driven across the country looking for work, but it would be so much more exciting to discover he was something different.

Startled by her words, Robert opened his eyes to look at her. He had become used to the women gliding softly in and out of the room, completing various tasks and leaving him to recover in the peace he obviously needed. He had never expected one of them to speak to him. But he had neither the energy nor the inclination to reply. The effort of conversation was beyond him. He closed his eyes again, shutting it all out. He waited for her to leave. He heard her start towards the door and the swish of her skirts and soft tread across the floorboards, where she paused.

I hope you recover soon, came her almost too casual comment before the door closed.

Robert felt himself tense up, for poorly as he was, he had the notion that her words meant a little more than they actually said.

As the nightmare of the accident receded, the details of the preceding events began to surface and the whereabouts of his horse Toby and his saddlebags became his main concern. He had been immensely relieved to learn that Toby had been safely retrieved and delivered here after the accident and that his saddlebags were intact and had been lying in his room all the time. At least the confidential papers had been delivered safely some days prior to this accident and his saddlebags contained nothing more now than the unassuming change of clothing he always carried. Even his long dark navy overcoat, the only semblance of a clue to his profession, was not amongst his clothes; it was summer and it had remained at home. So there was nothing he really needed to be worried about, for the moment.

Robert was now sitting up, but all the shock and trauma to his system had left him weak as a kitten. He was still an invalid. He knew he was lucky to be alive with all his limbs intact when he could so easily have broken his neck. He had a great deal to thank this family for.

Mr Hayward, Margaret’s father, continued to make his regular evening visits to the check on his progress. Apart from thanking his benefactor on every occasion, Robert was reluctant to encourage his few attempts at further conversation. He knew his silence was the easiest and safest course for the moment; the shock and trauma of his condition made it understandable, but he knew it would not satisfy everyone too much longer.

As Robert waited impatiently for his body to heal, he remembered what had brought him to this part of the county. He had completed his last assignment in Chichester and had been on his way back to London. He also remembered the other people he had been acquainted with and the different aspects of the complicated life he was part of. He shook his head, unwilling to think too much about that for a while. Indeed, he had been lucky to have his long hours and thoughts diverted by the youngest children, two boys, Matthew and Mark, who gradually became regular visitors to his room. It appeared they had adopted him as their friend, whether he wanted it or not, and Robert found himself pleased by their company. He would sit and listen to their infectious chatter, then their stories and the excited games which had them chasing about his bed, pretending to be pirates or soldiers. They were good medicine to his brighten his days, although Mr Hayward often dragged them away, concerned that his two sons would wear him out.

Robert had recovered enough to know he should make an effort to appear more normal. Margaret, during the reduced fetching and carrying, had no hesitation in confronting him about his reluctance to be more sociable.

You say so little, she commented. There is little to say, he murmured.

Margaret did not move. Instead she kept her face turned to his, steadily absorbing every distinctive feature beneath those injuries. She waited for some further response, but none came.

All we know is your name, she continued. We assume you travel to find work, because you have said little to contradict that.

I am not that interesting.

Mmm. I doubt that.

Robert prepared himself to deflect any searching questions. Yet oddly, she only raised her eyebrows questioningly and then shrugged indifferently before leaving him alone again. He stared after her. For someone so young, she appeared a keen observer and a little too shrewd. He acknowledged that he could not keep completely silent; that would be altogether much too suspicious. He would have to casually, little by little, allow them to know something about himself. He would let the family gather their own conclusions from the highly selective amount of information he provided. Even then he would have to be careful, and his choice of words were important. He must keep his distance, to protect himself.

Thus during the following days, it became his habit to sit chatting to Mr Hayward for a while. The man was easy to talk to, and Robert did not mind mentioning his sister, who was ten years younger with blue eyes, nor his uncle and aunt, who had given them a home after his parents, tenant farmers, had died years ago.

You travel to support your family? asked the farmer. Robert nodded. He was quite willing to reveal some of places he had visited, from Canterbury and Dover to Hove and many of the villages in between, although there was no need to mention his connection to London. He diverted possibly awkward questions with a jolly shrug or laugh and regaled Mr Hayward with amusing incidents from his schooldays or the farm, or his escapades with Becky and Samuel gathering hops.

He also began to entertain the boys with stories of his own childhood. He told them how he had fallen out of a tree, torn his breeches on a fence, chased chickens and climbed ladders, and about the winter custom of wassailing in the apple orchards. A noisy laughter would soon develop in the room, which once more reminded Robert of home. The squeals of laughter and the little humming tunes of contentment of his dear sister were the things he missed.

He desperately needed to get better and be back on his feet, but his legs had no strength. How long would it take? He wished he could heal much more quickly. It was May already and today he had been helped to the window seat briefly, in order to see the head steward, Joseph, parade Robert’s precious horse around the courtyard for him. Robert smiled to see how well he looked. No one had made reference to the fine, toned condition of the animal, nor the sturdy quality of the well-used saddle and leatherwork, and Robert was not about to draw their attention to those matters. He had done his best with his simple stories to convince them that he was only an ordinary man, and the family seemed satisfied by what he told them.

He noticed that Martha, the younger daughter, was the only one who kept her distance. A shy girl, so different from her older sister, she always stood meekly out of the way, barely spoke to him at all and only managed the odd gentle smile before she would quickly disappear. In contrast Margaret continued to struggle to stop her curiosity from being voiced. Her mouth would pout thoughtfully and her eyes would narrow and widen as a sign of the many silent questions she had. Margaret was difficult to analyse, and he was aware from past experience that the female of the species could not be underestimated, in any way.

Mr Hayward had never expected his guest to be so well travelled or well educated. Whilst the clothes he had been wearing had been repaired, his other clothes in the saddlebags had been washed and aired. It was these plain older clothes that had given Mr Hayward the closest idea as to Robert’s more private past, because they gave the impression of having belonged to a soldier. Maybe a soldier who did not want to be reminded of any battle or the loss of friends; a man, like so many, who had returned and had to find another occupation. Mr Hayward had no intention of being insensitive enough to ask Robert if that was the case. Instead their conversations roamed from one topic to another, for he was eager to hear more about places he had never been to.

Common sense told Robert that he could not linger there forever. All too aware of his own inadequacies, he disliked the unnecessary burden he still imposed on his host, for one thing. He repeatedly expressed his thanks on the matter to his host every time they spoke together; it would be a lack of manners not to.

Mr Hayward, how can I thank you enough for all you have done? he said. Your extreme kindness. I owe you so much. How can I repay you?

The farmer merely smiled and looked at his guest, his hand waving away such ideas. It was obvious he considered such acts were of little consequence and perfectly natural.

There is no need. If any of my children were injured somewhere away from home, I would hope that someone else would have the compassion to help them. There was nothing special in my actions, he replied.

Those actions might have seemed of little consequence to Mr Hayward, but Robert knew better. He was acquainted with the make and manners of other less gracious men in this world, although he would not embarrass this man by arguing or insisting otherwise.

How can I recompense you for what you must have spent out on my behalf? he asked. The physician’s fees alone must amount to a good sum.

You must not worry your head about such things, Mr Sutton. We do things a little differently here. The physician was quite willing to take payment in kind. Some eggs one day and meat last week and other produce when he needs it.

That did not seem much of a payment to Robert for all the man’s trouble and his great skills. In London the same physician could have earned good coin in his pocket, very good coin.

Mr Hayward interrupted his thoughts. I only wish I could offer you work here. Our busiest period is harvest time, but that is months away.

Haven’t you already done enough, Mr Hayward? Robert exclaimed, astonished that the farmer had even contemplated the idea. Although the farm provided adequately for the family and the existing staff and regular labourers, employing unnecessary hands was madness.

How can I be of use to you? Mr Hayward continued, regretfully.

Now it was Robert’s turn to reassure the man. Mr Hayward, I appreciate the thought, but please, please do not concern yourself any more about my welfare. I am not completely destitute. At least I have a home to return to, unlike some of the poor wretches scouring the country. As soon as I can, I must make my way home, to see how they are before I do anything else.

The fact that he was not destitute was the only genuine information concerning himself that Robert had divulged to his host. For despite his host’s assumption of the opposite, as far as Robert knew, he was still employed. No doubt his masters in London would be wondering about his highly unusual and unexplained disappearance. It was obvious that they would have realised something unforeseen must have happened, but because of the highly cautious nature of their business, he knew any enquiries to discover what had happened to him would be equally discreet.

At least he was on the mend. He had taken his first unsteady steps in his repaired clothes and begun the daily ritual of walking to the stables to visit his horse. Admittedly he had been wobbly and required the support of Joseph while the two boys danced around his feet, but it was progress. The fresh air, the smell of the hay and the way Toby nuzzled and snorted in his face made him feel human again.

Human! He scoffed, looking as he did. Whilst his clothes disguised his battered shell, there was no way to hide the result of his head injury. Although his thick hair had grown back quickly to disguise the scar and dent in his head, the patch of hair around his wound had strangely changed colour. He was marked by a startling grey speckled streak amid his otherwise dark locks. He had long grown used to his changed appearance. The rest of his hair had grown long, and his early stubble had become a beard. He could not go home - for go home he must, and soon - like this.

Accordingly, he set about correcting his careless grooming. He trimmed his hair almost to its original length, but left the front longer to hide the hideous scar where it crept slightly forward from his hair line. Then he shaved his face clean to let the natural colour return to his face.

He glanced in the mirror. He did not think he looked too different. Although the streak of grey hair still drew attention to the injury, it did not bother him greatly because he was not the one looking at it every day. He could live with it. He just hoped it would not be too much of a shock for everyone at home.

The weeks were dragging on and Robert was beginning to feel concerned. He could not believe his employers had not made some contact. Had he been that hard to trace? He could not believe the company did not know where he was, for they had known his route and his schedule. When they came, local gossip would soon provide them with his location. The accident had happened in April, yet so far no stranger had ventured near the farm or been seen in the vicinity. How long should he wait? How long could he hold his tongue?

He frowned. It was hard to resist the urge to send someone into town to engage a courier. Although how could he risk sending a message to London without betraying his occupation to these people? He did not want to confuse them. His employment requirements were hard to explain; nothing in his line of work was straightforward, in any case.

If no one arrived soon, Robert decided he would have to no choice except to try to make the first slow stage of the journey home on his own. If he could reach Thomas the blacksmith in Surrey, one of his normal stops, he would be able to send word to those who needed to hear from him. His shoulders slumped at the prospect, knowing he was not fit enough for that journey.

Robert was still pondering his next move when he found his stay about to be abruptly curtailed, before he was ready. The arrival of a letter from a relative provoked an unexpected upheaval of the whole house, reallocation of all the rooms and the news that he was to be housed elsewhere. He watched in amazement as a whirlwind of activity erupted around him, with hasty instructions being added at every hour. It seemed the house would have to be cleaned from top to bottom, beds and rooms aired and extra supplies found.

She did not even ask if it was convenient, his grim-faced host complained. She just announced she was arriving, with her maid and secretary. This is just too tiresome and inconsiderate. Indeed, this normally close and contented family seemed to actually dread the woman’s arrival.

Who is she? Robert asked Joseph.

Mrs Jeskyns. An unpleasant widowed aunt who thinks she can just snap her fingers and everyone will do exactly as she wants.

Why is she coming to visit?

She does not have to have a reason. She flits from one distant relation to another, burdening herself on them whenever it suits her, causing chaos. The old hag married well. She has a perfectly adequate home and the funds to keep it running, but she turns up and always overstays her welcome, relying on the generosity of her host and failing to offer any recompense. She doesn’t even bring any gifts for the family, as any normal visitor would.

Then why do they put up with her? Joseph shook his head and shrugged.

"She is one of the matriarchs of the family. I suppose they feel obliged to be polite to