The Steward of Blackwood Hall

Chapter six - Sinking of the Victory

A knock upon the steward's door distracted Fielding from his newspaper as Joseph laid three letters upon his desk. He recognised the direction written on the outside of one as being in Mountford's crabbed script, and cracked the seal.

Henry's communication offered no great surprises. Sally and Margaret had welcomed their brother's proposal to join him in the country, as had a handful of their acquaintance, yet there were outstanding social invitations they felt honour bound to fulfil, and it would be another week before they expected to leave town. In the meantime, Henry entreated him to sample whatever modest entertainment Blackwood Hall could provide.

Fielding had woken with a headache—the result of too many hours staring at faded ink under insufficient light. A day out in the fresh air would probably do him good. He sought out Sir George's collection of elderly fishing rods, selected the best, and made his way across the park; stopping occasionally to speak with the hard-working gardeners, who were bringing the formal gardens of Blackwood Hall back to a state of order not seen in a decade.

The last ochre leaves clung to the trees as the stream danced around the stones and bulrushes. A few hours fishing in that peaceful spot—with only the birds and a busy family of water voles for company—did much to diminish the pressure behind his temples, but left him with nothing to show for his efforts. He moved upstream, farther from Blackwood Hall, and settled down to try again.

Fielding raised his rod, checked the bait, and recast the line into the shade beneath an ancient willow that stood on the opposite bank. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled; expelling with it all thoughts of autumn planting schedules and inefficient yields, and leaving behind only one tantalising memory of an errant brown curl, escaping from beneath Miss Latimer's bonnet during their previous meeting at the farm.

He mentally shook himself, banishing the image, and settled down in the grass; his back resting against the trunk of a sturdy horse chestnut. He allowed his gaze to float across the stream, twining around the reeds that grew along the opposite bank.

This state of pleasurable lethargy may have continued for some time had he not spotted something strange floating in the water. It was an off-white, misshapen lump, being carried down by the current. He watched it tumble and spin, caught by eddies that circled the larger stones embedded in the stream's course.

Then a second object appeared, chasing the first. This one was more recognisable and made him smile. It was folded into the shape of a small boat, looking not unlike many similar vessels he had launched across the lake at Meltham in his youth.

A faint babble of voices followed the craft, growing louder as they approached. Then a young fair-haired boy appeared on the opposite bank, his searching gaze so intent upon the water that it took him a moment to realise he was not alone.

The boy checked himself, cast a quick glance behind, then doffed his cap and offered a perfunctory bow. "Sir! Did you see our boats?" The lad could not be more than five or six years. In his smart nankeen trousers and short jacket with brass buttons he was too well dressed to be the son of a farm worker. Only a family of means could afford the pressed paper used to create their craft.

Fielding stood, laying down his rod. "I saw two, although the first one had foundered. It might have become caught up in those reeds. The second was still afloat when it passed downstream."

The young lad turned back, waving his arms to someone further up the path. "Over here!"

The sound of running footsteps followed his cry, and a second youngster—a copy of the first—came into view. As they hunted among those clumps of rushes they could reach from the bank, only the grass stains marking the trousers of the second boy allowed him to tell one from the other.