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Chapter Seven
‘Our sovereign lord the King chargeth and commandeth all persons, being assembled, immediately disperse themselves, and peaceably to depart to their habitations, or to their lawful business...’ The justice of the peace’s voice droned loud as the sun began to set. Flanking him to his left were six statue-still soldiers and to the right a not so local constable who had been drafted in from further up the river.
Next to him stood a silent and seething Lord Hockley, who was no doubt furious that Mr Truitt, the local constable, had chosen today to visit his mother in Chelmsford and was not due back until tomorrow night after his advertised open days were done. He knew that could not have been a coincidence and had lost an entire day of viewings on the back of it. As his unusual bright blue eyes lifted and locked defiantly with hers, Sophie could see he blamed her entirely for that. He was right to blame her, because it had indeed been her who had convinced their local constable to make himself scarce, just as it had been her who had suggested this barricade in the first place too. Both things had proved to be highly effective in thwarting the new lord of the manor’s plans to sell and even with the benefit of hindsight, and for the sake of the fate of all the worried people who lived on his land, she wouldn’t have done things any differently even if she could turn back time.
That did not mean that her conscience hadn’t niggled all afternoon on the back of it as countless potential buyers were turned away from the barricade.
It had been his unusual blue eyes again earlier that had made her feel bad.
The obvious pain within them had got to her as he had raked a frustrated hand through his hair and stared straight into her soul as if he were begging her, and her alone, to understand that he had not taken his decision lightly. That he had reasons. Good reasons for wanting that quiet life. Noble and unselfish reasons. And she had, drat him, sympathised completely because she had realised in that oddly loaded and poignant moment that his desire for a quiet life wasn’t born out of greed or a callous disregard for the feelings of others as they had all suspected. It came from his overwhelming need to protect the brother he loved from ignorance, judgement, prejudice, rejection and fear. Five awful things both he and Archie must have experienced first-hand for the pain in his unusual blue eyes to have been so visceral.
There was no evidence of that in them this evening though. The earlier pain had now been replaced by a steely determination, the strength of which unnerved her far more than the amassed forces of the law currently did.
Beside her, oblivious of Sophie’s internal dilemma, the ancient and incorrigible Mrs Fitzherbert chuckled with glee.
‘Who knew I’d ever have the Riot Act read to me and at my age too?’ She nudged Sophie with her elbow, winking before she booed, and thumped her cane on the ground, which encouraged some of the others gathered to boo too as he came to the end of his proclamation.
‘Shame on you, Lord Hockley!’ came a shout from the barricade. ‘Shame on you!’
‘Shame on you! Shame on you!’
Sixty incensed fingers jabbed the air in unison as they chanted the three words which seemed to have become the village’s battle cry thanks to Sophie’s outraged red daub on a pair of Aunt Jemima’s well-darned bedsheets. Words which she could not deny she felt a tad ashamed of now that she understood the predicament of the man being jeered at a little bit more.
She risked glancing at him and wished that she hadn’t as she saw more pain in his stormy blue irises. Pain which proved he wasn’t immune to the feelings of others or from being cut to the quick by the accusing fingers. As if he sensed her looking, he flicked his gaze curtly her way and instantly his jaw hardened, and his shoulders stiffened before he stared back at the baying crowd defiantly.
‘Move along now!’ The justice of the peace spoke to them all like children. ‘You have all had the warning read aloud as the law requires. Further insurrection will be met with force and arrests will be made.’
‘A peaceful protest isn’t an insurrection.’ For good measure, Mrs Fitzherbert waved her stick at the line of soldiers. ‘And the law is an ass if it allows our callous landlord to sell our homes from under us! It makes all who uphold it asses too, sir! I was a friend to your mother, George Rutland! Knew her like a sister for over sixty years. She was a principled, God-fearing woman who cared about this community. She’ll be spinning in her grave to learn her only son has sunk so low as to become the unquestioning henchman of a duplicitous peer!’
The justice bristled at the insult, but because he could not quite bring himself to threaten an unruly nonagenarian who had been a dear friend of his dead mother, he jabbed his finger at Sophie instead. ‘You are in breach of the law with this protest, madam, and be in no doubt that I will see to it personally that the ringleaders are charged if you do not comply with all haste or if they dare to blockade any road hereabouts in the future!’ He turned to the so far silent constable who clearly did not want to be any part of this and issued a terse order. ‘I want this road clear in ten minutes and woe betide anyone still lingering beyond that.’ Then he wagged his gloved finger at Sophie again. ‘This is not the way we do things in Essex!’
‘Clearly you’ve never heard of the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381 then!’ The light of battle was lit in Mrs Fitzherbert’s expression as she jabbed her cane at him. ‘For that started in Fobbing just across the way.’ But she was already talking to the justice’s back as he stomped away, and the soldiers and the constable hurried to do his bidding.
Only Lord Hockley remained rooted to the spot, but far from looking smug at his triumph, his posture was uncomfortable. His stormy eyes mortified.
‘I hope you are proud of yourself, young man.’ Mrs Fitzherbert jabbed her stick at him this time. ‘For this is a disgrace, sir! An absolute disgrace!’
‘It is—one that could have easily been avoided!’ He huffed his frustration at Sophie too rather than the old lady who had just taken issue with him, then stalked away as well, his broad shoulders stiffening as Mrs Fitzherbert took great delight in his retreat.
Mrs Outhwaite bustled towards them grinning with her henpecked husband in tow. ‘It took him much longer to summon the law than we expected.’ She pointed to the setting sun. ‘I sincerely doubt anyone else will be arriving today. There hasn’t been a carriage in two hours.’
‘Well done, everyone.’ Hooking his thumbs into his lapels as if he were in charge, Mr Outhwaite addressed nobody in particular. ‘If the stars are aligned, the keenest buyers came today and won’t dare come back tomorrow because we’ve scared them off so well.’
They had but Sophie did not take that for granted for a second. ‘Still, we shall proceed with the second part of our plan tomorrow. So go home and decorate your houses and businesses in readiness.’
Having sympathy for Lord Hockley’s plight did not overrule the greater empathy she had with the villagers or the love she had for her aunt. Unconsciously, she glanced over to the tent where Aunt Jemima stood impotently and lost while the menfolk dismantled the shelter around her, and wished she knew how to erase the abject fear in her expression. Despite insisting on coming here to protest with her neighbours, her usually theatrical and attention-seeking relative was not herself. The poor thing had been inconsolable all week. She was so scared she wouldn’t eat. Hadn’t slept. Looked so pale and fragile it scared her niece witless as none of those things were good for her aunt’s heart.
As Mr Outhwaite seemed eager to be in charge, she decided some timely delegation was in order. ‘Can you quietly spread the word that we shall commence at eight, Mr Outhwaite? And remind everyone to remain on either their own property or their lawful place of business at all costs—no matter what the provocation. Now the law is involved, and the Riot Act has been read, it is imperative the next assault remains within the bounds of it. Let us not give him the satisfaction of securing a single arrest tomorrow.’
‘And tonight?’ By the fearsome expression on her face and the cane clutched tight in her fist, Mrs Fitzherbert was primed and ready for more action.
Sophie glanced again at Aunt Jemima who was clearly overwhelmed and was now shivering from the cold. ‘We do as the justice of the peace has ordered. We all go home and get some rest. It’s been a long day and there will be no let-up tomorrow.’
‘What about some soup while I read to you?’ Sophie added another log to the little fire then flapped some newspaper at the smoke to encourage it to float up the chimney rather than out into her aunt’s chilly little parlour. ‘You have to eat something to keep your strength up.’ Not a morsel had passed her lips all day. That too was most unlike her. Even during one of her feigned or exaggerated illnesses, her aunt could always eat like a horse.
‘I have no appetite, dear.’ Aunt Jemima burrowed into the thick blanket her niece had draped around her slight shoulders, her teeth chattering from the cold which had clearly sunk deep into her bones after a day exposed to the elements and which refused to budge in front of their pitiful, smoking fireplace in the parlour. ‘I think I shall just go to bed.’
It was barely eight and they had been home a few hours. The whole time her aunt had stared mournfully at nothing. All the fight in her gone and she looked scarily vacant behind the eyes.
