The Red Shawl

by Jessica Blair

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

Young David Feernley is determined to escape the drudgery of his life as a Yorkshire farmhand. Setting off for the coast, his aim is to join the whaling fleet at Whitby, to earn his living on the stormy and icy Arctic seas. Although he has few sailing skills, a Captain soon recognises his worth - for David is strong and unafraid of danger. David is followed to the small fishing town by Ruth, his childhood sweetheart, her heart set on marriage. Passionate and proud, she is sure to be a worthy wife. Yet David is drawn to another's betrothed: the pretty, gentle Jenny. And it is Jenny's bright red shawl that David searches for on the cliff-tops on his return from the long months at sea...

Release date: December 30, 2010

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 522

Sample

The icy wind, born in the frozen wastes of the Arctic, had blown thousands of lonely miles across the cold, grey sea. It swirled
over the bleak North Yorkshire moors, beating at the stunted heather, rippling the pools of melted snow and chilling the drifts
which remained on the north-facing slopes of the gullies and valleys. The snows of January 1780 had felt an unusual touch
of warmth so early in the year but now the wind reminded them that, on these desolate heights, February could bring the worst
of the winter.


It howled with extra vigour as it swept over the edge of the moors and lashed at Pickering, overlooking the fertile vale on
which the market town based its workaday prosperity. It sent merchants, their trading done, hurrying to the comfort of their
fireside in their solidly built mansions; it drove housewives to hasten their last purchases in the market so that they could
sooner seek the shelter of their cottages and warmth in the cup from the kettle on the reckon; while poorer folk were sent
scurrying to their hovels hoping that the rotting thatch would hold against the buffeting.


Its chill bit deep into Ruth Harwood’s bones as she stumbled along the soggy path between Pickering and the tiny hamlet of
Cropton, crouched on a spur of a hill five miles to the east of the market town. Her slim, abused body sought warmth in the
tension which gripped her shoulders, hunched against the frenzied wind.


She drew her torn shawl tighter around her worn, fustian dress, holding it at her throat with her right hand while her left
gripped the piece of ham hidden beneath its folds as if her very life depended on it. If she returned home without it, or
was late, she would feel the savage slash of her step-father’s belt, and in his most sadistic moods he used the buckle end
on her. She shuddered, recollecting the ugly weals and blue-black bruises which marked her.


Ruth quickened her slithering steps. She must snatch a few precious, prearranged minutes with David Fernley. They were the
only comfort in a harsh and drab life. He was the only person who gave her hope. She needed to know he was nearby, that he
would always be there, otherwise her whole world would collapse and she would not be able to face the emptiness.


She turned towards a byre standing in the corner of a field a quarter of a mile from the cottage in which David lived with
his mother and father, his brother and two sisters.


How Ruth envied them their closeknit family life, happy in spite of the harsh existence. But at least Kit Fernley had a steady
job as a confined labourer to the squire. He worked hard, tilled his own little plot around the cottage for potatoes and vegetables and was allowed to keep and graze
a cow. Hopefully, one day, she would be taken into that family group when she married David. It was that thought, held in
her own secret mind, which made life bearable.


The day darkened. Ruth, her eyes troubled with anxiety, glanced upwards. The strengthening wind drove the first clouds from
the north scudding across the sky. Spots of rain stung her pale face. She broke into a half run and stumbled through the sacking
hanging over the byre door just as the first swish of heavy rain soaked the old, stone building.


She stood, her chest heaving, her slender body relieved to be free of the buffeting, her eyes piercing the gloom, looking
for David. The light which filtered through holes in the roof, and through the tears in the skin across the windows, revealed
only the cow, which lay contentedly chewing its cud among some old straw at one end of the byre.


Panic seized Ruth’s heart. David was not here! Why? Where was he? She had felt sure he would be waiting. Oh, he must come.
She must see him, if only for a few moments, just sufficient to draw strength to endure her mother’s spiteful tongue and step-father’s
fists. How long could she wait? She frowned and turned in anxious agitation to the doorway.


Dropping the ham on the floor, she drew the sacking back and peered through the veil of lashing rain, but there was no one.
The wind howled, its shrieks filled with mockery.


With a sigh she let the sacking fall into place. David had said he would be here. She had never known him break a promise.
She could wait a few minutes. Ruth slid the shawl from her head and let it drape round her shoulders. She ran her hands through
her lank hair, remembering the time thirteen years ago when, as a child of five, she sat on her mother’s knee while her mother
ran a brush gently through it, making the copper-tinted tresses shimmer in the autumn sunshine. Those had been happy days,
poor though they were. But suddenly they were shattered when, that Christmas, her mother had married Nathan Cornforth, the
brutal man who was not Ruth’s father.


He had resented her as an intruder and, in spite of her mother’s pleading, had refused to let his step-daughter take his name.
So Ruth had grown up with her mother’s maiden name, evidence that she was a bastard, a stigma which marked her life and made
her the butt of other children’s cruel teasing. Only David stood up for her and protected her from the barbs.


Her step-father, a day labourer who, with his drunken ways, inspired no confidence, survived on the good nature of the squire
who had compassion on an ever increasing family. Some said it was because of Ruth but her stepfather afforded her no credit
for that and never let her forget that she was not his true daughter.


At first, the mother had comforted the child whenever her husband was absent for she dare not show one morsel of affection
for her in his presence. But, as Ruth moved into teenage years, her mother’s solace waned and vanished in a sea of jealousy.
Rebecca Cornforth saw her daughter developing into an attractive young woman. She envied Ruth her youth and beauty and the lithe, firm body which any man would be glad to take. Ruth’s proud, high cheekboned features,
her air and carriage reminded Rebecca of her father, so different from the man she married.


In envy, Rebecca sided more and more with her husband against her daughter. She gave her the poorest of rags when she had
finished with them and Ruth could not remember the last time she had had something unworn. She came to expect her only food
to be scraps thrown from the table, not knowing that, secretly, her mother was delighted to see her daughter lose weight and
with it the attraction she had noticed reflected in her husband’s lascivious eye.


Ruth glanced at the doorway. If she did not go soon, she would be late with her step-father’s meal and that raised the spectre-like
image of him, fist raised, his face taut in sadistic pleasure as he relished the pain he would inflict on her. She should
go but she wanted to stay. She fiddled nervously with the ends of her shawl as she paced up and down.


Suddenly she stopped, her mind frozen by the half-heard sound. She inclined her head, listening intently. Had she been mistaken?
She strained to hear above the lashing rain. No! There it was again. It grew louder. Someone was running. David! It must be.
The thought sent joy coursing through her.


Three quick steps took Ruth to the doorway. She jerked the sacking aside and saw a figure, dark against the rain, bent to
the buffeting wind, shoulder half-turned as if forcing a way through it, running towards the byre. Nearer and nearer. David!
A smile broke across her face. She ran her free hand through her hair, conscious of a desire to look her best.


She stepped to one side as David burst through the doorway out of the rain. She let the covering drop back into place and
swung round to face him. He was throwing off the piece of sacking which had kept the shoulders of his sleeved waistcoat dry
as he ran from home. His buckled shoes and hand-knitted stockings below knee-breeches were spattered with mud. There was laughter
in his eyes as he held out his arms to her.


She flung herself to him and buried her head against his chest. She drew comfort and confidence from the feel of his tall,
straight body, broad for its eighteen years, toughened by an unyielding life on the land, which brought little reward. His
face beaten by the sun and wind, swept by the rain, already bore marks of that life but there was still the thrust of youth
about his dark, deep-set eyes and a determination about his firm lips which strengthened the feeling of protection she drew
from him.


‘Thee’s trembling, luv.’ David eased her gently away from him so he could look into her eyes.

She met his searching gaze. ‘I thought you might not come when it was silin’ down.’

‘Rain wouldn’t stop me. Sorry I’m late but I had to talk to Pa and Ma.’ David paused. Concern clouded his eyes. He raised
a hand and gently fingered the bruise on her left cheek. ‘Ruth … ?’


‘That’s nowt,’ she hastened to reassure him as she took his hand in hers and started towards the corner of the byre. ‘That
was last night.’


David frowned. ‘Why?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Why?’ She gave a half laugh as she flopped into the hay. ‘He don’t need a reason when he’s drunk.’


David stood staring down at her, fury and anger threatening to burst free. His knuckles gleamed white through his clenched
fists. How could anybody lay a hand on Ruth? How could anybody get pleasure from inflicting pain on her? His lips tightened.


‘Is thee telling me everything? That drunken sod didn’t … ?’ The words demanded the truth, and then came sharp with resolution:
‘If he did, I’ll knock t’ living daylights out of him?’


Ruth’s attention was riveted on David standing over her. He looked so tall, so powerful, those clenched hands ready to avenge
her. She saw his muscles ripple beneath his coarse shirt. His jaw was tight and his eyes half closed as if visualising a confrontation
with her step-father. Ruth had never seen him like this before. He had never threatened what he would do. He had expressed
his horror at the beatings but had never mentioned retaliation. She felt herself gripped by a strange elation, a feverish
belief that the end of her troubles was in sight.


‘No, there was nowt else, and I’ve had worse thrashings,’ she started. Uttering that word had reminded her that she must not
be late home. ‘Davey, I can’t stay long, or I really will catch it in t’ neck. It’s market day, remember?’


David knew only too well what that meant. He dropped into the hay beside her and took her hands in his. ‘Been thieving again?’
he asked, knowing his frown of disapproval meant little against Ruth’s step-father’s threats.


‘What else can I do?’ Her eyes questioned him. ‘If I don’t get his meat he’ll beat me.’


‘Aye, but if thee gets caught – it’s deportation!’ His voice was cramped with horror. He dreaded the worst, the loss of Ruth
for ever.


‘David,’ she said gently, ‘I won’t get caught. Better to risk that than a belting. He allus comes home drunk on market day,
and if I cross him I pays.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘I must be off.’


‘Not yet!’ David tightened his grip on Ruth’s hands, preventing her from rising. ‘I’ve summat to tell thee.’

Her eyes fixed on David, puzzled at the gravity on his face as he stared at their linked hands.

‘Well?’ she prompted.

David looked up. ‘I’m leaving – gannin’ t’ Whitby!’ The words came sharply, beating at Ruth like the rain lashing the byre.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. She gaped at him. Incredulity turned to horror as the nightmare bit into her numbed mind.

‘What! You can’t! Why? why?’ Her voice rose like the cry of a stricken bird doomed to die on the moorland wastes.

Ruth’s distress tore at David’s heart and he wished he could spare her the pain. He ran his broad, rough fingers down her
smooth cheek with the same caressing touch which had so often given comfort to the girl he loved. Then, she had responded
with warm, reciprocal feeling. But now there was no reaction. It hurt him to see her grey eyes filling with tears.


‘I’m gannin’ for us, lass,’ he explained, his voice gentle. ‘It’s the only chance we’ll have. There’s nowt here for us. I can get work only now and again. What sort of life’s that?’


‘We’ll manage. I don’t want you to gan.’ The sadness in Ruth’s eyes was touched with pleading. ‘You’re the only joy I have.’
Her words choked on a sob. Nausea gripped her. She saw compassion and sorrow in David’s eyes, but there was also a grim determination
which she had never seen before. It drove her into a deep well of despair and her very being seemed to crumble as if her lifeblood
was draining away. She could no longer hold back the tears and as they flowed, like a moorland stream in spate, she slumped
against him, her head buried hard against her chest. Sobs racked her body. Life would be hell without David near. She wished
she could curl up in a corner and never wake up to the loneliness which awaited her.


He let her cry, holding her close, stroking her hair with the lightest of touches and rocking gently as a mother would comfort
a young child.


When he felt the sobs subside, David spoke with a voice which caressed. ‘I’m gannin’ because I love thee. We’ll be together
soon, lass, I promise.’ He eased her from him and gently raised her head with a finger under her chin. He looked deep into
her eyes, then, leaning forward slowly, kissed each of them in tender compassion to drive away the last of the tears.


‘But why gan, Davey?’ Ruth asked, still bewildered by his announcement.

‘There’s nay future here,’ he replied.

‘But your pa’s all right …’ started Ruth.

‘Oh, aye,’ cut in David, ‘Pa’s content as a confined labourer – he’s certain of work and regular money. And with Ma skivvyin’ three days a week at the hall, they manage. But there’s
only occasional work for me and John. He’s prepared to bide his time until he’s a confined labourer. I’m not.’ His voice hardened
with determination. I want something better than a life of poverty in Cropton. I want a decent home, and fine clothes for
thee. I’ll have a better chance to get them in Whitby. I know I can do it. I will do it! One day thee’ll be proud of me.’


Ruth listened in amazement as the words poured out unabated, like a moorland fire once it has a hold on the tinder-like heather.
The tenacity and eagerness in his voice transmitted their passion. She could feel his excitement as he looked into the future.


‘Then tak’ me with you,’ she begged.

The brightness in David’s eyes clouded over. ‘I can’t. Thee’ll be all alone in Whitby after I sail with the whaleships.’

Ruth’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Whaleships! Not the whaleships!’ Her eyes widened with horror and wild despair. ‘I’ll
niver see you again! You’ll die in the Arctic!’


David gave a half smile as he placed his hands firmly on her shoulders. ‘Course I won’t. I’ll be back in five or six months.’

‘Months!’ she groaned, rolling her eyes in distress. ‘What on earth gave you such a fool notion?’

David pulled her gently to him and cradled her against his chest. ‘I was nine …’ he started.

‘Nine?’ Ruth jerked her head up in surprise.

‘Aye. Pa took me to Whitby when he went to see about selling hides and sheepskins for the squire.’ David’s mind spanned the years, recalling the busy, bustling Yorkshire port which sent its ships to all corners of the known world; the
ships with their tall masts soaring high above the quays, their rigging trellising the sky; the pungent smells of fish and
rope; the incessant screeching of the gulls as they wheeled in graceful flight, or flapped frenziedly in fight for some tempting
tit-bit; and, not least of all, the river and sea swirling into unity between the protection of the two stone piers.


‘Pa showed me the whalers,’ he went on, ‘and told me they sail far to the north, to hunt big whales from tiny boats so that
we can have oil for our lamps. I’ve wanted to sail with them ever since.’


‘You niver told me,’ she pouted.

‘Told no one until today. Told Ma and Pa this afternoon, that’s why I was late,’ he explained.

‘What did they say? Didn’t they try to stop you ganning’?’ Ruth would have been surprised if David had secured their blessing
readily.


‘Course they did,’ he said, ‘but I finally persuaded ’em. So now I can gan and earn good money on a whaleship. After the first
voyage, I’ll come for thee.’


‘But you don’t know if they’ll tak’ you on for this season.’

‘If not, I’ll find some other work and gan to the whaleships next year.’

‘Then you’ll be gone longer,’ she cried. The prospect of even longer without him made her voice sharp with despair. ‘What
will I do? Please don’t gan!’


‘I must, luv.’ David frowned. He knew the pain he was causing, but he also knew that the only way for a better life was to go now. Ruth would come to realise it and would thank him one day.


She twisted round, pushing herself from his arms, and facing him with fury in her eyes. She sniffed back her tears and brushed
her hair away from her cheeks. ‘You’re only thinking of thissen. What about me? You’re leaving me to a livin’ hell with no
one to turn to.’ Her words blazed at David as she tried to shame him into staying. She sprang to her feet and her face flamed
angrily down at him. ‘You don’t care about me. If you did you’d stay, or else tak’ me with you.’ Her lips curled in contempt.
‘You’re just abandoning me. You won’t …’


David had scrambled quickly to his feet. He grabbed Ruth and jerked her to him. His eyes met hers, unflinching. ‘I’m not abandoning
thee! It’s to help thee escape, to get a better life for us, to be rid of poverty.’


‘If you loved me …’ Her cry was cut off.

‘Course I love thee. That’s why I’m gannin’.’

‘It’s not.’

David crushed her to him and his lips came down fiercely on hers, stifling the hurtful words which threatened to engulf them
both. Ruth gasped at his unbridled passion. He had never kissed her like this before. She resisted for a brief moment. Then
she was swept along on a tide of sheer joy, her anger forgotten.


Her arms came up around his neck and she clung close to him as she returned his kiss. Her mind, cleared of its boiling fury,
began to see a way in which she might still persuade David to stay. Show him what he would be missing if he went, show him
how she could please him even more. So far their loving had gone no further than cuddling and kissing. There had been times when the temptation to give way to their desires was great but Ruth had always held back,
remembering what had happened to other village girls who had gone too far. But now, she was prepared to go to the limit if
it would hold David to her.


Her lips trembled and sent a renewed hunger coursing through David’s veins. She felt his passion intensify and in the sensation
her legs weakened. Her knees gave way and she sank into the hay, taking David with her, their lips still pressed together.


‘Ruth, Ruth, I do love thee, I do. Niver forget it,’ he gasped when their lips parted.

‘And I love you,’ she whispered. She caressed his face with her hand. It strayed across his chin and down to the buttons on
his shirt. She unfastened two of them and slid her fingers teasingly across his chest.


David pulled her closer and there was desire in his kiss and eagerness as his hand smoothed her breast.

Her fingers moved across his belly to the top of his breeches. Soon she would have David in her power, able to bend him to
her will, able to make him stay and forget Whitby and the whaleships. She pressed her warm, soft body closer to him, whispering
into his ear, ‘I love you, David.’


He moaned under her gentle caressing hands and she sighed as his finger marked the furrow between her breasts. ‘I’m yours,
David, take me!’


Suddenly he broke the kiss and rolled away from her. He lay spreadeagled in the hay, his eyes fixed on the roof, his body
heaving with deep breaths as he fought to bring his craving under control.


Ruth, her mind pounding as it was torn between her own desire and the thwarting of her plans, sat up and stared wildly at
him. ‘What’s the matter?’ she snapped. ‘I thought you said you loved me.’


‘I do, Ruth, I do.’ David turned his head and saw annoyance in her eyes. ‘But this is not the way; this is not the time. When
I come back from the whaleships, when I can tak’ thee to Whitby, when I know our future’s safe, then I’ll love thee as you
want me now.’ He sat up and came closer to her. He pressed her pouting lips with his fingers but she took no notice and kept
her eyes downcast. ‘Please, try to understand,’ he went on. ‘What I’m doing will be best. It’ll mean a new life, we’ll be
better off and you’ll be able to forget all the brutality you’ve suffered.’


The word startled Ruth. She glanced up at him and he was disturbed by the frightened look which flashed into her eyes like
some cornered animal. ‘Oh, God, I’ll be late. He’ll be waitin’ for me.’ She scrambled to her feet, straightened her clothes,
and grabbed her shawl from the hay. Panic gripped her as the vision of her step-father, belt in hand, drove all other thoughts
from her mind. Maybe, just maybe, he had lingered at the inn longer than usual, maybe the rain had deterred him from leaving
Pickering. Maybe she would still be home before him.


David was on his feet beside her. ‘Calm down, Ruth, calm down,’ he urged.

‘Could you if you knew you was going to get a belting? I must be off.’

As she turned, David grabbed her by the arm. ‘I’ll come with thee an’ see he don’t touch thee.’

‘An’ what happens after you’ve gone? I get it worse.’ Ruth was wild-eyed. Desperately she shook herself free from David’s hold. She ran across the byre and bent for the ham.


‘Ruth, I’ll see thee afore I go tomorrow,’ he called.

She froze. She straightened slowly and looked round at him. ‘Tomorrow!’ she gasped.

David nodded. ‘I must beat the snow that’s coming. Thee knows how it can be on the moors between here an’ Whitby.’

‘So we won’t be coming to our byre any more.’ Ruth’s voice trailed away in dejection. She stared at him for what seemed an
eternity. Disappointment, hurt, betrayal and accusation all crossed her face and raised an agonising torment in David’s very
soul. Broken-hearted, tears streaming down her face, she turned, pulled the sacking aside and ran out into the pouring rain.


David gazed at the sacking swaying in the wind. He flung himself forward and tore it down.

‘Ruth!’ The wind tossed his word away. His eyes narrowed to pierce the gloom of the driving rain. There was no one. Ruth had
gone.


Mud squelched through Ruth’s toes as she slithered and slipped towards the hovel she called home, though there was no home
there as far as she was concerned. All it provided was a dry corner and a roof over her head.


She was not aware of her wet clothes clinging miserably to her body. She was empty of all emotion, numbed by those three words:
‘I go tomorrow.’


She gasped for breath, but dared not slacken her pace. Maybe she would be in time. Maybe …

A figure appeared in the doorway of the cottage.


Fear struck.

Ruth’s step faltered. She saw her step-father, big, powerful, his shoulders hunched like some demon about to strike. He reached
to his waist. A moment later he held his belt between his hands and then let one end drop beside him. The buckle dangled near
the ground! She stopped, frozen by the thought of the hard metal biting into her flesh.


‘C’m on, y’ bastard!’ the voice boomed at her. ‘C’m ’ere!’ Ruth could not move. ‘C’m on! Where y’ been? Whorin’ again? Where’s
my meat? Hell, if you’ve lost it …’ His voice trailed off in a snarl. ‘Fetch it!’ The words came with such viciousness that
they startled Ruth. They jerked her back to reality. There was no escaping. Slowly she moved towards the cottage.


David stepped into the kitchen, into the familiar world of the early Tuesday routine of the Fernley household, a routine which
must be followed even if one member was about to break the family unity which, less than twenty-four hours ago, had seemed
impregnable.


In the centre of the big kitchen his father sat at the head of a scrubbed, whitewood table. His mother, at the opposite end,
was spreading dripping on an oatcake. Betsy and Jessica on one side and John on the other were eating frumenty from wooden
bowls. Above the turf fire a kettle hung on a reckon, puffing steam gently from its spout, and beside it fresh oatcakes were
cooking on a backstan.


David would always remember this homely scene, as well as that of his parents sitting of an evening in the two wooden chairs
beside the fireplace, the long hard day’s work over, his father weary but contentedly smoking his pipe, his mother knitting
or sewing, to eke out his father’s wage.


Kit Fernley, Cropton born and bred, had impressed the squire by his ability and hard-working manner so that he had been offered
a secure job on the farm, ensuring some stability and measure of comfort for his family. The hard days in the open had taken
their toll and David had seen the lines on the weather-beaten face deepen recently. It hurt him to see the broad, powerful
shoulders begin to assume a slight stoop and he knew that the years of scything, of lifing heavy sacks, of handling sheep
and cattle, of being soaked by the rain and snow and penetrated by the wind were ageing his father with aches and pains. But
Kit never complained and there was always a sparkle in his dark eyes so very much like David’s.


‘C’m on, lad, what’s kept thee?’ Kit said, pointing to the empty place at the table. He was sorry to see his son leave but
hid his own feelings knowing that he had to be stong for Martha, his wife.


‘Been packing, Pa.’ David dropped his cloth bag beside the door.

‘Got everything?’ his mother asked, as he crossed the reed-covered floor.

Their eyes met.

Hers were filled with sadness brought about by the first major upheaval in the family. His pleaded for understanding and her
blessing.


Martha was a Pickering lass whom Kit had met one market day when love had blossomed to the exclusion of anything else. When
they married, he was made a confined labourer and the squire offered him a rent-free, tied cottage.


It hadn’t been easy raising four children on Kit’s wage of a pound a month. The daily labour of household chores seemed never ending but Martha also fitted in three days a week skivvying
to earn a few coppers more.


‘Yes, Ma, couple o’shirts, my jump-jacket, a jersey and my shoes. I’m wearing my boots, sitha,’ replied David, pointing to
his feet. He knew his mother would want to know every detail so she could approve.


‘Stockings?’ she queried.

‘Two pair,’ said David, as he pulled out his chair and sat down. He looked across at Betsy, who had not even glanced up when
he came into the room. She kept her head down close to the bowl as she toyed with her frumenty. David spotted the tears she
was trying to keep hidden. ‘Hi, Betsy, no crying,’ he said and added, ‘Thanks,’ to Jessica who had brought him a warm oatcake
from the hearth.


‘I don’t want thee to gan,’ Betsy muttered. David was her favourite. Maybe it was the bond which sprang naturally between
youngest and oldest, or maybe it was because David never tired of doing things for his fourteen-year-old sister, who not only
carried her mother’s rosy features but also her good-natured temperament. Without doubt, David knew that she was destined
for a life in the farming community around Cropton.


‘But I’ve got to,’ he replied.

Betsy sniffed and shot an accusi