The New Day: The First Book in the Harvey Saga

By J. Rowland Broughton

It is 1912 and Richard Harvey is the heir the Longhalls Estate; the youngest member of a family that has owned and farmed the Estate since it was granted to his ancestors by William the Conqueror. During a journey on horse-back through a severe Winter storm he becomes lost, and finally exhausted he staggers and collapses in the court yard of a small farm. He is found covered in snow and hauled into the farmhouse by Mary Ayres.
So begins a courtship of the two young people, one that sees them married and settled in their large country house which they share with Richards grandfather and a large staff of servants. The estate is run by Richard and Old Mr Harvey until the outbreak of the War with Germany in 1914.
Being a country-man Richard has no desire to become an officer so he enlists as a Private soldier in the Lincolnshire Regiment along with a group of workers from the Longhalls Estate. After a brief period of training they a thrown into the fury of trench warfare where following the slaughter of all of their officers and NCOs the men look to Richard Harvey to see them through.
This is the story of the quiet country gentleman who becomes a national hero, much to his own dismay for he would rather be at home with his wife and family rather than moving on to the next stage of a war that seems to have no ending. He is granted a Field Commission and is rapidly promoted and decorated much to his own regret. Strong in the traditions of his family he is given the Monarchs Special Commission and after being wounded in combat becomes equerry to the King.
Richard Harvey survives the War only to die during the Flu epidemic of 1918 to be survived by his only son
Richard Harvey survives the War only to die during the Flu epidemic of 1918 to be survived by his only son Henry.
This is the first volume of a Harvey Family History the following Titles are in preparation:-
Return to the Soil
Children of the Lonely Night
The Missing Years
Cutting the Ties

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jan 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479786022

J. Rowland Broughton

J. Rowlands Broughton was raised in Lincolnshire during the Second World War. He was educated at the Huntingdon School, Nottingham & District Technical College, Woolwich Polytechnic and the Royal College of Advanced Technology. Most of his working life has been spent in the design and development of Special Purpose Machines primarily for use in the Rubber, Plastics, and Pharmaceutical Industries. For the past twelve years he has been employed at the Nottingham Playhouse Theatre and during his time he has developed his love for writing novels, poetry, and that adaptation of Greek Tragedy. Over the years he has written books and manuals, and has developed programs on the use of Bills of Materials Systems, Systems Control and Engineering Control Systems. Jim is married with two adult children and enjoys music, poetry, painting watercolours and researching Medieval History. Return to the Soil is the second book in a series of four books covering life of the imaginary Harvey Family who had an estate on the edge of the Lincolnshire Fens.

Book preview

The New Day

The First Book in the Harvey Saga

J. Rowland Broughton

Copyright © 2013 by J.Rowland Broughton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

J Rowland Broughton asserts the moral right to be recognised as the author of this work.

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Contents

Author’s Notes

Ancestors

Prologue

Chapter 1

1912 Richard Harvey and Mary Ayres

Chapter 2

1912 Richard Harvey and Mary Ayres

Chapter 3

1913 Mary Harvey

Chapter 4

1914 Richard Harvey

Chapter 5

Captain Richard Harvey

Chapter 6

September 1915 Mary Harvey

Chapter 7

1915 Brigade

Chapter 8

1915 Brief Interlude

Chapter 9

1915 A Visit to the Regiment

Chapter 10

1915 Awards and Ceremonies

Chapter 11

September 1915 Return to the Fray

Chapter 12

October 1915

Chapter 13

November 1915

Chapter 14

December 1915 Richard Harvey

Chapter 15

December 1915 Bill Robertson and Mary Harvey

Chapter 16

December 1915 London, Richard Harvey and John Thompson

Chapter 17

Wednesday, 22 December 1915 The Long Halls

Chapter 18

January 1916 Mary Harvey A New Approach to Management

Chapter 19

March 1916 Mary Harvey The Two Sides of War

Chapter 20

1916 Mary, John Thompson

Chapter 21

July 1916 Richard Harvey The Battle of the Somme

Chapter 22

1916 Richard Harvey Craiglockhart, the Long Convalescence

Chapter 23

1916/7 Richard Harvey and Horace Lawton The General Staff

Chapter 24

November 1917-September 1918 The Long Stalemate

Chapter 25

December 1920 Henry Gervase Harvey The New Day

*In all of this, give a thought to Guillame Filius de Herveus, the founding member of this great family here in Britain who reached these shores as part of the Knights Array in the entourage of William the Conqueror.

Author’s Notes

H aving set out along the road that leads off into the history of a family, it is very difficult to limit one’s researches to a single generation, and what started out as simply reading to gain background material for one generation spills over to form the basis of a second story about another generation.

Many of you who are aware of ‘Long Halls’ and the Harvey family have written asking for details of the history of the family of Richard Henry Harvey, as an extension of the story that was told in my book Children of the Lonely Night. I did, of course, discover a whole host of information relating to Richard James Harvey and Mary Ayres, the parents of Richard Gervase Harvey, in the library at The Long Halls. They were avid writers of letters and keepers of diaries, and from the contents of these and other family papers, I have compiled the record set out below. At the time of their discovery, I had no intention of using the content for anything other than background detail for my original tale, but as time progressed and the present owner of the estate made his feelings known, I decided that it would be a pleasant idea to extend my original story back a generation and beyond the bounds that I had originally set myself.

It is rather like writing a life story in reverse; one starts with the present and traces the story backwards without realising the difficulties that may result from this simple action. Once again, I am indebted to Sir Malcolm Wakeham and his staff for their help in clarifying the numerous points that I have raised with them during the preparation of this manuscript. I owe a great debt of gratitude to Edward James Henry Harvey, the current owner, for his enthusiasm and for his ability to draw a line of distinction between my interpretation of his family’s history and his perception of what is true. I must also record my sincere thanks to the family of the late Jarvis Johnson for allowing me access to his papers so soon after his death in 1994. Finally, I must thank the people of Branworth for their patience and understanding during the period of time that it took to prepare this book and for my drawing upon their font of memories and stories to simply obtain the detail necessary to pour into this book that I have called The New Day.

Thomas Edward Willington (Solicitor)

The Havelings

Upton

Nottinghamshire

1996

Ancestors

I have seen them running down the breeze that marks the close of day.

I have seen them softly part the trees, and glimpsed

the smiling eyes that stray,

Over the horizon, down to the seas, and on to the end of life.

I have chased their spirits, swiftly springing forward

to become their chosen friend,

I have heard their scented music ringing round the fields at daylights end,

And have run with rasping breath, seeking those ties that

bind me to their life.

I have seen the traces, when pausing along some line of faces,

Where a slight inflection marks a strain so strong,

It recalls a time when this mirage floated in actuality,

and sang its earthly song.

—JRB 1998

Prologue

G iven the opportunity, most of us would elect to spend our time immersed in the peace and tranquility of our own lives, in a society of our own choosing, far away from the noise and rattle that the rest of the world lends to its idea of ‘proper living’. In our haven, we would gather around us a family, a home, a method of earning a living, and all of those possessions and values that would allow us to live within those limits of tolerance and acceptability that we set ourselves.

One of the great precepts of society is conformity, and in truth, conformity is one of the greatest donations that boredom could ever receive. The meekest of men can slip into the rut of society without causing the slightest ripple and will function there as plot and counter-plot unfold, without turning a hair. The normal person will be able to read into the actions, all manner of insult and offence, and will play the game for as long as it remains interesting. Most elements of society are self-deluding whilst remaining self-directing, and only when they cause harm to those who cannot protect themselves do they become offensive.

There are, of course, times when we must all react to the ‘Universal Will’, simply to reiterate that there are standards that all levels of society accept and we must strive to maintain. There are times when there must be a demonstration of the ‘collective will’ that will control or erase those men of greed and violence, who, given the chance, would attempt to control our lives or threaten our very existence.

Our poets and writers have captured this in many ways, none better than the Bard himself:-

In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the actions of the Tiger,

Stiffen up the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise Fair nature with hard-furrowed rage,

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect.

A quiet country man, far more at home in the flat fields of his home county, hidden in the backwoods of his own plot of land, can, when outraged at the actions of others, suppress his own natural fairness to become the tiger that most of his contemporaries would fail to recognise in normal circumstances. Here is a continuation of the history of a country house, the family who inhabit it, and the land that surrounds it. The Harveys, for generations the keepers of the land and the holders of power, are now called to join their workers and their tenant farmers in the trials and tribulation of the Great War and its aftermath.

Chapter 1

1912

Richard Harvey and Mary Ayres

T he cold easterly wind swept across the flat Fens of Lincolnshire, swirling the snow into great rotating patterns, seemingly endless in their permutations, as they battered into the face of the lone horseman. It was late, and the horse was nearing the point of exhaustion, having battled its way for the fourteen miles from the county town on a day when few would have ventured forth. There were still about three miles to go, by his reckoning, before he was back on ‘home territory’, and Richard was anxious to be at home. He was not at all comfortable with the way that the weather was deteriorating.

Snow had been falling for most of the day, but as the evening had fallen, so the wind had increased in intensity, driving before it increasing volumes of snow. The temperature too had fallen well below freezing, and what was at the best of times a poor road surface had become obscured by the accumulating snow. Richard Harvey had started what looked a simple horse ride, but it had now become a hazardous expedition.

As he rode, the weather conditions continued to deteriorate, which in turn slowed his rate of progress until finally, in desperation, he dismounted and attempted to lead his frightened mare on foot. Such was the intensity of the cold that despite his physical exertions, he was frozen to the marrow, and the snow sticking to his outer clothing at one time wet and yielding was now beginning to freeze down to its lower levels. Winter was seeping into the very heart of his being.

‘God, I wish I were at home,’ he muttered for only himself to hear, for there was no one around to hear his murmuring as he struggled along roads and footpaths that would have been familiar to him in normal circumstances. But there, under a pall of snow, the land may just as well have been a lunar landscape. As the darkness of encroaching night reduced the light even further and as the temperature fell even lower and as the intensity of the storm increased to that of a raging blizzard, so Richard had to admit that he was lost.

‘It’s not fit to turn a dog out!’ he yelled to the un-listening world, fully aware that there was no one to hear his ranting yells. ‘Where in hell’s name am I?’ he demanded of himself. ‘Dammit all! I can’t be lost, not here! Hell, I’ve roamed across this land alone for as long as I can remember. No one knows the land here as well as I do. I cannot be lost. Not here. It’s not possible.’

His eyes searched the unfamiliar landscape, looking frantically for some point of recognition, some small sign that would allow him to get his bearings in this sea of white.

He screamed his fear at the night, ‘Blast and damnation to the snow!’ but nobody heard his plaintive cries. No one took pity on this lone rider in search of a haven. Recognising this fact, he continued his monologue, ‘It’s no good. I really must find some place to shelter from this infernal weather. If I don’t, then I’m done for.’

Richard’s young horse, a normally high-spirited mare, was now equally perturbed, sensing from her young rider that all was not well and the blasting weather adding to her fears. She had been shying at each blast of the biting wind, causing Richard to expend precious energy in holding her and calming her. When all was said and done, the horse was his lifeline, his only means of getting out of his current situation. Each step was now a battle against the biting wind and the horse’s intention of making off to discover its own salvation. This continual fight against horse and elements swiftly took its toll, and he swiftly reached the point of exhaustion. The increasing intensity of the snow had reduced his visual range to about three or four yards in any direction, and the biting wind searched to the very depth of his soul. His fingers had lost all of their sense of feeling, and his feet had been sodden since a few steps after he dismounted. The snow, where it had not drifted, was about two feet deep, and the wind was rewriting the landscape with its ability to stir the snow into ripples and drifts which disguised the normal setting of the land in a way that even the local grass would not recognise. The humps that Richard could see bridged over hollows that immersed him up to his thigh and the deeper he penetrated, the greater, became his sense of despair.

Though he was not aware of it, he trudged past fields and woods that he knew well, but it was rage that kept him going and his limited visibility was not assisted by his impatience at his own ability to cope with the prevailing conditions and his cursing of a God who would allow his followers to fall into situations of dire danger and despair.

Thin spicules of ice bit into the tender areas of his face as he attempted to move forward. Trees loomed out of the veil of white to sway violently in his path and then disappear into the backcloth; each branch and twig whipped by the ferocity of a wind gathered to a howling intensity that appeared to be hell-bent on destroying all things that were abroad on this night. Like a giant vortex, the wind grasped at all things in an attempt to twist them into its swirling chasm. The horse, never an easy animal in the calmest of weather, frightened by the night, baulked at a gyrating branch, reared, and snapped the reigns out of frozen hands and was off into the night. Free. Running. Using all of its inner instincts to head in the direction of home and safety.

Richard was left alone in a world of white madness, howling and screaming like a host of lost souls crying from the depths of an unrelenting hell. He was truly alone, alone in the sense that only those who have gazed into the very jaws of death can fully appreciate.

How long were his wanderings? No one will ever know. But there is somewhere a kindly spirit; a spirit of providence, for as if led by some invisible hand, Richard’s footsteps meandered into the court of an isolated farm. It could never be claimed that he found it, for he staggered blindly into it and collapsed into an unconscious heap on the piles of ever-accumulating snow. He was quickly covered and rapidly blended into the landscape through which he had so recently travelled.

Mary Ayres was alone, not that this was the first time that she had been alone; it was not. But the sounds of that particular night were a frightening experience for her. She was alone in the kitchen of her father’s farmhouse, kitting in front of the blazing fire, listening to the crackling of the logs, and trying to shut out the sounds of the storm that was raging outside. She was thankful to be indoors but uncertain of herself due to the fact that her father was away in Sleaford and she was in charge of the family farm.

To the more casual observer, she would have made a very pleasing sight, a point about which she was blissfully unaware, as she sat knitting the hours away between tea and supper, trying to reconcile her loneliness with her love of the countryside and her widower father. At the age of twenty-three, her contact with men had been very limited, to say the least. There were a few fleetingly frivolous contacts with visitors to the farm, but even those were few due to the isolation of the farm. She had few friends of either sex because her father had become more and more withdrawn since the death of her mother, until the point had been reached where they had lost touch with most of the people in the surrounding area. Her father was a morose and bitter man, blaming the whole world for his hard and lonely life.

He dressed the part, wearing black clothing that blended with his dark and heavy features, all of which served only to illustrate the darkness and sadness of his nature. He appeared to enjoy the morose and was best left to his own devices.

Mary doubted if her father would attempt to reach his home on that night. Sleaford was about ten miles away to the east, and the roads were not very good at the best of times. As on many occasions before, she would be left to fend for herself and for the small stock of animals that provided their living. The only good thing about it was that the stock were all under cover and all within easy reach of the farmhouse. The situation was not new, except for the fact that her father was usually away at the public house in Branworth, about three miles away, until after closing time. Nothing had changed much since her fifteenth birthday.

The noise of the wind did not cause her too much bother, for she was used to the winds rushing across the Fens, but the snow was causing her some alarm, because if it became too deep, she might have to spend a considerable time alone in the farm until the roads were cleared and the whole burden of running the farm would fall on her yet again.

At about ten o’clock, she rose, lit the hurricane lamp, and put on her cloak and crossed the kitchen to the door. She checked the lamp, pulled her hood over her head, opened the door, and stepped out into the roaring night. The court was a flurry of gyrating flakes, but she could see the stables, so she gathered her skirts about her and set off towards it, bending into the wind as she stepped out of the shelter of the house. She opened the door against the pressure of accumulated snow and stepped inside. The animals were all snug and warm, so she filled the water trough and hauled down a sheaf of fresh hay. She moved through to the milking shed, which doubled as winter quarters for their five head of cattle, and went through the same process as she had done for the horses. All of the animals were content and settled for the night. Mary secured the outer doors, barring and locking each in its turn. Then she turned towards the house. By then, she was shivering, as the extreme cold penetrated the clothing that she wore. Halfway across the court, she stumbled and fell over an unfamiliar mound in the snow. It stirred and moaned softly but with sufficient sound for her to hear above the noise of the wind. Her heart was beating madly and all sorts of things flashed through her mind.

‘It’s a man,’ she mumbled. ‘Oh lord, he might be a criminal on the run. Whatever will I do now?’

Panic set in. She ran for the kitchen door, seeking out the warmth and the safety of the main house. She slammed the door shut into its frame, dropped the bar into place, and turned the key in its lock, all in one fluid motion. There, she was safe. No one could touch her. She reinforced her feeling of security by throwing all of her body weight against the door and spreading her arms across the inside face of the door more as a gesture than with any conviction of added strength. And there she stood, her breath coming in great frightened gulps, her heart rattling against her ribcage like a drum. She started to smile, her head pressed against the inside of the door. Should she return and offer assistance to this being? He could hardly harm her; after all, he was the one lying face down in the snow. Should she really leave the safety of her father’s house and go out to who knows what? Should she leave this unknown being to its fate?

There is a strange instinct within women, a mixture of curiosity and maternalism that inculcates itself into their beings as they mature. In Mary’s case, the curiosity was overpowering, and the maternal instinct would not allow a fellow being to be left to its fate on a night like that. If she failed to return, it would mean certain death for that man out there, and she could not bring herself to leave someone to die when it was in her power to do something about it. She put on her cloak and returned to the snow-covered mound.

The howling wind was just background noise, the freezing air a spur to get this being into the warmth as quickly as possible. Mary moved close to his face and cleared away the snow to see if she recognised the man, but she did not. What she discovered was that he was a young man of around twenty-five years of age, still in an unconscious state. A full-grown man is not easy to move when he is unconscious. Add to this the fact that he was frozen and covered with snow, and you will appreciate the task for a young woman. By exerting considerable effort, Mary was finally able to drag the inert form across the court and through the door into the light and warmth of the kitchen. After a brief pause in which she regained her breath and composure, she removed her then-saturated cloak and her boots.

She secured the door and thought as she did so that she might be locking a dangerous man inside the house. But she dismissed the thought as nonsense and started to clear the way towards her father’s bedroom. It was a good thing that the house was built in the old style, that is to say with all of its rooms on one level, for it would have been impossible for her to have carried the weight of this man up any stairs. By a mixture of dragging, rolling, and heaving, she finally managed to get him lying face-up on her father’s bed. She was by then saturated in sweat, and the ice and snow had melted from the features of the body, revealing a fine-looking young gentleman of about twenty-five years; a gentleman, for the quality of his clothes and the excellent pair of riding boots that he wore declared him to be so. All of these things were in the same state, that is to say, wet through. This state was not confined to the upper layers of his clothing either; all of his clothing was saturated, a factor that did little to ease Mary’s trepidation. Whatever way she looked at the problem, there was only one answer; she would have to strip off all of his clothing. To do otherwise would leave him open to infection and endanger his health.

She set about the task with an air of detachment, for he was a young and fit man, and Mary had never seen a grown man who was completely naked, and she was a shy and demure young woman. She had concluded that desperate situations demand desperate remedies, so it was that she set about her task with great courage, and at around about midnight, she finally sat down in front of the remains of what had been a roaring fire and was now reduced to a few glowing embers. And there, curled up on a chair, she slept.

There is in a storm, be it on land or at sea, a completeness or finality that defies all description.

The storm that engulfed our young rider and found for him his angel of mercy was no exception. It blew itself out during the course of the night, leaving in its stead a peace and tranquility that was the complete opposite to the clamour and madness of the previous night. Added to all of this was about two and a half feet of snow, spread as far as the eye could see and captured in time by a frost of great intensity to complete the white mantle cast over all. Whiteness, complete. The world was held in an iron grip in which nothing moved that was visible to the human eye. Window panes were frozen over, decorated with that delicate pattern that only an imp of winter could devise. Deep snow drifts had formed, seemingly to the rhythm of the wind, and had then been captured in a state of suspended animation, like some vast sea captured in mid swell and held there as a living monument for all who were there to see and wonder at it. Trees were bedecked with snow trinkets held in postures foreign to the day, each protruding from this great ocean. Great hedges were lost beneath the vast white mantle like ridges that had risen out of the earth at the behest of the storm.

Nothing stirred under the layer of dull clouds that offered the viewer no respite, rather, they inferred that there would be more snow to come.

In a half-submerged farmhouse, Mary Ayres prepared herself for the start of another day, a working day, the chores of the farm and the duties of the household combining to make a formidable task for even the strongest and most reticent of women. At 6 a.m., she was already well into the routine of her day but deliberately avoiding the door of her father’s room, delaying as long as possible the confrontation with the stranger who slept in there. Her mind was in a state of turmoil; would he accept that the actions that she had taken had been necessary for his continued health and well-being, or would he look upon her actions as an unwarranted infringement of his personal privacy?

‘What would he think? Who was he? What was he? Where did he come from?’

By 7.30 a.m., she had completed the milking and had foddered all of the cattle and horses. Mary returned to the kitchen only when driven to do so by the pangs of hunger that developed on the wings of her physical labour and the cold crispness of the morning. The feeling inside her certainly demanded that breakfast should be served.

Richard Harvey stirred from the realms of what seemed to be an unrelenting nightmare that had distorted his night into a parody of all that was real. It had been a dream of mammoth proportions in which he had wandered lost and helpless in a vast sea of white, a changing sea that twisted the sinews of the netherworld into rapidly changing forms and meanings. At the point where death appeared inevitable, he awakened to both warmth and light, two elements that had been missing before. He was awake, and he was alive, but where was he? ‘Whose was the bed and whose the room? They were not of his own home, so where was he?’ The furnishings were cruel con tortions of good taste and certainly were not to be found in any part of his grandfather’s house. He tried to move, only to discover that he was too weak to move far. ‘Whose nightshirt was this? But more to the point, where were his clothes? Was this still the dream, a continuation of his vivid nightmare?’

There were no clothes, no trousers, nor boots to wear. He had to admit it; he would have to stay where he was until someone showed their face, though he had to be honest. He would have been hard pressed to go anywhere at all. He would have to be content to stay where he was, enclosed in the warm cocoon of sheet and blanket.

The female of the species has one attribute that is common to all ages and all varieties of that species, that being a consuming curiosity. This curiosity outstrips propriety and devours expediency to give them, from the onlooker’s point of view, a very special interest to record. And like the rest of her sex, Mary was no exception to the rule. So by the time that 8 30 had come and gone, her curiosity overflowed, and she had to utilise the guise of the ministering angel as an excuse for entering the bedroom of the stranger. She had prepared a tray for his breakfast, strong in the knowledge that he had survived his traumatic experience and had awakened refreshed in to the new day. She knocked on the door, and in one sweeping movement, she threw open the door and cast out a cheery ‘Good mor…’ which died on her lips almost before it had started, as she stood and drank in the detail of the man lying in her father’s bed. Mary was truly the speechless nurse on the threshold of the sick room, on the threshold of the one really important thing that had happened to her since she had left the care of her aunt. There she was, actually becoming a human being again and making contact with people of her own age.

She was in a trance that bordered on embarrassment when she thought about what she had done in following her own natural instincts. Girls of her age simply did not take the clothes from the backs of unconscious strangers, no matter what the situation might dictate. She blushed, a blush so deep and warm that her cheeks and ears seemed to glow and burn at the same time. She knew in her own mind that what she had done was correct, but when the details of this reached out into the highways and byways of Lincolnshire, what would all of the busybodies contrive to make out of it all?

She snapped herself out of the temporary confusion and continued with her original intent.

‘Good morning. My name is Mary Ayres, and I hope that you are felling a little better this morning.’ She poured out the statement without pause, hoping to divert his attention for a few seconds, but her ploy did not affect the situation at all.

‘Where am I?’ he interrupted the flow of words.

But Mary was equal to his riposte. ‘In better condition than you were at about ten o’clock last night,’ she snapped back at what she considered to be a display of bad manners.

Richard was in a situation where he had to be contrite, for he appeared to be in a prison that was not of his own choosing, and yet the jailer seemed to be rather attractive.

‘Oh, please do forgive me. That must have sounded rather boorish, but I am not used to being in this sort of situation. My name is Richard Harvey, and my family owns and farms the Long Halls Estate near the village of Branworth. I was en route from Lincoln back to the estate when I was caught in a snowstorm, and I not only lost my horse, but I also lost my way. I would be obliged if you could let me know how long I have been here and whereabouts I am. No doubt my horse has made its own way back home, but I have not. So, would you tell me where I am and to whom do I owe my life? For without that person’s courage, I would most certainly have died outside in that terrible storm.’

‘Well, Richard Harvey, you are about four miles from Branworth, out on the Bardney Road over the fen. Other than this house, you are about two miles away from the nearest habitation.’ Mary related her tale in a matter-of-fact sort of way, as she moved round the bed and placed the tray in front of him. ‘I found you unconscious under a pile of snow in our farm court a little after eleven last night, and there being no other person here, I had to act in what I considered to be your best interests, bearing in mind that you were unconscious at the time. In short, I acted as I saw fit in the circumstances.’

‘Madam, words fail me,’ Richard spoke with mock severity. ‘I am naked under these sheets, and I would like to know how this situation came about.’ Mary was by that time seething with indignation and embarrassment; she turned and fled from the room. This sudden turn of events had not been foreseen by Richard, and it caused him some difficulty, for he had no clothes of any description and therefore could not follow her to make his apologies. He had not intended to cause her alarm or to chide her in any way. He had merely intended a mild leg pull, followed by profuse thanks, but his spirit of amusement had allowed things to go a little too far, and she had taken offence. This was not the first time that this type of rapport had caused him a problem. It, of course, left him to contemplate his surroundings, still without his clothes but with sufficient food to start him upon the road to recovery.

Once fed, the human being can usually stand almost anything that this world has to offer. In a normal situation, Richard was no exception, but in that particular instance, he was rather sorry for the way his attempted joke had misfired, causing Miss Ayres deep embarrassment; and that too, after all that she had done for him. He had wanted to put the matter right straight away but found to his dismay that he was not as strong as he thought he was. In reality, he was a very tired, exhausted, and sick man, and he quickly fell into a deep sleep.

By 10 a.m., the Ayres’ farmhand, knowing that Mary was alone at the farm, had walked through the deep snow to reach her and find out if everything was all right. He was full of tales, both true and manufactured, that had been passed on from the village about the storm and all of the damage that it had caused. Mary sent him off on horseback to Branworth to get Dr Bailey, for Richard Harvey was by that time running a very high temperature and had lapsed back into unconsciousness.

Mary gave William a written message asking the doctor to inform the people at ‘The Long Halls’ that Richard was safe but not in the best of health following his ordeal. It was well after noon before William returned with the news that it was unlikely that either of the doctors would be able to get to see Richard before nightfall. On the basis of what he had done to get to work and then to fight his way through to Branworth, after he had finished the afternoon’s milking, Mary sent William off home.

Richard Harvey was still unconscious and running a high fever; all of the bedclothing was saturated with perspiration, and in order to prevent him from becoming even more ill, Mary built a fire in the bedroom and put more blankets on the bed. Just as evening had started to fall, old Dr