They sat in the damp cellar all that night. They listened to the crump of falling bombs, and shuddered as they heard all the explosions.
Flakes of whitewash floated down and settled on their heads, as soft as snow. The baby whimpered, but sucked milk from the comforter Rose made from a corner of her handkerchief, and finally she slept.
The morning came at last. People crept out of their houses blinking and red-eyed, and fearful of the damage they might see. The bitter smell of burning brick and timber filled the cold air.
As Rose stared around, she saw most roofs in this particular street were missing half their tiles. A dozen chimney stacks lay broken on the road, and almost every window was blown out.
‘Look at Mrs Taylor’s house!’ cried Nathan, horrified.
‘Oh, my God.’ Rose turned and saw a cottage had been hit and set on fire. A horse-drawn fire engine was standing in the street, and firemen were searching through the shell.
Rose gave the child to Mrs Rosenheim and ran up to the house. ‘I’m a nurse,’ she told the policeman who stood guard outside. ‘If there’s anything I can do–’
‘There’s nothing anyone can do for Mrs Taylor, miss.’ The policeman blinked, as if he were trying not to cry. ‘A woman and three kids, all burnt alive. What had they ever done to anybody?’
The devastation was repeated all along the road. The corner shop was standing, but every window had been broken. All the stock was ruined, and Mrs Rosenheim began to cry.
‘I can’t stand it any more!’ she sobbed, butting her head against her son’s thin chest. ‘First they take your brothers, then your cousin Reuben, then they take our livelihood, our home!’
She looked down at the baby. ‘What will I do with this one? How am I going to feed her, clothe her, when I don’t have anything myself?’
Nathan hugged her, whispering soothing words in a language Rose had never heard until today. But Mrs Rosenheim would not be comforted. Rocking to and fro, she wailed like an animal in pain.
‘Mrs Rosenheim?’ Rose touched the little woman’s bony shoulder. ‘Let me have the baby. I’ll take her home with me. I’ll write to Maria and tell her Phoebe’s missing. But I’ll say she mustn’t worry because you’re looking out for her and we’re sure she’ll soon turn up again.’
‘But Rose, how will you manage?’ wept Mrs Rosenheim. ‘A young girl like you, not married – how can you care for a new-born baby?’
‘I live in the country,’ Rose replied. ‘My parents have a house in Dorset. If I take the baby there, you’ll know she will be safe.’
Rose fished in her bag. ‘I’ll give you my address. When you see Phoebe, tell her where to find me, then she can come and get her daughter. Mrs Rosenheim, it’s the only way,’ she added, urgently. ‘Maria is my friend. So let me help, and let me take the child.’
‘Mamele?’ whispered Nathan. ‘Rose is right, you know. This is the best way.’
When Rose got to Paddington, she heard a train had been derailed near Reading. There were lots of casualties. The westbound line was blocked, and all the trains to Cornwall, Devon and Dorset were having to be re-routed. The station heaved with anxious passengers and tired, disgruntled soldiers who were going home on leave.
Before the war, any well-dressed woman travelling alone and carrying a tiny baby would have excited curiosity. But nobody was interested today, even when the baby cried and Rose could not comfort it.
She’d hoped to get some milk when she was finally on the train, but there was no dining car or buffet, just carriage after carriage packed with soldiers.
The baby sobbed and wailed pathetically. As the train steamed out into the grimy London suburbs, Rose began to push her way past soldiers standing, sitting or slumped in all the corridors, smoking, playing cards or trying to sleep, until eventually she found the guard.
‘I need some milk to feed the baby,’ she informed him.
‘Do you, miss?’ The guard looked bored. ‘Well, I ain’t got a cow.’
‘Please help me, she’s so hungry.’ Rose decided she hated this complacent, mean-eyed man whose polished buttons gleamed on his immaculate black jacket. ‘You must have some milk on board. Perhaps the driver, or the fireman–’
‘Sorry, miss.’ The guard looked at his watch. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I got things to do.’
Rose arrived at Charton at five o’clock that evening. She’d been shunted all round rural Dorset, often standing in a draughty corridor with a baby who was now too weak and too exhausted to do anything but doze and whimper fitfully.
She stood on the station platform, breathing in the cold night air and trying to decide what she should do. She’d need to find a foster mother soon. But maybe that could wait. She’d go to the Dower House first, see her mother, and explain what she’d been doing in London. Lady Courtenay loved all babies, and was sure to make a fuss of this one.
‘Hello, Polly!’ Rose smiled gratefully at the maid who’d come to let her in. She hardly noticed Polly staring at the tiny baby, her eyes as round as marbles. ‘What an awful journey! I expect my mother’s in the sitting room?’
‘Y-yes, Miss Courtenay.’ Polly frowned. ‘But she hasn’t been very well today. I think she’s asleep.’
‘She won’t mind if I wake her up.’ Rose walked across the hallway. ‘Polly, be an angel and make a pot of tea, and also warm some milk for this young lady. See if you can find a little spoon.’
‘Yes, Miss Courtenay.’ Polly shook her head, but then she did as she was told. She bustled down the passage to the kitchen, muttering to herself.
Rose hadn’t meant to wake her mother until Polly brought the tea, but when she walked into the sitting room the baby woke. She looked at Rose with huge, blue eyes, and whimpered.
‘Rose?’ Lady Courtenay had been dozing on the sofa, but when she heard the baby she woke up. She blinked and stared. ‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered.
‘Mummy, it’s all right.’ Rose smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m sorry about what happened yesterday. But I knew they’d look after you at the clinic and I dare say Daddy got my telegram in time–’
‘I think I’m going mad.’ Frances Courtenay looked first at her daughter, then at the baby and then at Rose again. ‘I thought you’d done everything you ever could to hurt me. But I see I was wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rose was so exhausted and so thirsty she could hardly think. All she wanted was to sit down by the fire, drink her tea and feed the starving baby.
‘You’ve no consideration for my feelings,’ Lady Courtenay muttered. ‘You have no dignity, no self-respect, no shame.’
At last, Rose understood. ‘Mummy, it’s not my baby!’ she exclaimed. Almost laughing at the sheer absurdity of this, she went over to her mother, crouching down beside her and trying to take her hand.
‘Don’t touch me!’ Frances Courtenay shrank away. ‘My own daughter comes in here, grinning like a hoyden, behaving like a woman of the street, and then expects – God knows I prayed for children,’ she went on, wretchedly. ‘Your father wanted sons, of course. But when God sent you, I thanked him every hour of every day. Rose, how could you do this to us? How could you hurt us–’
‘Mummy, don’t be ridiculous!’ Rose could not believe what she was hearing. She shook her head, as if to clear it. ‘This is not my child! I wasn’t pregnant, I–’
‘You expect me to believe you?’ Lady Courtenay turned her head away.
‘Mummy, pregnant women are enormous, they have bulging stomachs, they–’
‘Oh, there are ways and means. Rose, I’m not so ignorant and stupid I don’t know that!’ Frances Courtenay fidgeted and grimaced, twisting her white hands, pulling and tugging at her jewelled rings.
‘When I was a girl, even respectable women used to lace themselves so tightly one never knew they were expecting until the baby came! As for women from the lower classes – we once had a parlour maid, she had her baby in the butler’s pantry. She wouldn’t let anybody in, we had to break the door down
in the end, we–’
‘Mummy, you’re being silly. Please sit still and listen–’
‘Why should I listen to you?’ Lady Courtenay’s eyes flashed sapphire fire. ‘You lie and you deceive and you don’t care how much you hurt me! I never did anything to you but love you, and – oh God in heaven!’
Rose watched in horror as her mother toppled forward, collapsing on the hearth rug. ‘Mummy!’ She knelt by Lady Courtenay, feeling for her pulse, but couldn’t find one.
‘Polly!’ she shouted. ‘Polly, come here – hurry! Where are my mother’s tablets?’ But Rose soon realised her mother was past the help of tablets. When Polly finally appeared, bringing the round red leather box upon a silver tray, it was too late to do anything.
‘Oh, Miss Courtenay!’ Polly dropped the tray and gasped. ‘May God forgive you for the wicked thing you’ve done!’
‘What’s all the commotion?’ Rose’s father walked into the sitting room to find his wife lying lifeless on the hearth rug, the maid having hysterics and his daughter cradling a baby, while the tears poured unchecked down her face.
Sir Gerard looked at Rose, then at the child. His usually ruddy face was drained of all its colour.
‘Daddy, let me talk to you,’ cried Rose. ‘Let me explain–’
‘Get out of my sight.’ Sir Gerard glared at Rose. ‘You’re not my daughter. I never want to see you in my house again.’
Chapter Ten
Still cradling the baby in her arms, Rose left the Dower House. Deep in shock, she didn’t know how she walked along the path, let alone reached the road.
Before this evening, she had never seen her father angry, and this had been as frightening as Lady Courtenay dying. When she’d returned to Dorset, Sir Gerard had behaved as if she’d never been away. The tenants and servants took their tone from him and even Polly had concealed her curiosity.
The arrears of her allowance had mounted up, so she was rich. All her clothes hung clean and pressed in two capacious wardrobes, and her other belongings had been taken to the Dower House or stored. When she went to church or to the village, no one had commented or stared – at least, not openly.
She knew she couldn’t go far tonight. It was as dark as pitch and threatening rain. A cold wind was gusting from the east, and she wasn’t dressed or shod for walking miles across the fields or down the winding road back to the village. She’d already ricked her ankle coming along the drive to Charton Minster, and now it hurt to walk.
She had no choice. She set off down the footpath that would take her round the headland and to Easton Hall.
To Rose’s great relief, Celia herself came to the door. She had evidently just come in, for she stood there in her outdoor clothes, one boot off, one on, and staring at the visitor in amazement.
‘Oh, Celia!’ Rose was almost fainting. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to let me in.’
‘Rose, what on earth–’
‘I know I shouldn’t have come here,’ Rose continued. ‘But there was nowhere else to go.’
‘Rose Courtenay, you astonish me.’ But Celia stood back to let the bedraggled visitor come inside.
Then she rang the bell. ‘Hannah,’ she said crisply to the goggling servant, ‘please bring tea and sandwiches for us, and – warm milk for the baby, Rose?’
‘Please,’ said Rose, who was feeling sick and dizzy from hunger, cold and pain.
‘Hurry along now, Hannah.’ Celia turned back to Rose. ‘Let’s go into the parlour. There ought to be a decent fire in there.’
As they sat down, Celia glanced obliquely at the baby. ‘I suppose it’s Michael’s child?’
‘So the mother says.’
‘Then it isn’t yours?’
‘Oh, Celia!’ cried Rose, ‘not you as well!’
‘I’m sorry, but you must admit–’
‘I know,’ said Rose. ‘I didn’t mean to shout at you.’
‘May I see?’ Celia came to crouch by Rose’s side. ‘A boy or girl?’
‘A girl.’
‘Poor little thing.’ Celia turned towards the open door. ‘You may come in, Hannah! There’s no need to stand there in the passage, listening.’
‘I wasn’t listening, miss.’ But the maid looked sheepish as she carried in the laden tray.
‘You may tell them in the kitchen that it’s not Miss Courtenay’s child,’ Celia added curtly, as she poured. ‘Then you may spread it all around the district.’
‘Very good, Miss Easton.’ The maid was blushing crimson. ‘Miss, I know it’s not my place to gossip about my betters.’
‘It most certainly is not, but that has never stopped you,’ said Celia genially.
The maid glanced furtively at Rose, then she scuttled out.
‘Rose, don’t cry,’ said Celia, as Rose’s grey eyes filled and tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. ‘I’m not blind or stupid. I know what my precious brother does, how he behaves when he’s away from Dorset. Believe me, he’s not worth your grief.’
‘I’m not crying for Michael.’ Rose spooned up some milk then tried to feed the weak, exhausted baby, who was as pale as death. ‘My mother thought–’
‘Well, she would,’ said Celia. ‘She and Mrs Sefton–’
‘You don’t understand,’ sobbed Rose. ‘Celia, she’s dead!’
The coal scuttle was empty and the room was growing cold. Celia stood up. ‘We ought to go to bed,’ she yawned. ‘You’ll have to sleep in Mike’s room. I know it’s not ideal, especially in the present circumstances. But otherwise we’ll have to move a brat, and it’s bound to go and wake my mother.’
‘I don’t mind where I sleep,’ said Rose, who had forgotten Celia had a dozen brothers and sisters, and her mother and father must be somewhere in this great, decaying place.
But these days Celia was in charge. When Lady Easton came into the breakfast room that morning, all of a fluttering twitter and full of the news she’d just heard from her maid, Celia stayed quietly unperturbed.
‘We must find the child a foster mother,’ she said, briskly. ‘Mummy, do please pass the marmalade. You could ring for Hannah, we’re going to need more toast. Rose, there’s the very person in the village. She’s just had twins, but she’s the sort of woman who could nurse a dozen, and what’s more she’s respectable and kind. You and I can visit often, and when Mike comes home–’
‘We need to find her mother,’ Rose reminded Celia.
‘I think that might be awkward. I understand it’s relatively easy to disappear in London?’
‘Yes, perhaps.’ Rose blushed. ‘Let’s hope she’ll contact us.’
‘If you write to Mrs Rubinstein, or whatever the woman’s called, she could give this Phoebe person my name and address.’
Celia twinkled at the baby, who was lying in Rose’s arms and doing her best to drink the milk Rose offered on a spoon. ‘She’s certainly getting the hang of that,’ she smiled. ‘What a clever girl! Rose, I meant to ask last night – what is the child’s name?’
Rose had never given it a thought. This was not her baby, and she had no right to name her, but if she didn’t, who would? ‘What about Elizabeth, or Daisy?’ she suggested.
‘Daisy.’ Celia smiled and nodded. ‘Little Daisy – perfect.’
‘What shall we tell the foster mother?’ Rose asked anxiously.
‘We tell the truth, of course.’ Celia met Lady Easton’s gaze. ‘Rose was in an air raid. Daisy’s mother is missing.’
‘But what about her father?’ Lady Easton asked.
‘Let’s not mention him.’ Celia looked down at her finger nails. ‘We’ll have to see what Michael says, when he comes home again.’
‘Michael?’ Lady Easton frowned. ‘Celia, my dear–’
‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’ Celia shrugged. ‘It appears I’m now an aunt and you’re a grandmamma. Rose, I’m due in Dorchester at twelve. I’m running a knitting bee for the Red Cross. Scarves and socks and all that sort of thing. But we have things to do.’
‘Wha
t shall you do now?’ asked Celia, as she and Rose walked down the path from Mrs Hobson’s honey-coloured cottage, where Celia had introduced the baby, negotiated terms and said she’d visit often.
‘I need somewhere to live.’
‘You’d be very welcome at the Hall.’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t stay there.’ Rose glanced at Celia. ‘I don’t want your mother to be embarrassed. I’ll go and see Miss Mason, at the house.’
At the Minster, Rose found the gossip and speculation had preceded her, but Jessie Mason wasn’t interested in scandal. ‘I know it’s not my business,’ she began, meeting Rose’s tired gaze with candid, hazel eyes. ‘But I would like to say that I have every faith in your respectability. I value your abilities as a nurse.’
‘Then may I stay here?’
‘Miss Courtenay, it’s your home!’ Jessie Mason spread her hands. ‘Of course, Sir Gerard may decide to intervene. But as the matron of this place, I would be delighted if you’d stay.’
So Rose moved to the Minster, sleeping in an attic that had once belonged to Polly, and working all the hours she wasn’t actually asleep or down in the village seeing Daisy. To her great relief, the child was thriving and contented. She had lost the pallor she’d once had, so Rose no longer feared she might die.
She was not invited to her mother’s funeral. She was on duty when she heard them toll the knell, and doing a ward round when they brought the coffin to the family crypt, in the private chapel that adjoined the house.
As the mourners left the Minster and walked across the gravel sweep towards their waiting carriages, Rose forced herself to concentrate on a particularly awkward dressing. As the last carriage crunched across the gravel, she was sorting out a blockage in the drainage tube in Major Dyson’s chest.
Rose wrote to Maria, explaining about Daisy but not mentioning her mother’s death. Three or four times a week, she walked down to the honey-coloured cottage to see the child.
Whenever she sat in Mrs Hobson’s warm and cluttered kitchen with Daisy on her lap, she knew how it must feel to be a mother. Gazing into Daisy’s wide blue eyes, she felt a tugging at her heart and a sweet yearning that was almost pain.
The Silver Locket (Choc Lit) Page 12