by Anna Jacobs
She never stopped worrying, though. Not for a second.
One frosty day towards the end of December, Kathleen came home from changing her books at the library in the next village and stopped dead in the doorway, sure that someone had been in her house. It smelt different and it felt different, too.
She checked all her cupboards and drawers, and although most things were in their usual places, a few weren’t quite as she’d left them. Ernest had always said she was a creature of habit, but the old saying ‘A place for everything and everything in its place’ seemed a good way to organise your home.
She checked every single drawer and cupboard for a second time, but nothing had been taken. She was sure this search had been arranged by Godfrey Seaton, because who else cared about what she owned? Was he still seeking her marriage certificate? Did he want to destroy it? That was the only reason she could see for the search.
Should she take everyone by surprise and leave tonight? Was it time to tear her poor children away from all they knew?
Only … Godfrey hadn’t harmed them, had he? If he had, she’d have run away the same day.
The time to leave was coming closer, though. She knew it.
Not yet, though. Not quite yet. She wasn’t sure why she felt that, but she did.
And oh, she wanted the children to live a normal life for as long as possible, to grow a little older before their lives were disrupted, and at least to finish this school year.
The following year came in without a lot of fuss from Kathleen. She was in bed by ten o’clock as usual on New Year’s Eve and lay there thinking about the year to come. Would this be the year they had to flee from Monks Barton? Probably.
But at least the children were a little older now. Christopher would turn nine in 1911 and Elizabeth eight. They were strong enough to walk a long way if they had to vanish into the night.
Where had the last decade gone? It seemed only a moment since her children were babies.
As the months passed she read in the newspapers about things happening in the wider world, but most of them seemed to have little effect on life in their small village.
King George opened his first parliament in February, but of more concern to some of the thinking people she chatted to occasionally was that Germany had increased the size of its army by half a million men. That number was far beyond her comprehension. What did that many men look like if you lined them all up? She had no idea.
In April her father turned up after school was finished for the day and asked to meet the children. He congratulated her on their rosy good health.
Why had he wanted to see them? Was she being suspicious about nothing, or had Godfrey sent him, hoping they would be sickly?
In May Lloyd George introduced the new National Health Insurance Bill. Now that seemed a really good idea to her. Poor people were always so worried about how to pay doctors’ bills. If she’d had a vote, she’d have voted for a government who looked after people’s health.
She read in the newspapers about plans for the new king’s coronation, which would take place at the end of June. You couldn’t help being interested. He was their king, after all. She still wasn’t used to saying King George and as for Mary, it seemed a woefully ordinary name for a queen.
The coronation was going to be very grand, with thousands of guests. They were closing Westminster Abbey a few weeks early to fit it out for the ceremony, she read. What a waste of money that was! Couldn’t royal people and lords and ladies sit in wooden pews for a couple of hours as other people did? It’d have been more economical to provide them with cushions.
And every month since Mr Seaton’s visit, her father came to see her, bringing her housekeeping money and asking if everything was all right.
What did he expect her to say? Of course it wasn’t all right! Godfrey Seaton was a shadow looming over her life.
The weather was glorious, the best spring and summer she could ever remember. Too sunny and dry, according to farmers.
In June, just before the coronation, her father seemed in a friendlier mood. He talked about his life as a widower, and mentioned a woman he’d been seeing.
‘Would you mind me marrying again, Kathleen Frances?’
She was surprised he’d even bothered to ask her. ‘No, of course not. It’s what most men do. They need someone to care for them and make a home.’
‘It’s not that. I have a woman coming in to keep house for me and she’s a good worker. It’s the company I miss, in bed and out of it. Now the children are grown up, I’m on my own of an evening. Mr Seaton doesn’t like me going to the pub and warned me he’d not employ a drunkard.’
He scowled down at his feet, then sighed and looked at her. ‘He still keeps an eye on you, you know, not just through my visits, either. He sends men to watch what you’re doing from time to time. He doesn’t want you marrying again, says he doesn’t want a husband causing trouble for him and his poor aunt.’
‘I don’t want to marry again. It’s probably the only thing he and I agree about.’
Her father frowned. ‘He’s got something planned for your future, I know he has. Don’t ever let your guard drop, my girl.’
‘I won’t, Da.’
That was probably the longest chat they’d ever had and the most concern he’d ever shown for her.
Was it a ploy to gain her confidence or was it genuine concern?
Chapter Seventeen
Twenty miles away from the village where Kathleen lived, in the large old house called Greyladies, Harriet Latimer donned her coat and hat, and went outside to the motor car that was waiting for her, a shiny-clean Austin Landaulette. Barty, from the village, ran a taxi service taking people into Swindon or wherever they needed to go, or even just out for drives in the country.
This service, with all the novelty of it being a motor car not a horse-drawn vehicle, had been very successful, partly due to the fact that Barty had had a telephone installed, one of the first in the village, so that his customers could contact him more easily.
It was only people like her, with money to spare, who used taxis, of course.
She nodded to him and settled into the front seat beside him. There weren’t side windows or doors in the front but at least the driver and his passenger had a windscreen to protect them from the rushing air as the car travelled so quickly along the roads. And canvas blinds had been fitted at the sides for added protection. The weather was good today, so she didn’t mind an extra dose of fresh air. The back seat always felt like a glass-walled box to her.
She’d have liked to take someone with her today to get another opinion on what she was thinking of doing. Unfortunately she hadn’t expected to hear so quickly about a suitable house being up for sale and her husband had gone up to London for a couple of days by the time she received the phone call. And the ladies she’d asked to help her with this charitable venture weren’t wealthy enough to have telephones in their houses.
But she had to go because she didn’t want someone else snapping up the house if it was as suitable for her purpose as it sounded. It was being sold by Perry’s, unfortunately. She’d met Mr Perry before and hadn’t taken to him. He was patronising and treated women like mindless idiots. He’d told her when he phoned that a gentleman had been very interested in the house but had apparently decided at the last minute to buy another one instead.
So she was going on her own to look at Honeyfield House. Silly of her to be charmed by its pretty name, but it seemed like a good omen. She murmured it again and turned to smile a farewell at her own house as Barty cranked up the motor. Greyladies was such a beautiful old place. She hadn’t expected to inherit it and never took it for granted: it was such a privilege to live here.
Honeyfield House was several miles away from Challerton, with Malmesbury as its nearest town, only a small market town, but the charity committee had decided it would be better to buy a house in a quiet country area and she fully agreed with them.
She would be using m
oney from the Greyladies Trust Fund to purchase a house, but as usual, would do that anonymously. That was the way things had been done for the several centuries the trust had existed. The chatelaines of the big house always tried to stay out of the limelight, made anonymous ‘bequests’ and appointed other ladies to run the various ventures.
Since Challerton was a small village, people seemed to know everyone else’s business, so she’d drawn her committee from a wider area, using a network of acquaintances and their friends to find suitable members. This project was to provide asylum mainly for women in danger from violent husbands, so there was an even stronger need for secrecy.
They turned off the main road north of Malmesbury, heading east now into the Cotswolds. This was an area she didn’t know very well and she thought it pretty, with small farms set on gentle slopes, and an occasional orchard or market garden. It was wonderful how motor cars were opening up the world for people. Trains had made a beginning with that seventy years before, but with cars you could travel as an individual and set your own destinations.
A sign said they were approaching the village of Honeyfield and she looked ahead to see a pretty little hamlet. However, Barty turned right before they got there. She would explore the village later if the Trust bought the house.
A battered old sign with a pointing finger on the end said ‘Honeyfield House’ and they turned right again along a narrow winding lane between high hedges. There were no cottages along the lane, which was good considering her purpose. The lane ended suddenly at what were presumably the gates of the house.
Barty stopped the car, saying in satisfaction, ‘I reckon this is it, Mrs Latimer. There isn’t a name but it’s the only house along this lane here and they wouldn’t put up a sign for nothing, would they now?’
‘You always seem to get us where we wish to go.’
Barty rolled his shoulders in a big stretch, clearly ready for a brief pause and chat. ‘Them new road maps you got me are a wonderful help. That’s progress, that is, making maps like that for anyone to buy. And when the maps don’t tell me the details, well, I’ve still got a tongue in my head, haven’t I?’
‘I hope you managed to find out how to get here without telling anyone where we were going. This is one of my special trips.’
He chuckled. ‘So you said. I haven’t let you down yet, have I?’
‘No, Barty, you’ve always kept my secrets. What’s more, you’re an excellent driver. I feel very safe with you.’
‘Well, you bought me the car after the accident on the farm, didn’t you? Gave me a way to earn a living even with a gammy leg. Got me a telephone, too. It’s surprised me how often my car is called out by someone phoning me. I won’t never forget what you did, Mrs Latimer. No, never.’ After another pause, he added, ‘Strange coincidence that I don’t never seem to be busy when you need me, though.’
‘We’ve been lucky, haven’t we?’ Sometimes strange things did happen to Greyladies and its occupants, but strange in a positive way. She wasn’t going to discuss that so contented herself with, ‘I was glad to help you, Barty.’
‘You do it quiet-like, but I reckon you’ve helped a lot of people round our way over the years.’
‘I do my best.’
‘How many years have you been at Greyladies now?’
‘Six, I think. Or is it seven now?’
‘Well, you’re still young so we’ll look forward to having you as the lady of the house there for a good few years yet, I reckon.’
‘Chatelaines don’t always stay on at Greyladies, you know. We don’t own it – we’re only given the right to live there.’
Silence, then he asked, ‘Are you thinking of leaving, then?’
‘It just seems to happen sometimes. None of us plan it, exactly, but I feel, and I’ve always felt, that I won’t be chatelaine there for my whole life.’
She blinked her eyes to clear the tears that always came into them when she thought of leaving the wonderful old house. It wouldn’t happen yet, though. She sensed that she, her beloved husband and her children still had some time left to enjoy living there. She couldn’t imagine what would take them away, because Joseph had older brothers to inherit the family estate, so he had no responsibilities to his wider family. But something would happen, she was sure.
Many Latimers had this strange extra sense about the world. Not harmful, just … as if they could see things differently, sense the future.
Barty stared round. ‘Lot of wild flowers round here, it being so sheltered. Real nice to see them.’
She looked at the hedgerows on either side of the gates. There were plenty of flowers at this time of year and she could see bees buzzing in and out of the blossoms. She’d always thought bees such comfortable, busy little creatures. The sight of them comforted her. You could almost say that she lived the same way, keeping busy, doing what came to hand. No use fretting about what might happen one day.
The wrought-iron gates were standing open and she could see why. One of them had a hinge missing, which had caused it to hang drunkenly to one side, and the other was propped open by two bricks around which grass had grown.
‘Shame to let that gate hang there all skew-whiff,’ Barty commented disapprovingly. ‘Would only take a few minutes to fit another hinge and straighten her up, then it’d just take a bit of sandpapering and a lick of paint to get rid of that rust. You’d think people would look after their house, wouldn’t you?’
‘You’d think so. Could you stop for a few moments when the house comes into view please, Barty? I want to study the outside of it.’
When he stopped, he said, ‘I suppose they ought to keep the lawn mowed, but it looks like a pretty meadow with all the wild flowers growing so free. Must be lots of happy bees round here. Do you think that’s why it’s called Honeyfield House?’
‘Could be.’ She studied the building at the end of the drive. ‘How strange! It looks like a much smaller version of Greyladies.’
It was built in beautiful Cotswold stone, with a steep roof of stone slabs on which patches of golden lichen had found a home. High gables seemed to stand guard at each end of the building, which was two storeys high, three if you counted the attics whose windows were set in small gables in the roof.
‘She could be a pretty house, couldn’t she?’ Barty said after a while. ‘But she’s looking sad and weary.’
Harriet liked the way he personalised objects. And yes, this house did look like a ‘she’ somehow. ‘If I like the interior, Barty, the trust fund I’m representing will be able to set things to rights.’
‘Who are you going to help this time, Mrs Latimer, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘We’ll take in anyone who’s in trouble or danger and needs somewhere to stay hidden for a while, which will be women mostly, hiding from violent men. But keep that to yourself. If I buy it, I’m going to tell people it’s a convalescent home.’
‘Sounds like a good idea. If I had money to spare, I’d help other folk as well.’
‘I did hear that you’d been doing some repairs for old Mrs Watley.’
He flushed. ‘Well, she couldn’t do them herself, could she, not at her age? And that son of hers is a proper townie who don’t know one end of a hammer from the other. Selfish, he is. Hardly ever comes to see her. She don’t complain but I know that upsets her. There are too many selfish people in this world, and that’s a fact.’
‘And too many violent people as well, who take pleasure in hurting those weaker than themselves.’
‘Ah. I never could abide bullies.’
‘Well, we’d better get going, Barty. I can see another motor car parked at the side of the house, so Mr Perry must be waiting for us.’
He was an accountant whose firm had a sideline selling property. He had spoken to her on the telephone, explaining that the previous owner had been dead for several years and the house now belonged to the lady’s son, who was stationed in India.
Looking at Honeyfield House with its faded,
peeling paint and dirty windows, Harriet felt that the son should have done more about maintenance, if only to keep up the value. She’d mention that when they discussed the price being asked.
She already knew she was going to buy it, had done as soon as she clapped eyes on it. And that strange other-worldly intuition was never wrong.
She’d already set up a small trust to buy and then run the home. There was always enough money in the main trust for such projects and if more was needed, a dividend would come in or an investment suddenly increase in value, or one of the people who’d been helped and were now comfortably circumstanced would make a donation.
How that happened in such a timely fashion, she had no idea. She was just glad that it was part of the conditions of inheriting Greyladies that the chatelaine used this money to help people, usually other women but sometimes men like Barty. It gave such a satisfying purpose to her life.
She’d known what Barty needed too, and look how valuable he’d become to her and the work of the trust.
Felix Perry waited impatiently for his client to arrive. He was a little early because the roads weren’t busy today and his driver had driven over from Malmesbury without let or hindrance. He pulled out his watch and studied it again. His time was valuable and he didn’t always go out to show clients round the houses, but his son was busy today showing a client round another property.
Nathan had been working in the family firm for some time now, doing quite well. He never made a mistake in his accounts and seemed to enjoy getting out and about. He claimed it was stuffy in the office.
Well, it’d have to stay stuffy. If you opened the windows, the papers would blow about. No one else had complained.
From the time he started work, Nathan had insisted on walking to the office in all but the most inclement weathers. Now he’d taken to going for long walks in the country at the weekend, missing church and refusing to change his ways. He even arranged sometimes for a man with a motor car to pick him up at an agreed spot at the end of the day so that he could go further afield. What a waste of money that was!