by Gloria Cook
‘You make me feel better.’
‘Do I?’ she whispered. If he had been looking at her he would have seen her sweet face light up with joy and hope.
Finn didn’t answer but wrapped his arms round her trim waist and leaned against her chest. He could hear her heart fluttering and feel one small breast under his cheek.
‘Eh, saucy,’ she pushed him away smoothly, giggling in embarrassment. ‘What would Mrs Teague say? And the mistress if she saw?’
‘That’s what I like about you, Tilly; you know how to behave properly.’ Finn grabbed her hands and squeezed them lightly, affectionately.
There was a rattle and quick steps. ‘I did hear,’ Mrs Teague said, ‘and she’s very glad you acknowledge a decent girl when you see one, young man.’ The cook had bustled in with a loaded tray. ‘Make sure you keep it that way. Tilly’s a good chapel girl. She goes every Sunday to the little chapel along By The Way lane. I’ll be keeping an eye on you, but you’d do well anyway to treat her with the utmost respect or you’ll have Denny Vercoe with his hands at your throat. He’s her guardian, don’t you forget it. Well, sit him down at the table, Tilly. The sooner he drinks this special brew the better for him.’
Short, stringy, apple-cheeked and sharp-eyed, Mrs Teague, her greying hair in a hairnet under her cap, took her seat at the head of the table. ‘We’re too early for Ellery but he likes his tea stewed anyway. Butter his scones, Tilly, and put them in his place. Scones for you, Finn?’
‘I don’t feel like eating right now, thank you, Mrs Teague,’ he said politely, parking next to Tilly at the table. ‘And you need not worry about Tilly. She deserves to be treated right and properly and that’s what she’ll get from me.’
‘So it’s official that you’re walking out together then?’ Mrs Teague persisted, her eyes boring into Finn.
Tilly halted in spreading butter on the scones and stopped breathing, as red in the face as the dish of raspberry jam on the tray. Hanging on to the breath, every scrap of her crying out in the hope she was part of a romance, she glanced at Finn.
‘If Tilly agrees,’ he replied, smiling at her. ‘If she’ll have me. Will you?’
‘O–of course, I’d love to, and Mrs Mitchelmore doesn’t seem to mind. She’s always been good to us, hasn’t she, Mrs Teague?’
‘She has indeed, and don’t you forget it. No taken advantage or you’ll have me to answer to, maid. I came here in service as a twelve-year-old in Mr Sedgewick’s day. I started as scullery maid and worked up to parlour maid, was nearly a full complement of servants in those days with a battleaxe housekeeper. I left when I married, sadly had no children, but when my man died Mrs Mitchelmore took me back. There was just her here by then. Yes, she’s a good mistress. We’re a nice little group here, almost like a family, Finn Templeton, so don’t you dare spoil it.’ She smiled at last. ‘Otherwise, you’re very welcome as Tilly’s young man.’
‘I’m relieved to hear that,’ Finn said, sipping his tea, a welcome whet to his dry mouth. He grinned. ‘You were scaring me, Mrs Teague.’
He leaned sideways and kissed Tilly’s cheek. Then disquiet came. What was he doing? He had more or less pledged himself to Tilly with an engagement of marriage in the not too distant future. You fool! He couldn’t just let her down, she was too good and sweet and lovely to do that to. But he did like her, very much, and he enjoyed her company. He would just have to go along with it. Let the future sort itself out.
‘How did you and Mrs Mitchelmore get me up so easily from the cellar?’
Mrs Teague cut in – Finn was to learn that she did most of the talking at the servants’ table. ‘It was the mistress, she more or less carried you on her own. I was watching. Tilly only had to hold your head. The mistress is a strong woman. She was a good nurse for old Mr Sedgewick – God rest him – lugged him in and out of bed and into his wheelchair like a good’un, she did. She’s made of good stout British stuff, isn’t afraid to put her hand to a few repairs about the place. If she’d married Mr Sedgewick when he was a young man there might have been children; an heir. Wish there was, with her sister Mrs Sanders also not having children, only God knows what’ll happen to Petherton in the future. Never heard the sisters mention they got cousins or any relatives. All I know about them is they said they’ve moved around a lot and come from a military background. Still, Mrs Mitchelmore is a lot younger than me so I’ll either be dead or nicely retired when she passes on – she’s given me to understand she’s set aside something for me in my old age. And you needn’t worry, maid.’ She eyed Tilly and jerked her head at Finn. ‘You’ll long be married with a family by then.’
Tilly gazed at Finn all aglow. His stomach sunk to his working boots. What had he got himself into? How could he have been so stupid and careless? He was in too deep to simply cut himself off from Tilly. He would just have to let things run, for now.
Tilly smiled at him and he found himself smiling back. Things could be worse, he supposed. Tilly was Tilly, after all, lovely, open and genuine.
Twenty-Nine
Summer had given way to autumn, and on a typical blustery day of grey skies and yellowing leaves fluttering down from the trees, Dorrie and Finn were in the library of Sunny Corner going over the final scripts, typed by Verity, and the accompanying artwork. They agreed the rhyming stories, one incorporating a woodland fairy princess who had lost her wings, and an elf, a pixie, a bunny, a squirrel, an ancient talking oak tree and a wise young owl who help her to find them, were ready to be packaged and posted to the literary agency in London, suggested by Verity. Dorrie would make the trip to the post office.
‘I don’t know anyone there personally,’ Verity had said. ‘I rang around and they’re recommended by Angela Blakely-Smythe. You remember her, Aunt Dor? The chubby, spotty school friend you kindly allowed to join us one summer hols while her parents swanned off to Monte for several weeks. Angela was always giggling and playing pranks. She’s turned out to be a curvy glamour puss, by the way. She knows all sorts of people. Angela says it’s your best bet really, but she’s given me a few more names and addresses you might like to try. I suppose things are still a bit tricky after the war. You’ve had an interested response to your initial letter, and Jack and I are keeping everything crossed for you.’
‘Satisfied, Finn?’ Dorrie asked, referring to her rhyming.
‘More than satisfied, Mrs R. Let’s go for lift-off. I’m not expecting great results for my contribution, it’s likely to be seen as a bit raw, publishers probably like to keep to their own illustrators, but that doesn’t matter as long as they want your stories. They might be able to do something with the other stuff I’m enclosing for war or ghost books. Not unexpectedly Guy has offered to pay to have loads of books published. He’s such an expert at emotional blackmail of the good intentioned kind, says it would be nice for Eloise. We can always think about that if we’re rejected.’
‘Well, I don’t care about myself,’ Dorrie said, stroking Corky’s smooth head just plonked on her knee. ‘I’m quite happy to keep my writing private. You’re the one who has to have a future, Finn.’
‘I’ve a better opportunity all round now that Guy is sponsoring my fees at the private art academy at Wadebridge, after Christmas. Living in, I’m going to miss Eloise like mad but it’s for the best. Mum can cope now and I’ve got the long-term future in mind. Now I’ve made enough for Denny to fix me up with an old Norton motorbike it won’t take me too long to slip home at the weekends and holidays. Guy is driving Mum and me to meet the principal, Dame Rosalind Keats. I’m looking forward to seeing her, she sounds quite a character.’
‘And will you miss Tilly also?’ Dorrie tilted her head at him.
‘Little Miss Dimples? Every time I see my drawings for our joint effort I’ll see Tilly, the fairy princess. Of course I’ll miss her, she’s my sweetheart.’ He smiled then reddened. ‘Never thought I’d be saying something like that.’
‘She’s a lovely girl,’ Dorrie said, glancing away to avo
id embarrassing him. She was pleased he had moved his affections on from Belle Lawry but she was concerned at the thinly veiled animosity he bore against Belle and Charlie. Dorrie was convinced she and Verity had not been wrong about Finn having an unhealthy infatuation with Belle, or that Charlie had noticed it. On the one occasion Dorrie had been in Finn and the Lawrys’ joint presence she had noticed Charlie casting Finn dark searching looks and Belle had practically ignored Finn after a desultory hello. At least Sam seemed not to have noticed anything amiss. ‘Another drink, Finn? Hot chocolate? Jack got hold of some from somewhere and gave it to Verity.’
‘Yes please, and is there any more of Mr Greg’s fruit loaf?’
‘There is indeed. Come along to the kitchen, it’s cosier in there.’
Once in the kitchen, his long legs spread out from one of the three easy chairs set in a snug corner, Finn asked, ‘Where is Mr Greg?’
‘At the hall with Hector Evans, Denny, Soames Newton, Johnny Westlake and of course Mrs Mitchelmore planning its grand opening. They’re also finishing off the electrical wiring. Mrs Mitchelmore has suggested choosing the eldest and the youngest child at the school to cut a ribbon together, and then we shall all sing Trelawny and the national anthem and get on with the festivities. I like that idea.’
Dorrie brought the tray of hot chocolate and cake and sat down beside him. Corky stationed himself for effortless cake begging at her feet. From here they had a direct view into the range’s roaring fire behind its grid. With the wall clock ticking lazily the woman and boy settled down to chat companionably.
‘I shall also miss you when I’m away, Mrs R. I’ll be sure to pop down here every weekend. You’re one of my favourite people.’ Finn touched Dorrie’s freckled hand and gave her a winning smile.
‘Oh, Finn.’ Dorrie felt her eyes fill up. ‘You’ll have me in tears; that’s one of the nicest things anyone has said to me. I’m very fond of you too.’
Finn gobbled down a chunk of cake. ‘You’ve got your brother the judge and his wife coming down soon, Miss Verity’s parents, for the engagement do. It is going to be here?’
‘Retired judge,’ Dorrie corrected him. ‘No, it’s to be at Meadows House, just a small dinner and not a do at all. It’s what Verity and Jack want, everything including the wedding next year to be low key. They want to enjoy their engagement and make changes to the house. There might be a bit of an atmosphere while Perkin’s here. Greg still hasn’t forgiven him for disowning Verity for breaking off her last engagement. I think Greg was hoping that he would be walking Verity down the aisle one day, but now that Perkin and Verity have reconciled over the phone, of course Perkin will resume that honour. Camilla is a terrible snob. I’ll be glad when they’ve returned home, to tell you the truth.’
‘Must be hard work acting as peacemaker but you’re made for it; you’ve certainly brought peace to our home.’
‘That’s nice, the way you said home and not house. What have you got there?’
Finn was turning a small square dog-eared sepia photograph over in his fingers. ‘This fell out of the box of a pair of binoculars Mrs Mitchelmore kindly gave me from the stuff I hauled out of her second cellar. I didn’t open the box until I got home. I was going to take it back to her but something made me think better of it and to show it to you.’
‘Oh?’ Dorrie put on her half-spectacles and took the photograph from him. It was a fairly good image of a young officer, probably serving in the Great War, and a young woman in a large garden. It could have been taken anywhere but even the slightest glance revealed the woman was Honoria Sanders, perhaps with a friend or old flame.
‘Read the writing on the back. It’s what got me puzzled.’
Turning the photo over Dorrie read aloud, ‘To Honny, darling. A snap of you and Chester. With love, Mother x.’
‘Mmm, I didn’t know about a Chester; there has never been a single mention of him.’ Dorrie studied the couple portrayed again.
‘That’s why I’ve held on to it until now. I’ve been in Mrs Mitchelmore’s drawing room and there are many photos of the sisters but none of this Chester chap. Makes you think that he must be a dark family secret. He could have run away in battle. Seems he must have done something pretty shameful, don’t you think? I came across nothing else connected to him.’
‘Yes, I think you could be right, Finn,’ Dorrie said quietly, but deeper thoughts she would keep to herself turned her insides to ice. ‘know about Ch . . . bring money to Merryvale . . .’ The ripped part of the note Corky had rooted out sprang up as if literally before her eyes. Could this Chester be the Ch in the blackmail note? Chester who? Honoria Sanders had many ex-husbands and even the most determined gossips had not divined how her former surnames had run. Twelve years ago Sedgewick Mitchelmore had gone to Harley Street to consult a top heart specialist and returned with Esther as his bride. She had been a powerful figure from the outset and taken over the village’s dealings so rapidly and efficiently she had met little opposition, rather mainly with relief and a hint of subservience. She wasn’t the sort one felt easy to question and her stock remark had always been, ‘Never mind about me. I do what I can for Nanviscoe for my husband’s sake because he cared so much about it.’ Divorced Honoria had turned up soon after and bought Sawle House and the sisters had become a prominent feature as if they had lived in the village almost from its origins.
‘Mrs R? You’ve been quiet for ages.’
‘Oh, have I? I’m sorry, dear.’ She saw Finn had demolished his cake and quaffed his hot chocolate. ‘I’m sure you did the right thing about not giving this photo to Mrs Mitchelmore. If she wanted this Chester’s existence acknowledged she would have talked about him before.’
‘You think he was a bad’un?’ Finn asked as he got up to leave.
‘It’s likely he was, but he is really none of our business. If he does or did have great meaning to Mrs Mitchelmore I’m sure she’s keeping private snaps of him. It might be best if the photo was burnt and we agree to never mention it again.’
‘I’ll go along with that. I have a lot of respect for Mrs Mitchelmore and I’d hate to be the cause of her being cut up about something. Can I leave you to destroy it? Thanks.’
Finn kissed Dorrie on the cheek as he always did now when saying goodbye and then he was gone.
Dorrie rose and went to the range. Before picking up the iron tool to lift the top plate to drop the old photo into the amber-pink flames, she again studied the writing on the back. It set her into troubled thinking.
Thirty
Tilly and Jenna were sitting cross-legged on the creaky double bed Jenna shared with her sister Maia, the younger by four years. The girls were binding up their neck-length hair in strips of rag to make it wavy the following morning. Tonight, as Mrs Mitchelmore was spending a rare weekend with Mrs Sanders, Tilly was going to squeeze into the bed with Jenna and Maia. The three girls loved these occasions and would giggle long into the night, sneaking downstairs at some point and bringing back cocoa and biscuits.
The little room, in which was squeezed a nightstand, had a curtain across an alcove where the sisters hung their clothes on a rod. Thanks to Jenna and Jean’s seamstress skills the whole family had more clothes than most, mainly made up from bundles of clothing that Denny had procured. The bed was spread with a pretty multicoloured quilt of Jenna’s own making. The walls were donned with a long mirror Denny had removed from an old wardrobe and a variety of gaily painted shelves he had put up for the girls’ belongings.
‘How’s your new quilt coming along?’ Tilly asked, her voice muffled from the next rag she had between her teeth.
Jenna was busy stitching another quilt for her ‘bottom drawer’.
‘About halfway done. I want to crochet some cushion covers. Dad’s got hold of some good used woollens – you’d be surprised what well-off people sell him for next to nothing. They usually plump for him doing them odd jobs or some gardening owing to what their kind call ‘the servant problem’. Mum and I are g
oing through it all tomorrow and set the girls to unpicking and winding up balls. If there’s any left over after enough has been set aside for Dad, Adrian and the little ones to have a new jumper or cardie, she’s going to let me have some for the cushion covers.’
‘You’ll have a lovely room when you and Sam get married. You’ll be living at The Orchards, so you won’t have to worry about getting a whole houseful of stuff together.’
‘I hope so,’ Jenna replied, tying her last rag then looking down glumly.
‘Something wrong? You and Sam aren’t having problems, are you?’ Tilly wriggled closer to her cousin.
‘Sort of . . .’
‘What do you mean, sort of?’
‘I’m not sure but sometimes I get the feeling Sam is losing interest in me.’ Jenna shrugged.
‘But he always seems so keen on you,’ Tilly protested. ‘Has he said something then?’
‘He moans that he gets fed up always having Dad breathing down our necks,’ Jenna said, aiming a vexed look at the floorboards. From below, Denny could be heard roaring with laughter.
‘But Sam should understand Uncle Denny is only being protective of you. You’re not quite sixteen yet and Sam won’t be seventeen until next January. What does he expect? Here, he’s not pestering you to do anything . . . naughty . . . is he? Uncle Denny would have his guts for garters.’
Jenna glanced at the door, looked back then leaned towards Tilly’s ear. ‘He’s always putting his hands on my bosom when we are alone.’
‘And you let him? Or do you push his hands off?’ Tilly gasped.
‘Does Finn try anything with you?’
‘No, never, he only pecks me on the lips because he says he respects me. He says we’ll take things slowly and do things properly.’