by Anna Jacobs
Spots of red burnt suddenly in Matron’s cheeks. ‘I can and will do anything necessary for the welfare of my patients. I will not have strangers wandering through the convalescent home, upsetting the inmates. I shall have some strong bolts put on to the door, then.’
‘You aren’t allowed to make any changes to the fabric of the building without permission. But I can assure you we won’t be wandering around the convalescent home without an invitation.’
‘It’s not just you, but your servants and visitors.’
Harriet abandoned any attempt at diplomacy. ‘If you try to damage the house in any way, I shall summon the local magistrate to deal with you for breach of contract, as well as reporting you to Mr Pashley.’
At that moment war was declared between them and both women knew it.
Harriet didn’t intend to back down. She didn’t consider herself the owner of the house, but rather its custodian or chatelaine – and for as long as she was mistress here, she would protect her beloved home. Some Latimer ladies stayed here all their lives; others served for a few years, then moved on. No one could tell who would be leaving or when. It just seemed to happen, according to the family diaries.
She might not know how long she’d be here, but she knew that she would understand the correct path to follow if the time ever came to change her role. As her predecessors had done.
And just like them, she would find a successor when one was needed.
Once inside the old house, Harriet turned to close the heavy door behind her, but for all her care, it slipped from her fingers and slammed shut, almost as if it had a will of its own. That sort of thing happened at Greyladies sometimes.
She strode towards her husband, muttering, ‘It’ll be a miracle if I don’t strangle that stupid woman!’
Joseph smiled at her as he looked up from his desk. The long room had a minstrel’s gallery at the far end and its ceiling was two storeys high. It didn’t feel at all damp or chilly today, and hadn’t since they moved in.
They’d decided to spend most of their time in this room, so the dining table was at the end where she was standing, near the new house, while their sofas and chairs were arranged near the fireplace and leadlight windows at the other end. They’d hung their favourite paintings in the hall, prominent among them the portrait of Anne Latimer, the founder of Greyladies.
People said Harriet resembled her much-loved ancestor in many ways. The Latimer ladies always had red hair, of any shade from the foxy tone of her own to the deepest auburn. She tried to follow her forebear’s example and lead a useful life helping others. She might have inherited a trust containing a considerable amount of money, but she would never fritter it away in extravagant living.
Some of their paintings had had to be stored in the attics, for lack of wall space, but the Latimers had been ‘required’ to leave some of the furniture in the new house for the expected occupants, and anyway, there wasn’t room to store everything in the old house. She and Joseph were both praying that the furniture wouldn’t get damaged. They treasured these possessions, because she’d grown up poor and he loved beautiful things.
The books from the library were piled along one wall, waiting for Martin from the village to make some temporary shelves for them. Most of their books were too precious to leave in the new house, because they included centuries of the diaries and account books kept by nearly all the previous owners.
Even Harriet, who had never kept a diary in her life, was making a big effort to keep up this tradition. She pitied anyone who read her diary, though, because she didn’t have a gift for bringing scenes to life with words.
As she stood there, trying in vain to calm down, Joseph got up and limped across to put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Next time you have to talk to the Dragon, I’ll come with you. What’s she been saying this time?’
Harriet gave him a quick hug. ‘She wants a key to the old front door. Only, I pretended we don’t have one. I must hide our key somewhere and tell the boys not to mention it. I can’t understand why, but I wouldn’t trust that woman with it.’
‘Not like you to tell lies, my love. Most of the time, you’re rather too blunt.’
‘You haven’t heard the worst. She said if there was no key, she would have the old door removed and burnt for firewood, and a new door and lock put in.’
‘What? But she isn’t allowed to do that.’
‘I know. And so I told her. Thank goodness Mr Pashley had it written into the contract that nothing was to be changed without official permission. But she could have the door removed and destroyed before they know anything about it in London. How would we stop her if we don’t know what she’s doing? I hope the commandant will arrive soon and that he’ll be a lot friendlier.’
‘He can’t be less friendly, can he? I wonder what Anne Latimer thinks about all this.’
‘Do you think a ghost can understand such things, Joseph? I always think of Anne as a shadow cast by the past. She won’t be able to intervene, I’m sure.’
‘I’d not put anything past our beloved founder. Look at the way Pashley and Dorrance thought the old house was too damp to use.’
‘We’d better get on. I see the post has come.’ Harriet went to sit at her desk and open this morning’s letters and Joseph returned to his accounts.
War or no war, she still had her charity work to do. Like all the previous owners of Greyladies, she helped people whenever she could, especially women, who often had less ability to help themselves. This gave her great satisfaction and made her feel more worthy of her inheritance.
That afternoon, a telegram arrived for Joseph. The delivery lad waited in the kitchen in case there was a reply to send.
Joseph tore the telegram open. ‘Oh, no! My father’s had a seizure and isn’t expected to live. Mother wants me to join them at Dalton House. You too, of course.’
‘One of us has to stay here. Heaven knows what the Dragon will do if left in charge, and there’s been no sign of the new commandant so far.’
‘I don’t like to leave you to face that woman alone.’
‘I’ll manage. You must go, if only to say a final goodbye to him. That matters, believe me. And anyway, Selwyn won’t be much use to your mother in a crisis, will he?’
‘No. But I do have two other brothers.’
‘Darling, stop finding excuses. I’ll be fine. Now, let’s be practical. You’ll need help with your wheelchair while travelling. And there’s the luggage to deal with as well.’
He nodded, accepting the inevitable. ‘I’ll ask young Jack Peddy from the village to come with me. He might be only sixteen but he’s a strapping young fellow and very sensible. I’m sure his father will spare him. They have other people to help them on the farm.’
Joseph arrived at Dalton House too late to say farewell to his father. There was a black crêpe bow on the front door and the curtains were drawn, a sign that this was a house of mourning.
His brother Selwyn came to the library door to watch him limp into the house.
‘I didn’t think you’d make it, given your difficulties moving about.’
Joseph ignored this comment, which was mild compared to some of the things Selwyn had said to him over the years.
‘Darling, thank you for coming!’ His mother came across from the drawing room to plant one of her soft kisses on his cheek and link her arm in Joseph’s.
As they walked to the drawing room, she turned back to her oldest son. ‘Do you think we ought to contact your wife, Selwyn? She may wish to come to the funeral. She always got on well with your father.’
He scowled at her. ‘No. It’s about time you accept how she and I feel about one another. And don’t start nagging about children again. There aren’t going to be any from me. I’m getting a divorce. I’m providing her with the evidence next week.’
She was so shocked by this, she seemed unable to speak for a moment or two, then took a deep, calming breath and turned back to Joseph. ‘Richard can’t be here, beca
use he’s volunteered for the army, your uncle’s old regiment, and he’s in the middle of officer training. He’s sure we’ll be at war before too long and wants to play his part. I think he was finding the law rather boring. You know how physically active he always was.’
‘I’m sure he’ll enjoy the army. He enjoyed the cadet corps at school, didn’t he? What about Helen and Thomas?’
‘Thomas is going to try to get here tomorrow, but if not, he’ll be here for the funeral and then stay on to help me sort the paperwork out. His wife can’t come at all, because she’s due to have the baby soon. They’re praying it’ll be a son. The poor thing hasn’t been well the whole time she’s been carrying.’
She glanced at the clock. ‘We really ought to go in for dinner now. We have it early these days, for the servants’ convenience. It’s so hard to get staff these days.’
Selwyn peered into the room, interrupting her flow of conversation to ask loudly, ‘Does my idiot brother need his wheelchair? His lad’s brought it round.’
She glared at him. ‘Don’t speak about your brother like that! You only do it to annoy people.’
‘I’ll speak how I like in my own house. And I’ll drink to that any day.’ He raised his glass to them in a mocking toast and drained it. ‘I’ll just get a little refill.’ He left the room.
Joseph looked inquiringly at his mother, knowing his parents had been considering breaking with tradition and not leaving the house to the eldest son.
She sagged for a moment, then whispered, ‘Your father couldn’t bring himself to disinherit Selwyn, no matter what I said.’
‘Oh dear. Richard would have made a much better owner. What will you do now?’
‘I’ve got some money, though not as much as I’d have liked, thanks to your father paying Selwyn’s debts. I’m going to live in a serviced flat in London with just Mrs Stuart as my housekeeper and one maid. Thomas and his wife are going to help me find somewhere in London. I can’t bear to live with Selwyn, so after the funeral I’m only staying till I’ve cleared out my dearest William’s things and packed my own.’
‘When exactly is the funeral?’
‘In two days. I shall be relieved to get it over with.’ She looked at him sadly. ‘William never recovered consciousness after his seizure and I was glad of that, for his sake. He’d have hated to be helpless and confined to bed. I’d like to have said goodbye properly, though.’
To Joseph, her generation seemed overly fond of deathbed scenes, describing them with relish and wanting to be at the bedside of anyone dying.
‘We’d better go and have our meal.’ She patted his cheek and became practical again. ‘You can stay for the funeral?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do we need to find you a temporary manservant?’
‘I don’t need as much help as I used to, but I’ve brought a young fellow from the village with me. Jack helped with the luggage on the journey. I only use the wheelchair for long distances now or if I need a rest. I know it looks ugly when I walk but I’m much stronger these days. Harriet packed suitable clothes for the funeral, just in case.’
‘How is Harriet? And the boys?’
‘They’re all well. She sends her apologies for not coming, but we have a problem with the matron in the convalescent home and daren’t leave her unobserved. The woman only wanted to pull out and burn the old oak door, a sixteenth-century piece! We’re praying the commandant will be friendlier than her, but he’s not arrived yet.’
‘She sounds dreadful. I don’t know what the government is thinking of, taking over people’s houses like that when everyone says the war won’t last long.’
He didn’t respond to that. His mother didn’t seem to realise that modern warfare and weapons would cause a far greater number of casualties and there would have to be places where they could recover. ‘Selwyn must have started drinking early. His speech was slurred.’
‘He’s been pouring whisky down non-stop since he arrived, and he’s been rude to everyone. I’ve seen very little of him in the past few years, but Thomas says he’s still gambling. I doubt the house will stay in the family for much longer. William was wrong to leave it to Selwyn. Even you would have made a better owner than him.’
She seemed quite unaware how insulting this was, but Joseph didn’t protest. He was quite accustomed to the way his family underestimated him. If he told his mother how much money he’d made from his small inheritance during the years since his marriage, or how well he’d managed the annual income from the Greyladies Trust, she’d find it hard to believe.
As he ate his meal, he endured the direct insults of his eldest brother without responding, then went to bed early, pleading tiredness.
He was glad when Thomas arrived the following day. Since his next brother was in banking and knew about Joseph’s improving financial situation, they usually had plenty to talk about. He got on best with Thomas, but it made him sad that he didn’t feel truly close to any of his brothers, and his sister was like a complete stranger. None of them had made any attempt to get to know him better, not to mention avoiding contact with Harriet because she’d once been a housemaid.
Joseph doubted he’d come back here again after the funeral, even though he was fond of his old home – well, more than fond, he loved the place and was the only one who knew its history. But the house belonged to Selwyn now, Joseph had a new home and life, and that was that.
He sighed and admitted to himself that sometimes he ached to be back at Dalton House. Perhaps you always had a special feeling for your childhood home. He hadn’t let Harriet know how he felt, though, and never would.
Chapter Two
Phoebe
When Phoebe Sinclair was sixteen, she had to grow up quickly because her mother became too ill to work. A failing heart, the doctor told them, and nothing could be done. From then on, Phoebe took charge of their little cottage in the village of Knightsford Bassett and cared for her mother as she grew weaker.
At first she did odd jobs to earn money, cleaning, laundry work or helping on nearby farms at busy times. They scraped together enough to live on, because they had free eggs from their own hens, and bits and pieces of farm produce from her mother’s cousin, who lived just outside the village with his second wife Janet.
Horace Reid had no children of his own, even though he’d married a second time soon after the death of his first wife, because a farmer needed a wife. Janet already had a son from her first marriage. Frank Hapton was a surly lad, who refused to take his stepfather’s name and made it clear that he hated living in the country and wanted nothing to do with dirty, smelly animals.
He’d moved away from the farm as soon as he turned fifteen, by which time he looked like a man grown. He hadn’t even told his mother he was going and just vanished one day, sending a postcard now and then to say he was all right, but not giving his address.
Phoebe was glad Janet’s son didn’t live at the farm any longer. She didn’t like Frank. He was a big fellow, but very lazy, and seemed to push his way through life, with no regard for others. She was sorry when he started coming back for visits, because now she was older, Frank had begun to look at her in what she thought of as ‘that way’. A couple of times, he’d kissed her, laughing when she tried to fight him off. She didn’t like to complain to Janet, so avoided going to the farm when she knew he was there.
As her mother’s health grew worse, life became difficult. Phoebe couldn’t leave her mother on her own all day, so jobs were limited. They’d used up all their savings and she had to start selling or pawning their possessions.
Thank goodness Horace and Janet continued to help them. Without the food from the farm and what she could grow in the garden, she’d have had to get her mother admitted to the workhouse, a place no one went into, except as the very last resort.
It was a relief as well as a deep sadness when her mother died.
The day after the funeral, which had been paid for by Horace, Phoebe begged a lift into Swindon
from a nearby carter, determined to find herself a job. She walked round the streets, enjoying being among smiling, bustling people.
At one point, she tripped on the uneven pavement and stumbled against the window of a shop making curtains. A white card said: Help needed, general duties. It seemed meant to be and she walked inside to ask about the job. She didn’t know anything about making curtains, but she was a good needlewoman. They could only say no, after all.
The Steins, who owned the shop, were foreigners, Austrian, she found out. They asked her some questions, then offered her the job. They seemed so nice, she accepted it without hesitation. ‘I’ll have to find lodgings first, though, and sell my mother’s furniture. She died last week.’
Mrs Stein exchanged glances with her husband, and said in her heavily accented English, ‘We hev two little rooms in the attic here. You can live there rent-free, if you clean the shop each evening after it closes.’
Mr Stein nodded vigorously. ‘Show her, Trudi.’
Phoebe was shown two tiny bare rooms. She could use the smaller one with the sloping ceiling as her bedroom, and the other as her sitting room. It had enough room for her bookcase, armchair, a table and two upright chairs.
There was an outside lavatory in the yard downstairs and her employers would let her cook in the kitchen behind the shop, which had a modern gas cooker, used to warm up Mr Stein’s dinners at lunchtime. That would be wonderfully easy to use after the wood-burning stove Phoebe had in the cottage.
‘We won’t charge you for the gas,’ Mrs Stein said. She waved one hand dismissively. ‘One girl, not much cooking.’
As the weeks passed, Phoebe realised how lucky she’d been. She had an interesting job, with a lot to learn, good employers and somewhere of her own to live.
She didn’t have the time or energy to make many friends. The library had plenty of good books to entertain her in the evenings, and she occasionally went to see a moving picture at the Country Electric cinema with Edith, who also worked for the Steins. The two women marvelled at what they saw, enjoying the pianist who played suitable music while the film was shown.