by Dilly Court
It was not only those closest to her who were uppermost in her thoughts. Irene was still struggling to come to terms with the idea that Edward Kent’s father might once have been Miss Maude’s sweetheart. If it were true then it seemed like the weirdest of coincidences, and the knowledge that his family possibly lived just a few miles away from Havering made it seem even stranger. She had attempted to write to Alice on several occasions just to let her know that she was safe and well, but somehow she couldn’t find the right words and her efforts had ended up in the fire.
As the days lengthened and a hint of spring warmed the air, Irene grew even more restless. She saw little of Arthur these days. He came home for his supper, but when he had eaten and changed out of his dirty work clothes he took himself off to pay court to Betty. He had brought her to the house on several occasions, and despite her initial misgivings Irene had to admit that Arthur’s fiancée was a sweet girl and an ideal mate for him. Under Betty’s influence he had given up drink, except for the odd pint of beer every now and again, and he had lost his desire to gamble unless it was on a game of shove-halfpenny in the village pub or playing the old men at dominoes, and then the stakes were farthings rather than pounds. Arthur was a happy man, there was no doubt about that, and Irene rejoiced for him, but his love for Betty had stirred longings in herself that she found hard to define.
With the improvement in the weather, Irene began taking long walks when her chores were done. She discovered a whole new world in the burgeoning hedgerows, which were now alive with birdsong and the rustling sound of small mammals scurrying through the dead leaves as they hunted for grubs and insects to feed their young. The bare branches of the blackthorn were studded with tiny white flowers and catkins dangled from hazel and willow trees, waving in the breeze like tiny foxtails while clusters of yellow primroses and cowslips made pools of instant sunshine on the grassy banks. Having grown up in the brick and concrete canyons of the city, Irene was constantly amazed by the ability of the natural world to regenerate itself after the apparent slow death of winter.
She might often be bored and lonely, but she was aware that her health had improved with good food and exercise. When she looked into the mirror on her dressing table, she realised that her complexion was as fresh as any milkmaid’s and her eyes were clear and bright. Her hair, which Martha washed for her in soft soap and rinsed with an infusion of camomile, now shone with golden glints and her cheeks were rosy. And yet her old life called to her and she still yearned for the dirt and smoke of London; she could not abandon those whom she loved the most. She would even be civil to Inspector Kent if she ever found a way to return home, but only for Alice’s sake, of course.
On a pleasant April morning, Irene was feeling particularly ill at ease. She put her edginess down to the fact that Emmie’s confinement was imminent, but she knew in her heart that this was only a small part of the cause. The enforced inactivity was driving her to a point beyond endurance. She felt as though her life had come to a complete standstill, and she needed to do something constructive. Martha and Miss Maude had gone to market in the gig and would not be home until late afternoon, and Arthur was at work. Irene had finished her tasks early and she found the prospect of spending a whole day alone in the house daunting to say the least. Acting on the spur of the moment, she put on her bonnet and shawl and set off for a walk.
Without planning her route, she found herself heading in the direction of Navestock. In one of her chatty moods, Martha had been only too eager to talk about Farmer Kent, who kept himself to himself and was not a popular man. By dint of tactful questioning, Irene had found out the exact whereabouts of the Kents’ farm. She had not planned to go there, but she was curious to see the man whom the young Maude Greenwood had loved so desperately. Navestock was several miles away, but the sun was warm on her face and she had a sudden overwhelming desire to visit the farm that might once have been home to the young Edward Kent and his sister Alice.
The sun was high in the sky by the time she reached the farm and she was both hungry and thirsty. She had a few pennies in her purse and she decided to knock on the door and enquire if she could purchase a glass of milk and some bread and cheese.
The half-timbered farmhouse was surrounded by single-storey red-brick outbuildings. Irene paused by the gate in the picket fence, taking in all the details of the rutted and muddy yard with hens busily pecking at the ground. A desultory-looking sheepdog was chained to its kennel and it wagged its tail, uttering a feeble woof which seemed more like a greeting than a threat. She let herself into the enclosure, taking care to close the gate behind her, and she stopped to pat the dog. It licked her hand and whined when she walked away to knock on the farmhouse door. She waited for a while but there did not seem to be anyone at home. The yard was deserted, although she could hear the sound of voices coming from one of the outhouses. She picked her way between the fowls and avoided deep puddles as she headed towards a brick building, which turned out to be the dairy. Inside with his back to her was a tall, thin man who was berating a freckle-faced boy of eleven or twelve.
‘Excuse me, mister,’ Irene said, clearing her throat. ‘I don’t mean to intrude but I was out walking and I wondered if I might buy a glass of milk and something to eat.’
The man turned his head to stare at her. She could see the resemblance immediately and it was so marked that she caught her breath.
‘This is private property, young woman,’ he said coldly. ‘It’s not an inn. I suggest you go down the road where you’ll find a public house. I’m sure they will oblige you.’
Irene was not going to give in so easily. She had come this far and she was convinced that this must be Farmer Kent, but she could not leave until she was certain. ‘Thank you, but I really would appreciate a cup of milk, if you could spare one, Mr – er …’
‘Farmer Kent is the name, young lady,’ he muttered, turning to the shame-faced boy. ‘Fetch the lady a cup of milk, Arnold, and mind what I just told you.’
‘Yes, Father.’ The boy hurried to the back of the dairy and dipped a half-pint measure into a churn. He scuttled back, handing it to Irene before making his escape through the open door.
Irene took a mouthful of the warm, creamy liquid. She eyed Farmer Kent warily. ‘Thank you, mister. How much do I owe you?’
He dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. ‘Nothing. You’re welcome to it, but I’ll ask you to leave as soon as you’re done.’ He made to follow his son but Irene called him back.
‘Farmer Kent, I believe you have a son and daughter living in London.’
He stopped, shoulders hunched and hands clenched at his sides. ‘You are mistaken.’
Irene stared at his rigid back and she sensed that he was lying. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said boldly.
He spun around to face her, his expression grim. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘No, mister. I just thought—’
‘Why did you come here, young woman? What right have you to snoop on me and my family?’ He took a step towards her, his dark eyebrows meeting in a scowl over the bridge of his aquiline nose.
There was no getting away from the physical resemblance between the farmer and the police inspector. Although, she decided, taking an involuntary step backward, Edward at his worst was no match for his ill-tempered sire. ‘All right,’ she said hastily. ‘I admit that I came here out of curiosity. Alice is a dear friend of mine and I have a slight acquaintance with her brother.’
‘Who sent you here?’
‘No one. I came of my own accord entirely, but I can see that I’ve offended you and I’ll bother you no further.’ With a defiant lift of her chin, Irene walked past him and out into the yard, but she had not gone more than a few paces when she slipped on the mud and tumbled to the ground, twisting her ankle. She lay in a crumpled heap, gasping with pain.
‘You stupid girl, you should take more care.’ Farmer Kent yanked her roughly to her feet. ‘Can you walk?’
She attemp
ted to put weight on her ankle but the pain was too intense and she leaned against him, shaking her head. ‘It hurts.’
‘Of course it does.’ He hitched her arm around his shoulders. ‘I’ll help you to the house and my wife will see to you. Lean on me.’
There was nothing she could do other than allow him to assist her over the rough ground to the farmhouse. In the kitchen the aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the fragrance of herbs hanging in bunches from the blackened oak beams. Hams hung in the smoky inglenook above the fire and a kettle was bubbling and singing on the hob. A pale, tired-looking woman was standing at the large pine table, slicing raw meat ready for the pot. She looked up as they entered the room and her eyes widened as Farmer Kent dumped Irene on a chair as if she had been a sack of potatoes.
‘Dora, stop that and help this young person. She took a fall and twisted her ankle. I don’t think it’s anything more than a simple sprain, but you must take a look at it. See to her and then send her on her way.’ Without waiting for his wife’s reply, he turned on his heel and strode out into the yard.
‘I’m sorry to put you to any trouble, missis,’ Irene said apologetically, but despite her pain and embarrassment she couldn’t help staring at Dora Kent. She must have been quite pretty when she was a young woman, but now her small features were etched with wrinkles and dark smudges of fatigue underlined her large brown eyes. She was swaddled in a large calico apron with her hair tucked up beneath a mobcap, but the shabby garments could not disguise an indefinable air of gentility.
She knelt at Irene’s feet and began to unlace her boot. ‘I hope I’m not hurting you, miss.’
Irene winced but she bit her lip and shook her head. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Kent. You’ve got a gentle touch.’
A fleeting smile crossed Dora’s face. ‘I haven’t seen you round these parts before. What’s your name?’
‘Irene Angel. Ouch.’
‘That’s the worst of it over.’ Dora eased Irene’s boot off and examined the ankle closely. ‘It’s only a bit swollen. A cold compress should sort it out, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to walk on it for a day or two.’ She scrambled to her feet and crossed the flagstone floor to take a clean cloth from a drawer in a large oak dresser. She dipped it in the stone sink and wrung it out. ‘Have you come far today, Miss Angel? We don’t see many strangers around these parts.’
‘From Havering,’ Irene said, wincing as Dora wrapped the cold, wet cloth around her ankle. ‘I am staying there with friends.’
Dora raised her head and a shadow passed across her features. ‘From Havering, you say?’
‘Yes. I’m staying at the Round House with Miss Maude Greenwood.’
Dora’s pale face blanched to ashen and she sat down heavily on the nearest chair. ‘How is she? Is Maude well?’
Irene nodded. ‘Your sister is in good health.’
Dora’s eyes widened. ‘H-how did you know we were sisters?’
‘Martha Marchant told me a little of your story.’
‘My sister hasn’t spoken to me since I married Eddie,’ Dora said, sighing. ‘She has never been able to forgive me for marrying her old sweetheart. We haven’t passed so much as the time of day for thirteen years.’
‘Perhaps if you went to see her …’ Irene began, but the expression on Dora’s face stopped her in mid-sentence.
Dora rose to her feet in an obvious state of agitation. ‘No – that would be impossible!’
Chapter Eighteen
‘I NEVER WANTED to fall out with her so completely. I really thought that she would come round when she grew accustomed to the idea of my marriage to Eddie, but she is a stubborn woman.’
‘But it all happened so long ago and you have a son – don’t you want him to know his aunt?’
‘The rift between us is too great to be breached.’ Dora moved to the range and busied herself making a pot of tea. She left it to brew while she fetched blue and white willow-pattern cups and saucers from the dresser. ‘Maude is my senior by ten years. I would have been the youngest of five had not two of our brothers died in infancy, which left Maude, Cuthbert and myself. I was little more than a child when Eddie was courting my sister, and I liked him well enough then, but that was all. I do remember how upset she was when our father forbade the match, but it was many years later when I met Eddie again. I was almost thirty-nine and had long given up hope of marriage and children, and he was a widower with two children. I snatched my last chance of happiness, but Maude cannot forgive me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Irene murmured helplessly. ‘That is so sad.’
‘The tragedy is that she cannot put the past behind her,’ Dora said, pouring the tea. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’
‘Milk and one sugar, if you please. Do go on, if you feel you can. Alice has told me a little about you, but not very much.’
‘How do you know Alice?’ Dora’s hand shook as she handed the cup and saucer to Irene.
‘It’s a long story, but I must confess that my friendship with Alice and her brother is one of the reasons why I came here today. When Miss Maude mentioned that she had once been in love with a farmer whose name was Edward Kent I was curious to discover if he was Alice’s father, or if it was just a coincidence.’
Dora sank down on a chair at the table. ‘I think it was difficult for my stepson to accept another woman in his mother’s place. He did not feel that I was a fit person to care for Alice, whom he adored.’ She picked up a spoon and stirred her tea, as if concentrating on the repetitive movement helped her to put her thoughts into words. ‘I know that I was not the best stepmother in the world, but I did try to make them like me.’
Irene tried to imagine herself in Edward’s place, and she experienced a sudden overwhelming sympathy for him in his predicament. How would she have felt if Ma had died and Pa had brought another woman into their home? ‘It could not have been easy for any of you,’ she said, thinking out loud.
‘No, indeed. But if I had not accepted Eddie’s proposal I would more than likely have died a spinster. Maude and I had very little in common; the difference in our ages and temperaments was too great, but I wish we could have remained friends.’
‘Couldn’t you tell her that yourself?’
‘I tried in the beginning, but she was obstinate and I was desperate to make a success of the marriage that had come to me so late in life.’
‘You have a fine son,’ Irene said gently. ‘I saw him in the dairy.’
Dora nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, I have a son. Very soon after our marriage, and to my great surprise, I found that I was in the family way. I had thought that I was too old to bear children and you can guess my joy when I discovered that I was to have a child of my own to love and care for. I had a difficult confinement, and for a while the doctors thought that both Arnold and I would die, but somehow we survived. I confess that I gave all my attention to my boy, and in my anxiety to nurture him I’m afraid I neglected Alice. I am not proud of that fact.’
Irene was at a loss as to what to say in the face of such an admission. ‘I’m sure you did your best,’ she murmured.
‘I tried, but I haven’t the strength of character that my sister possesses, and I’m ashamed to say that it was a relief when my husband’s son decided to take Alice to London. Perhaps I should have prevented it, but I thought that she would be much happier with young Edward.’
‘She adores him,’ Irene said simply. ‘And he is very good to her.’
‘I’m glad. Edward is a fine young man but he was not cut out to be a farmer, any more than my son is. Arnold helps his father on the farm, but I’m afraid he has no liking for the life. My husband insists that he must learn to work the land and take over from him when the time comes.’
‘And how do you feel about that?’
‘I want anything that will make my son happy.’ Dora wiped her eyes on her sleeve and sniffed. ‘But I am afraid he will never settle for rural life. He’s never met my brother Cuthbert, but one day I must
tell Arnold that he has relatives in London. I have a feeling that as soon as he is old enough to leave home he will want to go to London to seek his fortune, and then he will have need of Cuthbert’s protection and guidance.’
Irene pitied any young fellow who had to rely on Arthur’s parents for guidance, but she kept her thoughts to herself on that score. ‘It might comfort you to know that your nephew, Arthur, has come to live in Havering with Miss Maude. He hated being an apprentice silversmith and got himself into all sorts of scrapes in town. He is now learning the blacksmith’s trade and plans to marry his employer’s daughter, so you see the wheel has come full circle.’
A reluctant smile lit Dora’s eyes. ‘I have not seen Arthur since he was in petticoats and I think it highly unlikely that anyone told him about Arnold. I would like to meet Arthur again, but I fear that Maude would object.’
‘Perhaps,’ Irene replied thoughtfully. ‘But surely it would be worth trying to heal the rift between you?’
‘I don’t know about that. I think matters have gone too far.’ Dora broke off with a guilty start as the door opened and Farmer Kent strode into the kitchen.
‘So you’re still here,’ he said, scowling at Irene. ‘Do you think you could walk on that ankle?’
Dora rose to her feet and fetched another cup. She filled it with tea, adding liberal quantities of milk and sugar, and she passed it to her husband. ‘She cannot walk home with a sprained ankle, my dear,’ she said mildly. ‘Why not allow Arnold to drive her home in the trap?’