by Mary Nichols
‘Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me.’
‘No, it is none of your business. I have left Riseborough. I am no longer employed there. So you cannot dictate to me.’
He smiled at her outspokenness as he fell into step beside her. ‘I would not dream of doing so, but I think we should talk, don’t you?’
‘What about?’
‘I want to hear what happened …’
‘Between Jeremy and me? I told you. I have no wish to repeat it.’
‘I find it hard to credit my brother would harm you, and am more inclined to think there was some misunderstanding.’
‘There was no misunderstanding, Major. Do you know what it is like to have someone force themselves on you—someone you thought was honourable, someone you trusted? No, of course you do not. Nor do you know what it is like to be blamed …’
‘No, but you could tell me. Look here, Annie …’
‘I did not give you permission to address me by that name.’ It was said with all the hauteur she could muster.
He smiled. He knew he had a battle on his hands. ‘Miss Ryston, then. Or Mrs Anstey—whichever you prefer. All I was going to suggest was that you join me in a cup of tea somewhere we can talk quietly. The last thing I want is to upset you, or rake up matters that are distasteful to you …’
He was walking beside her for a reason, and though she wanted to be rid of him she had to admit a certain curiosity. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘What you have been doing since you left Riseborough. I am sure it has not been easy, and if you need help …’ In the face of her antagonism he did not know why he was persisting. He did want to help her, he felt it was his duty, but it was more than that. He wanted to get to know her, to find out how someone so obviously educated and well spoken had come to be working at Riseborough Hall in the first place. Becky had told him that she would not be at all surprised to learn there was more to the girl’s background than anyone knew. She could, of course, have learned her ladylike ways from being in the households of aristocratic employers, but he did not think poise like that could be learned that way.
Annette, unaware of his thoughts, gave a wry smile. ‘Help. Now that’s something I could have used six months ago, but no longer.’ She held out her hand for the parcel. ‘Go home, Major Ashbrooke. Go home. Your conscience need not trouble you.’ They were making their way towards the river and soon she would have to turn along the towpath to reach her lodgings. She certainly did not want him to accompany her there.
He gave her the package and bowed. ‘Can I persuade you to meet me again? I shall be in the cathedral tomorrow at noon. We could talk there uninterrupted …’ His request was accompanied by a smile which lit his eyes and took away the somewhat sombre expression he had hitherto shown. That was another difference between him and Jeremy. Jeremy’s eyes had always been full of mischief; the Major’s were deeper and darker and in some way sorrowful, as if he had forgotten how to laugh. But he was in mourning, so perhaps that accounted for it. ‘I promise I will not detain you a moment longer than you wish.’
‘I do not think so,’ she said.
For the second time that day he watched her hurry away from him. Had he done all he could? Should he have offered her money? If he’d read her character aright, she would have thrown it in his face.
He waited until she had turned the corner and then followed her. He was just in time to see her picking her way along a street whose gutters ran with filth and stank to heaven. She stopped to make some purchases at a corner shop, before walking on and turning in at the door of a miserable-looking dwelling. His dogs were better housed.
Resisting the impulse to bang on the door and drag her away, he turned and went back to his hotel. If she did not turn up at the cathedral he knew where to find her again. In hell, by the look of it.
CHAPTER THREE
STOPPING only to buy a few provisions, Annette hurried back to Timmy. She had been more shaken up by her encounter with Major Ashbrooke than she cared to admit. He had seemed sympathetic to her plight, and had treated her courteously, but that could all have been a charade to get his hands on her son. His nephew. Help, he had said. But help came in many guises. His concern was not for her but for the boy. Could he legally take him from her? She had no idea. But she did know that money could buy most things, not least a good lawyer, and that was something she could not afford.
She must keep Major Charles Ashbrooke from finding out about Timothy. If he ever accosted her again, she would have to say she had no child. But Becky must have told him the state she was in when she befriended her, and he had spoken to Mrs Porter. That lady certainly knew Timothy had been born, and had been alive only the week before. She was almost in a panic by the time she reached home, and once again Timothy was crying. Oh, how she wished she did not have to leave him with that slatternly woman! She ought to find other lodgings, but where could she go that was as cheap?
She changed him, then rocked him in her arms, her tears mingling with his until his heartbroken sobs turned to the occasional hiccup. She pulled herself together and fed him, but when she had nothing left in her to give he was still hungry. Wondering if he might take bread and milk, she put him down, poured a little milk from the can she had bought into a pan and took it downstairs to Mrs Grosse’s kitchen, intending to ask if she might heat it on her fire.
As soon as she opened the door she wished she could retreat. Except for Mr Grosse, who was working on the wherries that plied on the river and broads, the whole scruffy family were crowded into the small room, and there was one she had not seen before. He was a young man in his twensties, sitting at the table and apparently entertaining the company with a tale of his adventures while he ate an enormous dinner which made her empty stomach rumble.
He looked up as she entered. ‘Why, who’ve we got here?’ he said, eyeing her from top to toe appreciatively.
‘This here’s Mrs Anstey,’ his mother told him. ‘She hev took the attic room.’
‘Is that so?’ He stood up and walked all round Annette. He was a big man, dressed in cord trousers and a fustian jacket. A spotted handkerchief was tied about his throat. He had gingery hair and a freckled, weatherbeaten face.
‘Cecil is my eldest,’ Mrs Grosse told her. ‘He’s a drover, just down from Scotland with a herd of cattle.’
‘How do you do?’ Annette said, wishing she could turn and run.
‘How do you do?’ he mimicked, laughing at her refined accent, so very different from the broad Norfolk vowels of his family. ‘Why, I do very well. How about yew?’
‘I am sorry to intrude, ma’am.’ She ignored him to address Mrs Grosse. ‘I’ll come back later.’
‘Not so fast,’ Cecil said. ‘We hen’t got to know one another yet.’
Annette felt a frisson of fear. His steady gaze was more than appreciative; it was lascivious. She wanted to escape, but the thought of her hungry child kept her where she was. She held out the pan of milk. ‘I wonder if you would be kind enough to heat this up for me, Mrs Grosse?’
The woman took it and set it on the fire. ‘Sit down. We was all hearin’ on Cecil’s tale of Scotland. It’s a mighty long way, did yer know that?’
‘Yes, I believe it is.’
‘Walked all the way with two hundred head o’ cattle,’ the young man said. ‘I’ll wager you never met anyone doin’ that afore.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ She did not like the look he was giving her, and was glad when the milk bubbled up and Mrs Grosse took the pan off the stove.
Before Annette could reach for it Cecil had taken it. ‘I’ll carry it up for you.’
‘There’s no need. I can manage.’
Like someone else she had known, he would not take no for an answer and followed her up the stairs to her room. She turned at the door to thank him, but he walked in and put the pan down on the table. Then he saw Timmy.
‘Oh, you’ve a babby.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where�
�s his pa?’
‘Dead. Please excuse me, I must feed him.’ She ushered him towards the door.
He laughed, and reached out to touch her cheek, making her flinch. ‘Later, then. I’ll look forward to it.’ He left, still laughing.
As soon as he had gone she locked the door and propped a chair against it. Then she broke up a slice of bread in a basin and poured the milk on it. Picking Timmy up, she sat at the table and spooned a little into his mouth. He spat it out at first, but she persevered and in the end he ate quite a bit of it. She finished the rest herself and put him to bed. And then it was back to her sewing.
But she was worried. Cecil Grosse was a threat to her peace of mind—certainly more worrying than Major Ashbrooke. Unlike the Major, he would not treat her with courtesy. He was strong enough to take her by force, and then … The prospect of his dirty hands on her and the possible consequences could not be borne. Tomorrow, after she had returned the mending and been paid, she must find somewhere else to live. Somewhere safe. Perhaps with a few shillings in her pocket she could find somewhere more wholesome.
She slept badly that night, because half her mind was on her dilemma and half was listening for footsteps outside her room. Once she heard someone rattling her doorknob and a soft laugh, and she knew her fears were not unfounded. She rose early the next morning, knowing she had a busy and trying day ahead of her. She could not carry her belongings, her child and the heavy parcel of sewing all at once, so she left Timmy with her landlady and returned the sewing.
With two shillings and sixpence in her pocket, she returned to her lodgings at a run, where she packed her belongings, wrapped Timmy in a shawl and told the astonished Mrs Grosse she was leaving.
‘I have decided to go to my husband’s family,’ she told her. Then, weighed down with her baggage and her child, she walked out, not knowing where she was going. She must find lodgings and more work. She must not give any of the Ashbrooke family cause to accuse her of not being able to look after her son. They were wealthy enough and influential enough to take him from her. That they might not want to do that did not occur to her. He was beautiful and adorable; who would not want him?
Charles sat in the cool of the cathedral and wondered if she would come. He wanted her to come. She intrigued him. His head was full of questions. Where had she come from when she’d arrived at Riseborough? What was her background? Who were her parents? Did she really have a child? And, if she did, was it Jeremy’s or did it belong to someone else? She might be the harlot his mother had called her, but if she was she was being very clever about it—clever enough to disdain his help to begin with, perhaps in the hope of getting more out of him. Why did he not want to believe that? She had, after all, been at pains not to let him know the dreadful conditions under which she lived. The child could not possibly thrive there.
It was nearly half past twelve, and he was about to leave when he saw her. She was carrying a large bag and a bundle. He realised the bundle was a baby wrapped in a shawl when she dropped into the pew beside him. She looked exhausted. Her face was white with strain, and her lovely eyes looked even more troubled than they had the day before.
‘What has happened?’ he asked, not bothering with a greeting.
She looked up at him and a tear rolled down her cheek. He reached out and wiped it with the back of his finger. His gentleness seemed to open a dam inside her and she gave way to sobs.
He was in no hurry. He waited, not daring to touch her, though he was sorely tempted to take her into his arms to try and comfort her. He could imagine her reaction if he tried that. Instead he offered her his handkerchief.
‘I am sorry,’ she said at last, wiping away her tears.
‘No need to be sorry. Tell me how I can help?’
She gulped. ‘I have had to leave my lodgings …’
‘Why?’
She gave a bitter laugh. ‘History was about to repeat itself. The young man of the house …’
‘Oh, I am sorry for that. What can I do to help?’
‘Would you …?’ She gulped, swallowing her pride. ‘Would you lend me some money? All the rooms I have looked at are beyond my means at present. I can get work. I will be able to repay you.’
It had taken all her courage to ask him, but after a morning of trudging about the city she was exhausted. Either the rooms she’d looked at were too expensive, or they were even filthier than Mrs Grosse’s hovel—and even then the landladies would not countenance the baby. In the end, it had been the workhouse or the Major. No choice at all.
‘Certainly I will. You should have come to me before. Shall we go to my hotel for some refreshment? Later we will see about decent lodgings for you.’
‘I did not mean … Oh, dear … I do not want to put you to that trouble. Two or three guineas will suffice, then I will be on my way.’
He was not going to let her go again. ‘Nonsense!’ he said. ‘You are done in.’
That was true. A sleepless night and the burdens she carried—not only in her arms but in her head—had ensured she could hardly put one foot in front of the other, and she had been glad to sink into the pew beside him. But there was still some spirit left in her. Enough to question his motives.
‘Just what do you want with me, Major? If you think that because your brother had his way you can follow his example …’
‘Do you imagine every man you meet is after your body?’ he demanded sharply. ‘It is a very lovely body, but I have no use for it.’
She gave a cracked laugh. ‘Well, that has put me in my place and no mistake.’
Even in extremis she could find a light-hearted retort, he noted. ‘Shall we stop sparring with each other and decide to be friends?’ He reached forward and drew the shawl away from the baby’s face. There was no doubt in his mind the child was Jeremy’s. The shape of the face, the slightly square jaw, the tuft of very fair hair and the wide blue eyes that looked up at him unblinkingly proclaimed it. He was sorry he had ever doubted it. But it did not answer her accusation that she had been taken against her will. ‘A boy?’ he queried.
‘Yes. His name is Timothy.’
‘You did not name him for his papa, then?’
‘No, I did not. Why should I do that after what he did to me?’
He ignored that. ‘Come back to my hotel and take some refreshment. Then we can decide what to do.’
‘We do not decide anything, sir. I decide.’
He laughed. ‘Then do you think you could decide to humour me, just this once? I give you my word that after we have spoken together you may walk away, if you wish, and I will not attempt to follow you.’
She had a feeling the loan depended on her complying, and she desperately needed it. Without it she had nowhere to sleep that night and no food either. The dreaded workhouse loomed. She looked up into his face, a lean, bronzed face, with fine lines at each side of the eyes. The eyes themselves were gazing back at her, studying her, reading her hesitation in her expression. It was all about pride and independence and motherly love. She adored her son. Should she not do all she could for him? And if that meant being beholden to this man, then should she not take what he offered? After all, Timothy was his brother’s baby. And perhaps he was sincere.
‘Very well.’
He did not attempt to take the child from her, but picked up her bag and led the way. The Maid’s Head was only just across the road from the cathedral, and he was soon ushering her through the door. He left her while he spoke to the proprietor, and a few minutes later they were shown upstairs to a large sitting room with an adjoining bedroom.
‘These are not my rooms,’ he hastened to assure her. ‘So sit down and make yourself comfortable. There is food on the way. What does the baby take?’
‘He takes his mother’s milk,’ she said. ‘Unlike the aristocracy, I do not farm my child out to a wet nurse, and would not even if I could afford it.’
‘Good for you. You will need some privacy. I shall go downstairs and hurry that waiter up.’
And with that he left the room.
She stood looking about her for a moment, lost in a kind of trance. Was he just being kind or was there more to it? She could not make up her mind. Experience had told her to be wary, but instinct told her she could trust him. But how far? She could not answer that, and decided her priority was to feed Timothy and leave the questions until later.
With the baby fed and changed, she took him into the bedroom and put him in the middle of the bed, piling the pillows round him to stop him rolling off. Then she took advantage of the water and towels on the wash-stand to clean and tidy herself. She had just finished when there was a tap at the door, and she opened it to Charles, who came into the room followed by two waiters carrying plates and cutlery, a bottle of wine, two glasses and an array of food which they set out on the table before bowing their way out.
‘What have you done with Timothy?’ he asked.
She nodded towards the bedroom. He walked over to the bed and stood looking down at the child. It brought a lump to his throat, remembering the child he had lost, the son he had never seen. He and Bella had both loved children, and they had hoped the child would be the first of four or five. But it was not to be. The nursery suite they had made ready was, like the rest of the house, empty and shut up. He reached out and stroked the little one’s cheek with a gentle finger. How soft his skin was!
‘He is a contented child,’ he said to Annette, who had come to stand beside him.
She laughed. ‘He has just been fed. You should hear him when he is hungry.’
‘I should not like to think he was hungry,’ he murmured. ‘Nor you, come to that. Let us go and eat.’
They returned to the table and sat down opposite each other. ‘Now, let us be civilised,’ he said. ‘May I help you to meat pie? I can vouch for its goodness; I had some yesterday.’
Bemused, she sat and watched him heaping her plate with pie and vegetables. The delicious smell was inviting and she pulled herself together to tuck in with a will. She would have been a fool to turn her nose up at it when she had no idea where her next meal was coming from.