by Mary Nichols
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything. Who your parents were, where you were born, how you were educated, how you came to be working at Riseborough Hall.’
‘Goodness, that is a tall order.’
‘We are not in a hurry, are we?’
‘I need to look for lodgings …’
‘There is plenty of time for that. Is there some secret about your past you do not wish to divulge?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Fire away, then.’
‘I was born in India nineteen years ago …’
‘India!’
‘Yes, is that so very strange? My father was a Captain in the East India Company …’
‘And his name was Timothy.’
‘Yes, but how did you guess?’
‘You would not name the infant after his papa, but his grandfather is another matter.’
‘Yes. Captain Timothy Ryston. He died of a fever when I was eight and my mother brought me home to England. She set up a school for young ladies and we managed very well.’
Along with a love of literature, embroidery and drawing, her mama had taught the girls how to make polite conversation, how to curtsey and to dance, how to rebuke a too-ardent swain and how to avoid the pitfalls of indecorous behaviour. But it had all been very superficial, and had told them nothing at all about men and their desires. The subject would have been considered far too delicate for young ladies, but it might have helped her to know.
‘What about the rest of your family?’
‘I know of none. I had no siblings, and my father said he did not remember his parents. He was brought up in an orphanage until he was old enough to work. I am not sure about my mother’s parents. From hints she let drop I gathered they did not approve of her choice of husband. That was why Papa took Mama to India. He expected to make his fortune out there and vindicate himself, but it was not to be.’
‘So you never met your grandparents? Your mama did not take you to see them when you came back?’
‘No, but I remember her taking me to see a big house. I have no idea where it was. We went there on the stage. We did not go up the drive and I assumed she had once worked there. She did not say.’
‘But your mother must have been educated if she could set up a school?’
‘Yes, she was.’
‘And she educated you?’
‘Yes. Then, when I was old enough, I began teaching the younger children.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Mama …’ She paused and gulped, unwilling to remember that dreadful day when her contented life had been shattered. ‘She was hit by a runaway horse and a high-perch phaeton when she was out shopping.’ The horror of it came back to her as if it was only the day before, and she struggled with her emotions. ‘Mama had just left the house, saying she was going to buy material for the young ladies’ embroidery class and would not be gone long.’ She shuddered. ‘I heard the crash from indoors, and then horses neighing and someone screaming, and I ran outside. She was … she was … lying in the road under the wheels of the phaeton …’
‘Do not distress yourself, my dear,’ he said gently, reaching across and putting his hand over hers on the table—though he made no attempt to grip it, and she was easily able to withdraw it. ‘You do not need to go on if you would rather not.’
‘There isn’t much more. She never regained consciousness and died later that day. The school had to close. I could not stay in the house alone, so I had to find work where I could live in. Lady Somers, whose daughter came to the school, recommended me to Lady Ashbrooke. You know the rest.’ She took a gulp of her wine.
‘Thank you. Tell me, what was your mother’s maiden name?’
‘I do not know. She never said.’
‘You must have sorted out her belongings when she died. Did you find nothing to give you a clue?’
‘No.’ She paused. ‘But I remember I did find a piece of paper with a name on it. Goodness, what was it? Fettle-something. I forget.’
‘Not Anstey?’
‘No, not Anstey. I made that up. It suddenly came into my head when I was trying to think of something to call myself.’
‘I see. Was there an address on the paper?’
‘No, it was a piece torn off the top of a letter, I think. It was probably someone Mama had done business with. She had used it as a bookmark, so perhaps it meant nothing at all …’
‘Were you never curious? About your mother’s parents, I mean?’
‘No. If they could not see what a fine man my father was, and how much he and Mama adored each other, then they were not worth knowing.’
She did not want to say any more on the subject and he did not press her. They stopped talking to eat, then he put down his cutlery and pushed his plate away. ‘Tell me about Jeremy.’
‘I did tell you. If you do not believe me …’
‘I did not say that. I want to try and understand. He was my brother, after all.’
So she told him, and he listened. ‘I did not want it to happen, Major. I tried to push him off, tried to appeal to his sense of right and wrong, but he was in no mood to listen. He had always been good company, and had gone out of his way to be helpful and charming, and I suppose I was too trusting. I was never so mistaken in anyone. Afterwards I was so angry. What he did deprived me of a job and a home and left me destitute.’ She paused. ‘But you could say there is a brighter side. I have my son, and I will love him and look after him to my last breath.’
‘Of course. Does that mean you have given up hating his papa?’
She gave a little smile. ‘Perhaps.’
‘I am glad,’ he said. ‘Hate is such a destructive emotion …’ He stopped speaking, wondering why he had said that. There had been hate enough in his heart after Bella had died, and Jeremy too. He remembered how he had cursed the woman who had caused his brother to be sent to war—the woman who sat opposite him now. He could not hate her, could not even blame her.
‘I can’t believe he is dead,’ she said. ‘How did it happen?’
‘Do you really want to hear about that?’
‘Yes, if it is not too painful for you. People at home just read about the battles in the newspapers. They are told whether it was a setback, which I think is probably a euphemism for a defeat, or whether it was a victory, but not much detail.’
He had ceased to be surprised at the way she expressed herself. It was the way she had been brought up, and he suspected she had an innate breeding that even she did not know about. ‘Probably because it would be too unpleasant,’ he said. ‘The newspapers like to glorify war. It is not glorious, though many of the young men who go out to fight go with the idea that it is. They are soon disillusioned.’
‘There speaks the veteran.’ Her laugh was a pleasant sound, easy on the ear, and it made him smile. ‘I imagine your brother was like that?’
‘Yes. He came out to Spain while we were in winter quarters. I wasn’t expecting him. Our father always said one son risking life and limb was enough and refused to obtain colours for Jeremy.’ He smiled suddenly, as he remembered. ‘There wasn’t a speck of dirt on his uniform, and the epaulettes, buttons and gold braid gleamed. He looked as though he had just come from the Riseborough Hall drawing room, while I looked more like a scarecrow.’
Annette looked across the table at him and could not believe he had ever looked anything but impeccable. His eyes had a distant look, as if he were not in the room with her, but back in Spain with his brother—the brother he had loved and whom she despised.
‘Come to join you,’ Jeremy had said, grinning at Charles. ‘Thought I’d have a crack at old Boney. Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
‘Of course. But I wonder at Papa allowing it.’
‘It was his idea. Said it would make a man of me …’
‘Oh? What have you done?’ Only some scrape or scandal would have made their father change his mind
about allowing Jeremy to come.
‘Nothing, brother, nothing.’ He had looked sheepish. ‘Well, it was only a mild flirtation, a bit of a romp. Don’t know what she had to complain of …’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’
Sadly this was true. Jeremy had never considered the consequences of what he did. If a fancy had come into his head to do something he’d done it without thinking, be it swimming a river, climbing a tree, riding hell for leather, making outrageous wagers, flirting with any pretty girl who crossed his path. Though he had been sensible enough not to choose the daughters of their father’s friends. And somehow he’d always got away with it.
It was then he had described the nursery maid, his face becoming animated as he spoke. ‘She’s a little peach. Pity she’s so toplofty.’
‘Oh, Jeremy, you fool!’
‘No worse than anyone else. A little flirtation does no harm. You should try it some time. You can’t mourn Bella for the rest of your life, you know. You are the heir, and need to start another family.’
Jeremy had only been repeating what his father and stepmother had said the last time he had been home on leave, just after Bella had died, but he had no intention of subjecting any other woman to the kind of life he led. He had not been fair to her.
‘I don’t see the necessity when you are around to supply the deficiency—although it ought not to be a nursery maid.’
‘Good God! I never thought of marrying her. What do you take me for?’
He realised with a start that Annette had stopped eating and was looking at him, waiting for him to go on. He did not think it was wise to tell her everything; it would hurt her. And the last thing he wanted was to distress her; she had had enough of that already. Suddenly he realised that it mattered to him what happened to her; it mattered very much. In the last couple of hours he had come to admire her for her courage, for the very pride he had been doing his best to conquer, for her determination to keep her child. If he had had any idea of taking the infant from her and carrying him off to Riseborough he dismissed it now. He could not do it. In fact he would not even tell his stepmother he had found her.
‘We had been idle all winter,’ he went on. ‘But when the snow began to disappear preparations were made to continue the fight, and by then the odds were in favour of the allies. We had been receiving reinforcements for some time—not only men, but guns and ammunition, food, horses and fodder. The men had not been behaving well while they were in winter quarters, but as soon as the order came to move they were as keen as mustard.’ He gave a quirky grin, but Annette was not sure if he was smiling at her or his own memories. ‘They had heard there was untold treasure in the French baggage train, and it put a spring in their step as they marched. Jeremy was laughing and making jokes, as he always did. If he was worried about what lay ahead he did not show it.’
‘But you were worried?’
‘Not for myself. I am an old hand. But I worried about the raw recruits, and especially about Jeremy. When the battle began I was too busy with my own bit of the action to wonder where he was, but after it was all over, when the French retreat had turned into a rout and they had abandoned the town and all their baggage, I went looking for him. I found him mortally wounded. He died in my arms.’
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ she said softly.
He fell silent and she waited, hoping he would remember he had promised her a loan and would give her the two or three guineas she had asked for. She could not leave until she had it. But he had settled back in his seat, his chin on his chest, apparently deep in thought.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I THINK perhaps you have always looked after your brother,’ she said, to break the silence. ‘Miss Musgrove told me you were always pulling him out of scrapes when you were boys.’
‘Did she? He was three years younger than me, you see, and as we had no mother when we were boys I had to look after him. He was always into mischief, but there was never a malicious bone in his body. And I think he was genuinely fond of you.’
‘What makes you say that?’
He smiled, wondering how much to tell her. ‘He was speaking about you just before he died.’ The little lie was worth it if it made her feel less angry. ‘It is why I set out to find you.’
‘Did you know who I was when you saved me from falling down in the street three days ago?’
‘No. I was on my way to Mrs Porter’s lodging house and expected to find you there. When I called I was told you had moved. It was then I remembered meeting you.’
‘Goodness—why should you remember that and connect the girl with the parcel to your stepmother’s one-time nursery maid?’
‘I really do not know. There was something about you—something Jeremy said about the way you held yourself. Anyway, I thought it was worth trying to find you again and glad I am that I did.’
‘Why? You surely do not feel responsible for me?’
He did not know how to answer that. He could hardly be held to account for his brother’s misdeeds, although as a boy he had often taken Jeremy’s punishment on his own shoulders. Perhaps if he had not done that Jeremy would have grown up a more responsible adult. ‘In a way, I suppose I do.’
‘None of it was your fault,’ she said slowly. ‘I am grateful for a delicious meal in comfortable surroundings, but I still have to find somewhere to live, to earn my living and bring up my son.’
Right on cue, Timothy stirred and began to whimper. Annette rose to go to him, but Charles was quicker. He went into the bedroom and picked the child up. ‘Were you feeling neglected, my little cherub?’ he queried, cradling him and rocking him in his arms.
The incongruous sight of the aristocratic soldier holding her son against an impeccable black superfine coat and murmuring nonsense struck Annette as both funny and very moving—as well as worrying. He would make some lucky child a wonderful papa. It was then she remembered that he had lost a child of his own; surely he did not mean to replace him with Timothy?
She reached out and almost snatched the infant from him. ‘Major, I must go. The afternoon is well advanced and I have yet to find lodgings. You said you would make me a loan. If you would be so good as to do so, I will be off. Rest assured I will repay it as soon as I can manage it.’
‘How do you propose to do that?’
‘Earn it. I have been taking in sewing.’
‘Oh, so that was what was in the parcel?’
‘Yes. I have been promised more. All I need is to find lodgings.’
‘I think I can do better than that.’
‘What do you mean?’ She was extremely wary.
‘You need a proper home …’
Her unease increased. ‘Major Ashbrooke, if you think I would be prepared to—’ she began angrily, gathering up her belongings one-handed as she spoke; her other arm was supporting her son, who was grizzling at being ignored.
He held up his hands as if to ward off a blow. ‘Hold hard. Don’t fly into the boughs. I never meant anything like that. I simply want to make sure you are comfortable, and that Timothy is healthy and growing strong. And you too. You are a little pale. I should like to see more roses in your cheeks.’
It was the first personal comment he had made, except to say he was not interested in her body, and she felt the heat come into her face. He saw it and smiled. ‘That’s better. I know you have had your faith in people severely shaken, but you must learn to trust again. I am not an ogre. After what you have told me I realise you have been badly treated, and I want only to make amends.’
‘Make amends! No one can do that. Your brother made a fallen woman of me, a pariah not fit for respectable company. It is something I have to live with every day of my life. Only Timothy makes it easier to bear.’
‘You do not have to bear it alone. Sit down again and listen, please.’
Slowly she obeyed, still wary, rocking her son to quieten him. He watched her a moment, wondering if he was doing the right thing. But, having found her and seen the
conditions under which she was struggling to live, he could not leave her to it. She had tugged at his heartstrings in a way no woman had since he had lost Bella. He admired her pluck and independence, but he could not let her bring up his nephew on the pittance she could earn sewing. She needed a family to care for her. It was in his mind to try and find her mother’s people, but in the meantime she needed protection. It was up to him to provide it.
He had spent the time earlier that afternoon while she was feeding Timothy wondering what to do. He could pay for lodgings for her, but he knew instinctively she would not accept that. He had been right, considering her reaction to his suggestion that she needed a home, and that was before he had even explained what he had in mind. He had thought of taking her to Brookside. It was time the house was opened up again, but on reflection he realised that installing her and her child there would certainly give the gabblegrinders something to get their teeth into. And if he were to restore her to her family there must be no hint of scandal or they might reject her. It was then he’d thought of the gate house.
‘I own a small estate,’ he said now. ‘It is in the village of Brookley, just to the north of here.’
‘I know. Jeremy told me. He said it was shut up after …’
‘After my wife died. Yes it was. I was away at war and did not need it.’ His voice was level but she detected the hurt in his eyes. It was not only his brother’s death that had put it there.
‘But you are home now,’ she said softly.
‘Yes, I have been thinking it is time the house was lived in once more. At present there is a very small skeleton staff, headed by Mrs Hurst. She is the widow of one of my sergeants, a brave and resourceful man I was proud to fight alongside.’
‘What has that to do with me?’
‘I think we could help each other. If you agree, that is.’
‘Major, what are you suggesting? You know I could not live under the same roof as you without causing a great deal of gossip. Your good name would be ruined, and as for me I would be branded the harlot your stepmother called me, a kept woman …’