by Mary Nichols
Timmy had fallen asleep in her arms and she looked down at him with loving tenderness. Carefully she put him down on the hearth rug, where he could come to no harm; there was no fire in the grate on such a warm day, though it was not as hot as it had been. For him she would make any sacrifice, so had she any right to be so particular?
‘I thought you would say that, and I must agree with you.’
‘Then what?’ she asked in surprise, straightening up to look at him.
‘There is a gate house which is presently unoccupied. You are welcome to live there.’
‘On what terms? If it is in the country, how am I to earn my living?’
‘By helping Mrs Hurst open up Brookside and make it habitable again. I am afraid it has been sadly neglected for more than four years, and is in want of a lady’s touch.’
She laughed suddenly. ‘How do you know I would be any good at that? Apart from Riseborough Hall, I know nothing of grand houses.’
‘I will take a chance on that. So, what do you say we give it a try? A home and a small wage for the work you do. Would it not be better that struggling on here?’
She thought about it long and hard. The idea seemed attractive, but if she and Mrs Hurst did not get on she would be back where she started—worse, for she would have lost the customers she had. And how much would he try to interfere in the bringing up of her child? But she was strong enough to resist that, wasn’t she? And when his house was once more the home he wanted it to be he would surely give her a reference so that she could find somewhere else? Could she afford to turn down what was, after all, a godsend?
She had been looking down at her son, but now she looked up into his face. He was smiling at her, the expression in his eyes softly appealing, as if he truly needed her help. It was nonsense, of course, but she found herself nodding. ‘Very well. A trial. Provided it is convenient to Mrs Hurst.’
‘Good.’
‘There is a condition. If I accept your help, I want a promise from you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Do not tell anyone at Riseborough you have found me. Especially do not mention Timothy.’
‘Why? Do you think they will try and take him from you?’ He knew as he spoke that it was exactly what she thought.
‘Let them try!’ It was said defiantly. ‘I have made a life for myself as a widow and that is what I must remain.’
‘Very well. I give you my word. I will say nothing unless you give me leave. I will arrange for you to stay here tonight, then we can go tomorrow—after we have been shopping.’
‘Shopping?’
‘Yes, shopping. You will need a cradle and a basket, and no doubt other things for young Timothy’s wellbeing. We shall buy those tomorrow. I have arranged for one of the inn’s servants to look after the child while we are out.’ Seeing her about to object, he held up his hand. ‘Now, do not put obstacles in the way for I am determined.’
He squatted down beside the baby, who had kicked off all his covering and was working his legs like a turtle thrown on its back. He tickled the child’s stomach. ‘Why, he smiled at me!’
‘It is only wind.’
‘I am sure it was a smile.’ He stood up. ‘I will leave you now, but I shall return tomorrow morning. Shall we say ten o’clock?’ With that he bowed, picked up his hat and left her.
She sank down onto the sofa and looked about her. It seemed too good to be true. On the surface Major Charles Ashbrooke seemed the perfect gentleman—anxious to please, worried that his brother had ill used her and anxious to make amends, which of course he could not do. But there was something more to him than that. A depth which was difficult to fathom. All the time they had been talking he had only once mentioned his wife, and that had been when he was talking about the house. Had he loved her? Had he been broken-hearted when she died? How badly had he been hit by the loss of his child?
She remembered Jeremy speaking of it. It had been in the early days of her service at Riseborough Hall, and she had yet to suffer at his hands.
‘He came home when they died,’ he had said. ‘But he went straight back again. He was bitter and angry. Mama tried to persuade him to stay, but he would have none of it. He has not been home since.’
Perhaps she would learn more when the Major called tomorrow. Suddenly she was looking forward to seeing him again. Not that she intended to be any more beholden to him than she need be. She would work her fingers to the bone to repay whatever he did for her.
Having settled Timmy next morning, she set about getting herself ready. For the first time in months she worried what she looked like. She had taken out the best of her four gowns, a lilac sarcenet trimmed with bands of cream lace, and hung it up to get rid of the creases. Her chip bonnet was somewhat battered, so she sat it over the steaming kettle to pull it back into shape, and then found a wide ribbon which she swathed round the crown and tied in a bow beneath her chin. She could do nothing with her shoes except clean them. And thus she greeted him, when he arrived promptly at ten o’clock.
He did not know why he was so surprised at her changed appearance, but he was. The young lady who faced him and dipped a little curtsey was, he supposed, the young lady Jeremy had known—the one who had ‘presence’. He was inclined to agree with him.
He bowed. ‘Mrs Anstey, how are you?’
She smiled. ‘In fine fettle, sir.’
Fettle. She had used that word before, when trying to remember the name of her mother’s parents. He began turning it over in his mind. Fettle. Fettle. He had never met anyone of that name that he could remember. Where did they fit on the social scale? He meant to try and find out as soon as she was settled at Brookside.
‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked.
‘Wrong?’ He pulled himself out of his reverie. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You were looking at me quite strangely, as if I had a smudge on my nose. Have I?’
‘No, you look enchanting.’ He turned as there came a knock on the door, and opened it to admit a middle-aged woman who bobbed him a curtsey. ‘Ah, here is our baby-minder. Shall we go?’
Annette spent several minutes explaining to the woman about Timothy, giving her instructions about mixing bread and milk for him and showing her the baby’s clouts and clean clothes, before she gave him a kiss and followed Charles to the door.
He had had more than shopping for a cradle on his mind, she realised, when they had chosen a beautiful oak crib on rockers, complete with a lace canopy. In spite of her protests, he’d bought a mattress and covers as well.
‘You do not have to repay me for what I buy for Timothy,’ he told her when she protested. ‘An uncle can indulge his nephew and no one think anything of it.’
The cradle was followed by clothes for the boy—a mountain of them.
‘He will grow out of them before he can wear them all,’ she said as they were packed up for delivery later in the day. ‘Please, do not be so extravagant.’
‘Then I shall buy something for you. Let us find a mantua-maker.’
‘No, sir. You have done enough.’
‘No, not nearly enough. Nothing I do can be enough to right the wrong.’
‘You have done no wrong.’
He stopped and turned to look down at her. Two days before she had been downtrodden, weighed down with troubles, afraid of almost everything—certainly very wary of him. Now she was far more alive; she had an inner glow and he liked to think he had had a hand in the improvement. But it had to be maintained, and to do that he must go carefully. She could easily be scared off again.
‘I hope that means you are coming to trust me?’
‘Yes, I think so. But I cannot believe that you wish to take your brother’s guilt onto your own shoulders. It is not fair.’
‘Life is not fair, my dear. Now, what about gowns for you? If you are to be in my employ, then it behoves me to see you dressed suitably. I cannot have it said I am such a penny-pincher I cannot clothe my employees.’
He seemed t
o have said the right thing, he concluded, as she agreed to buy a couple of gowns, several large white aprons and some starched caps for working in.
He sat in a chair in the front room of the mantua-makers while she went into the back and tried on the gowns, coming out to twirl before him and asking him his preference. He was sorry she had chosen plain greys, and had some difficulty in persuading her that she would look better in blue or pale green.
The thought of having something nice to wear overcame her scruples, and she consented to a green and white striped gingham, a blue sarcenet and a dove-grey round gown for work, all with a fashionably high waist-line and scooped neck. At Madame’s suggestion a shawl and pelisse were added.
Annette began to worry how she could possibly repay him as he paid for the items and gave instructions for their delivery. And it was not the last of his generosity. The shopping was only finished off when he gave her what he called an advance on her salary to buy underthings, stockings and shoes. Then he took her back to The Maid’s Head, where the servant told them Timmy had been as good as gold.
‘I shall leave you to see to your son and pack your belongings,’ he said. ‘I will be in the parlour downstairs when you are ready.’
He left her, thoroughly bemused. Had he really spent the day shopping for a baby? And not even his own! He had not been able to do that for Bella and had no idea what had been bought—because by the time he’d arrived home all evidence of the child had been swept away. The infant did not even have his own grave but had been buried with his mother.
Almost the first thing he had done on returning to his country home had been to visit the grave. He had stood looking down at the simple stone and the flowers the gardener had placed on the mound and been unable to believe his wife was there. She had been thrilled to learn she was to have a child, and he had promised to give up the army and stay at home. There had been no reason to do so after that double tragedy, and he had gone back to the fight, leading a charmed life and coming through without a scratch. He had often wondered why. Was there some divine purpose at work?
Jeremy had died—his laughing, careless, beautiful brother had been killed in the carnage that was the Battle of Vittoria—and he had survived to come home and meet Annette Ryston, alias Mrs Anstey. And she had captivated him. Jeremy had been right; there was something outstanding about her. He chuckled to himself as he settled himself to wait for her; he would not tell her he meant to search for her mother’s family in case he failed or they would not receive her. He did not yet know the whole story.
Annette joined him, her bags were loaded into the boot of the Major’s carriage, and they were soon bowling out of Norwich. Annette was a bundle of nerves, wondering if she had done the right thing agreeing to his suggestion, but then she looked down at Timmy, sleeping in her arms, and told herself she had done it for him.
‘Brookley is only just over an hour’s journey,’ he told her. ‘We shall soon be there.’
‘What is the house like? Is it very big?’
‘No, not compared with Riseborough Hall. About half the size, I should say, but it is a convenient house. I am sure you will not find it too arduous refurbishing it.’
‘And the gate house?’
‘Oh, that is tiny. About four hundred yards from the main house.’ He looked down at Timmy, who was wide awake and fidgeting. ‘Shall I take him for a while? He must be making your arm ache.’
She hesitated, and then relinquished the baby. Charles took him and sat him up so that he could see out of the window, and began pointing things out to him: the cows and churches and people in the fields. Annette smiled. As if the child could understand him!
They stopped at an inn to rest the horses, and Charles ordered refreshment and warm milk for Timmy. They were on their way again, and Timmy was once more in Annette’s arms.
In no time at all they were turning in at the wrought-iron gates of a substantial villa. To the left of the drive was a tiny hexagonal-shaped cottage. The carriage stopped outside.
‘I am sure you would like to settle in now,’ Charles said, opening the door and jumping down to help her alight. ‘Time enough tomorrow to see over the house.’ He turned to the coachman. ‘Take the carriage up to the house, James. I will walk back.’
He pushed open the door and ushered her inside, where they were greeted by a woman of about thirty. Unlike Mrs Porter and Mrs Grosse, this lady had a cheerful countenance. Her complexion was somewhat weatherbeaten, and her hair a mousy grey, but her eyes were the colour of forget-me-nots and they beamed at Annette. ‘So you are here at last.’
‘This is Mrs Hurst,’ Charles said. ‘Mrs Hurst, this is Mrs Anstey.’
Mrs Hurst bobbed a curtsey. ‘Come on in. You must be hungry. Supper’s all ready.’
Annette was puzzled. ‘How did you know I was coming?’
‘Why, the Major rode home last night to fetch the carriage and told me to expect you.’
‘Oh.’ She turned to Charles, wondering if he had gone to bed at all the previous night; he had shown no sign of fatigue. ‘How did you know I would agree to come?’
He smiled. ‘I didn’t, but I hoped you would. Now, I am going to leave you to settle in. Come up to the house tomorrow and we will talk about your duties.’ For the sake of her pride he was maintaining the notion that she had been brought to Brookside to work.
After he had gone, Mrs Hurst showed her round the tiny house with its strange shape. There was a sitting room which looked out onto a small garden. It was furnished with a sofa, a table, a set of chairs and two roomy cupboards. The table was laid for one with a selection of cold dishes. On one side of that was a tiny kitchen, and upstairs were two simply furnished bedrooms. Everything was spotless and smelled of beeswax and lavender.
‘This is luxury,’ Annette exclaimed.
‘I am glad you like it. I lived here for a bit, until the Major said he wanted me to open up the big house again and live in. There’s only a few staff, but I expect he will take on more when he begins entertaining again. The Major said we shall be working together.’
‘Yes, I am looking forward to it. Shall you mind having a baby about the place?’
‘Not at all. Major Ashbrooke explained about your husband. I am sorry for your loss, but we shall be two widows together and merry as grigs.’
‘Oh, yes, I am sure we shall.’
Annette could not take in the change in her fortunes. Tomorrow she would wake up and find herself back in that dreadful hovel down by the river, with Cecil Grosse rattling the doorknob. Or would it be Charles Ashbrooke trying his luck? She almost laughed aloud at the thought. Major Charles Ashbrooke would be more subtle than that. Besides, hadn’t he said he had no use for her body?
She came out of her reverie because Mrs Hurst was speaking. ‘He is a wonderful man, Mrs Anstey. Not many officers would bother themselves over their men, much less trouble themselves with the wives. I do not know what I would have done without him.’ She was looking at the baby as she spoke.
‘Would you like to hold him?’
‘Oh, may I?’ She took Timmy from his mother and sat on the sofa, rocking him in her arms. He was in a good mood and gurgled up at her. ‘He is lovely. What is his name?’
‘Timothy,’ Annette said, busying herself making tea. Everything was easily to hand; there were stores in the cupboard and coal and kindling in the kitchen hearth, where a fire was blazing. ‘I call him Timmy. I can make a bed for him with one of the drawers for tonight. Major Ashbrooke has arranged for the rest of his things to be delivered tomorrow.’
‘That’s just like him—so thoughtful.’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘Since my Bert was killed—four years ago at the Battle of Oporto. The Major was his Captain then. It was about the time his wife and baby son died. The poor man took it hard. He was coming back to England on leave to see to everything, and he brought me home with him. I could not have managed on my own.’
‘You were out in Portugal
with the army?’ Annette asked in surprise.
‘Yes. Six women are drawn in every regiment to accompany their men, and I was one of the lucky ones. Those left at home have to fend for themselves. When we came back the Major brought me here. I do not like taking anything from him, but he said Bert lost his life trying to save his and he owed it to me. He is a difficult man to refuse …’
‘So I noticed,’ Annette said with a smile, as she poured boiling water over the tealeaves. ‘By the way, my name is Annette. I would be pleased for you to use it.’
She hated anyone addressing her as Mrs Anstey, even though it was a name she had chosen herself. It was a lie, and she had been brought up always to tell the truth. Perhaps when she had come to know Mrs Hurst better she might confide in her, but not yet. She was not sure how particular the woman was, and she dared not risk making herself homeless again.
‘Mine is Meg. I am sure we are going to deal well with each other.’
‘Yes, I am sure we shall.’ She poured tea, and Meg put Timmy down on the hearthrug to take the cup Annette offered her.
They finished drinking their tea, chatting amiably. Mrs Hurst spoke of her time in Portugal, when she had lived as her husband had, which accounted for her weathered complexion, and Annette talked about India and her parents, but skimmed over what had happened after her mother died—simply because she had not thought out a story for her marriage and the loss of her husband. Strangely, Mrs Hurst did not ask her, and by the time she left to go back to the house they were the best of friends.
‘Here you are,’ Charles said, when Annette arrived at the house the next day. ‘Are you comfortable in the gate house?’
‘Yes, very. Thank you.’
She was carrying Timothy, and he reached out to stroke the child’s cheek. ‘Shall we leave the baby with Mrs Hurst while I show you over the house?’
Mrs Hurst was in the kitchen, preparing food. She was being helped by a kitchen maid. ‘I fetched the crib down from the attic like you told me,’ she told Charles, nodding towards the corner. ‘The little one will be comfortable enough there.’