Constance didn’t have to be told twice. Any excuse to venture outside for a few minutes was welcome. Sunbeams rarely strayed into the kitchen for, in an attempt to keep it cool in the heat of summer, its windows faced north. Today, although bitterly cold, the weather was bright and sunny and she had been longing to feel the fresh air on her face if only for a moment or two. It always lifted her spirits.
Quickly changing her apron for a clean one – an unwritten rule even for a quick errand like this one – Constance made her escape. It had snowed steadily over Christmas, but in the last day or two after a brief thaw, everything had frozen solid, as hard penetrating frosts had made themselves felt. Brilliant sunsets and rosy dawns spoke of clear high skies, and as Constance hurried across the courtyard which the outside staff kept clear of snow even in the worst of the weather, she breathed in the sharp frosty air with delight, taking it deep into her lungs.
Passing through the archway into the stableyard, she ignored the low wolf-whistle Ray McGuigan, one of the grooms, sent her way. She’d rebuffed numerous advances by some of the outside staff since she’d been at Grange Hall, along with the odd surreptitious suggestion by one or two members of the indoor staff too. Now their overtures were without expectation and friendly; they knew she wouldn’t respond and she knew they knew.
Nevertheless she sped across the yard towards the door in the far wall which led to the kitchen gardens, not because of Ray and his harmless flirting, but due to the fact that a stable-lad might bring out one of the horses for exercise. She thought the master’s horses were beautiful, their glossy coats and noble heads were a sight to behold, but she was very aware of their lethal hooves and huge sharp teeth too. Midnight, the master’s favourite stallion, was known to be a temperamental beast; on one of her half-days when she’d visited Agnes in her cosy little cottage, Cuthbert had come in full of the fact that Midnight had kicked one of the stable-boys straight through the wooden divide into the next stall.
Passing through the garden door, she shut it carefully behind her. To her left was a long line of glass-houses, to her right were the vineries, the nectarine and early – and late-peach-houses, the thatched fruit-house and the mushroom-house and the potting sheds. Beyond these lay the walled fruit and vegetable garden.
The gravel scrunched under her feet as she made her way to the mushroom-house and she experienced the feeling she always felt when out of the house – pure joy. She wished, she so wished that women could be allowed to work in the gardens. It would be the next best thing to working with children as she’d done before she left Sacriston. Here things were nurtured and cared for, you could see their development and growth. When she thought of the produce which had been sent to the kitchen over the last day or two – artichokes, chicory, asparagus, sea-kale, endive, celery and dandelion, not to mention the items from the fruit store – she so envied the head gardener and his staff.
After collecting her basket of mushrooms she retraced her footsteps. The dairy was situated at the far end of the stable-block and stockyard, and was closer to the kitchen. The jug of cream was a large one and needed both hands to steady it, and so with the basket slung over her arm she left the dairy, her breath a cloud in front of her in the brilliant icy air.
She was never very sure of the order of events which followed. One moment she was looking across the stableyard and seeing Bruce Travis, one of the stable-lads, leading Midnight across the cobbles. The next, the shrill cries and shouts of children had her attention as a group of them came hurtling into the yard from the direction of the narrow road which skirted the house, the road Ivy had taken when bringing her to Grange Hall six years ago. From there everything became blurred. She had an image of the stallion rearing up on its hind legs and of Bruce letting go of the reins and falling, and of Master Edmond – tiny and frozen with fear – straight in the path of the magnificent beast with its flailing hooves and maddened eyes. Instinct, the same instinct which would have taken hold if the child in front of her had been one of the Finnigan twins, caused her to drop the jug and basket and race forward.
She had reached the child and scooped him into her arms before she felt the tremendous blow, but even then instinct demanded she curl her shape round that of the child’s as they were flung halfway across the yard, to protect him from the impact. They landed. The breath left her body and she thought, So this is what it’s like to die. And then . . . nothing.
Chapter 10
Henry Ashton wouldn’t have described himself as an emotional man, certainly not since he had fallen in love with Isabella and discovered – for the first time in his hitherto very English upbringing – what passions could burn in the depth of another human being. Isabella was fire against his ice, that was the way he liked to look at their union. She felt deeply about even the smallest thing, and wasn’t afraid to say so. He adored that about her. He adored everything about her. He adored his daughters too, but after his son had been born and he had looked at the miniature recreation of himself, his heart had been swamped with a love so fierce and powerful it had terrified him. It still did, if he was truthful.
When he had seen his nieces and nephews and his youngest daughter running pell-mell after his son in some noisy game of their own making – and not a nursemaid in sight – he had been panicked, he admitted it. And he had been right to be panicked. If he lived to be a hundred he would never forget the sight that had confronted him as he’d rounded the corner of the stableyard. The horse, and in front of it, his son. And he knew he was too far away to save him. That there was nothing he could do.
‘Darling, he is fast asleep and he will remain so until morning. Doctor Jefferson was adamant there will only be slight bruising to show for this escapade.’ Isabella put her hand on her husband’s arm, her voice gentle. The day had been an exhausting one. First, the accident as everyone had been leaving which had necessitated the doctor being summoned, not only for their son but the servant girl, and then the inevitable delay before their guests had departed. And Henry had been quite unlike himself, rampaging about the house and dismissing the nursemaids on the spot like that. She was sure he would have dismissed Nanny Price too but for the fact that she had been dealing with Charlotte who was in bed with a stomach upset and feeling very sorry for herself after being awake all night.
‘Escapade?’ Henry shook his head. They had just retired to the drawing room after dinner, but neither of them had been able to eat more than a bite or two. ‘He could have been killed today, Bella. But for this kitchenmaid, it is almost certain he would have been mangled under Midnight’s hooves.’
Isabella shut her eyes tightly for a moment. ‘I know. I can’t bear to think of it. Don’t say any more, Henry.’
‘He is only three years old but he has the whip hand with Nanny Price. Do you realise that? And those dim-witted nursemaids were worse than useless. I swear they were frightened of him.’
‘He’s high-spirited, that’s all.’
‘That is not all and you know it. He has the Ashton determination and stubbornness, along with your father’s conviction that he is always right.’ They exchanged a smile. Isabella’s father was a very wealthy Italian aristocrat who was as inflexible as he was powerful in his own country, and he had a view about anything and everything which he wasn’t shy about expressing. He was also a warm, generous and intelligent man who loved his only daughter very much, and Isabella knew Henry was fond of him. In small doses. Very small doses.
‘Do you think this girl, Shelton, will be all right?’ Isabella’s voice shook a little. ‘It appears she is only twenty years old, Henry.’
Henry wasn’t at all sure she was going to be all right, but Isabella had been upset enough for one day. ‘Of course, it’s just a matter of time. The broken arm will heal and once she is fully conscious and recovered from the cuts and bruises and cracked ribs, she’ll be as right as rain. Don’t worry, Bella.’
Isabella nodded. They had done all they could, she told herself. When Dr Jefferson had expressed
his doubts about the wisdom of attempting to move the girl to hospital, they’d had two of the footmen carry her upstairs to the room adjacent to Nanny Price’s in the nursery suite which the two nursemaids had occupied until earlier that day. And the private nurse who had arrived within hours to take care of her had been highly recommended by Dr Jefferson.
‘We owe her so much, Henry,’ she said. ‘So much. She didn’t think of herself. She was so very brave.’
‘Indeed she was.’ If the girl recovered, something would have to be done for her. He’d had a word with the butler and ascertained that the girl was of exemplary character. The cook had given a good report about her too. It appeared she had been with them for six years and in that time there had not been a breath of impropriety connected with her, despite the fact she was the prettiest little thing he’d seen for a long time.
A knock at the door preceded the butler entering with the coffee they had decided to take in the drawing room rather than the dining room. After pouring them both a cup, he did not leave immediately but stood by the chair and coughed.
‘Yes, Rowan? What is it?’
‘It’s Cook, sir. She wondered if she might be allowed to see the Shelton girl. There’s a family connection.’
‘Really? Well, perhaps tomorrow depending on how she is. The doctor was very explicit about no visitors until he gave permission. He’s coming again in the morning so we’ll know more then. Tell Cook she will be kept informed.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The butler was halfway across the room when a thought occurred to Henry. ‘Rowan?’
‘Yes, sir?’ The butler immediately retraced his footsteps.
‘Is Cook informing the girl’s family of the situation?’
The butler hesitated. ‘She thought it better to wait for a few days, sir. There are no parents or siblings, merely an elderly grandmother who brought the girl up after her parents died when she was a baby. In view of the grandmother’s age Cook judged it best to delay until she had good news to impart.’
‘I see. Well, as Cook thinks best.’ Henry watched the butler quietly leave the room. He just hoped there was good news. The girl had looked as near death as he’d ever seen anyone look, earlier, and he didn’t give much for her chances.
For the next few days it would be true to say that Constance hovered between life and death, but slowly, and due in no small part to the excellent nursing she received from the woman Dr Jefferson had brought to the house, she gained ground. Then came the day when she could sit up in bed propped up by pillows, and the terrible headache and sickness the concussion had caused lessened, although she still slept twenty hours out of twenty-four. It was a full week before she was deemed well enough by Dr Jefferson to have visitors, but when Florence waddled into the room her opening words weren’t exactly fortifying. ‘Dear gussy, girl, but you do look bad.’ Florence’s eyes had stretched wide. ‘You never did have any meat on your bones but there’s nothing left of you now.’
As the nurse gave a disapproving cough, Constance smiled weakly. ‘Hello, Cook.’
Florence sat down by the bed, causing the chair to creak in protest. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better.’ Although it still hurt even to breathe.
‘We’re going to have to feed you up, m’girl, I can see that. Now I haven’t yet written to your grandmother because’ – and here Florence was uncharacteristically tactful – ‘I wasn’t sure how much you’d want me to say.’
‘Oh, I’m glad you didn’t, Cook! She’d only worry. I’ll write and explain when I’m a bit better.’
‘Aye, that’d be best.’ Florence glanced round the room which had been the nursemaids’ up to the time of the accident. She was pleased to see it wasn’t a patch on hers. The two beds and wardrobe and dressing-table the room held were nice enough – functional, she’d say – but there were no frills and fancies, which was as it should be. Nursemaids weren’t on a level with herself, after all. But she’d often wondered what their accommodation was like, beens as they were in the main house, so to speak. No doubt Nanny Price’s room was a cut above, but that too was as it should be.
Florence only stayed ten minutes but by the time she left Constance was exhausted. She slept the rest of the day, but as an early twilight fell and the nurse closed the curtains against the thick snow which was falling outside, she opened her eyes to see a small figure standing by the bed.
‘Hello.’ Edmond’s round baby face was solemn. ‘You’re the lady who stopped Papa’s horse from kicking me, aren’t you? Is your arm better?’
The nurse had turned sharply, saying, ‘What are you doing in here?’ but Constance smiled at the child. ‘My arm’s much better, thank you, Master Edmond.’
‘Did it hurt a lot?’
‘Quite a lot.’ She struggled to sit up straighter, wondering how he’d found his way into the room. Elsie, one of the housemaids who saw to the cleaning of the room, had told her the master and mistress had given instructions to Nanny Price that she had to watch the children every moment. When she had protested that that would be difficult without any nursemaids to assist her, the master had reminded her that it was the nursemaids who had nearly got his son killed when he’d been designated to their care. Elsie said that Nanny Price had been weepy for days; she wouldn’t be surprised if she applied for another position before long. Needed eyes in the back of her head, she said.
‘I don’t like strawberries.’
Constance looked into the huge blue eyes staring at her. ‘Don’t you?’ she said, wondering at the change of conversation.
‘No. The medicine I had to have when Midnight nearly kicked me tasted of strawberries. It was horrible and bright pink.’
Constance nodded. ‘I see. I suppose the doctor thought most little boys like strawberries.’
‘I don’t.’ He continued to watch her as he said, ‘I spat it out over my bed.’
She forced herself not to smile. ‘Do you think a big boy would have done that or taken his medicine like a man? Like your father would have done?’
This was clearly an argument which he’d not heard before. He frowned. ‘I’m a big boy.’
He was certainly an extremely articulate and intelligent one for his age. When she had discovered that much of the Finnigan twins’ bad behaviour was due to boredom and had persuaded Miss Newton to let her give them sums and reading books far above their age, much of their naughtiness had disappeared overnight. ‘So next time you have to take any medicine, you’ll swallow it straightaway – even if you don’t like it, just as your father and the big boys do?’
Edmond considered this for some moments. Then he nodded slowly and very seriously. ‘Yes,’ he announced firmly. ‘I will.’
‘I will hold you to that, Edmond.’
The dry voice from the doorway caused the nurse to bustle forward, her voice prim as she said, ‘Why, Sir Henry, I didn’t see you there.’
Henry didn’t glance at the woman. He appreciated that she was good at her job but he didn’t like her. His eyes still on his son, he said, ‘Nanny Price is looking for you, Edmond. It is time for your bath, is it not?’
Edmond’s lower lip thrust out in a decided pout. ‘I don’t like—’ He looked at Constance as she shook her head. His fair brows coming together, he said, ‘Do you like baths, Papa?’
‘Of course I do. I like them very much.’
‘Did you like them when you were a boy?’
Henry’s lips twitched. ‘Not much, but I trusted that my father and mother knew best. We cannot always do what we would like to do, merely what is expected of us. Our duty.’
‘And is it my duty to have a bath?’ Edmond asked solemnly.
‘Absolutely, and with good grace.’
‘Oh, Sir Henry, you’ve found him. I left him for two minutes to see to Miss Gwendoline’s toilette, that’s all.’ Nanny Price was breathless and her colour was high as she came up behind Henry in the doorway. ‘He was supposed to be undressing.’
At
the sight of the nanny Edmond’s face took on a pugnacious expression that was comical. There was clearly no love lost between the nanny and the child. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be led away, turning before he left the room and saying to Constance, ‘May I come and see you again tomorrow?’
Constance was at a loss as to what to say. It was Sir Henry who answered. ‘Yes, you may – if you behave yourself and don’t run away from Nanny Price again.’
The small face that was a miniature of the older one smiled. ‘I won’t,’ he said.
Sir Henry didn’t follow his son and the nanny as Constance had expected. Instead he came further into the room. She had vague memories of this cultured male voice asking the nurse how she was now and again, but it was lost in the fog of the first few days after the accident. Now she was covered in confusion. This was the master, the god-like creature whose sensibilities would be offended by the mere sight of a kitchenmaid, and he was not only looking at her but speaking to her.
‘I’m told you are on the road to recovery?’ he said pleasantly.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘I rather feel it is my wife and myself who should be thanking you, Shelton. But for your courage and quick thinking my son would not now be suffering the thing he hates most, a bath. Although he may regard that as a mixed blessing.’
Forever Yours Page 14