by Janet Woods
The smell of the earth and the sharp sea air reminded her of her childhood. How different things were for her now.
‘Here we are, then, Ma,’ she shouted, her voice echoing over the hills. ‘We’ve got this far, though it hasn’t been without trouble. Daisy and I will always love you.’
The spirit of her mother seemed to reached out for them, surrounding them with love.
She and Daisy spun around laughing and giggling until they collapsed together to roll in the grass, the sky and hills still spinning around them.
The story of Siana Lewis will be continued in
BEYOND THE PLOUGH
Don’t miss the enthralling sequel to A Dorset Girl
To be published in Pocket paperback in July, 2004
1
Dorset 1837
It was the first day of the New Year. The hallway of Cheverton Manor was decorated with ivy and prickly holly boughs, bright with blood-red berries. A huge log fire blazed in the hearth. Pine cones and needles had been added for the fragrance. Sparks exploded up the chimney as the pine resin heated.
Siana Forbes paused on the stairs for this, her second New Year without her husband. She was young to be a widow, barely twenty-two. Small and slim, she’d long ago discarded the black of mourning. Her burgundy coloured riding habit followed the curves of her waist and breasts. Beneath her skirt she wore white silk pantalettes, but not for warmth. Her late husband had introduced her to such undergarments on her wedding day and now they were part of her.
Edward Forbes gazed down at her from his portrait. Grey-haired and elegant, he appeared to be the essence of propriety. Actually, he’d been downright wicked in his ways. The painted twinkle in his eye and ironic twist to his mouth made her smile. The artist had captured it well. Siana’s blood still ran hot if she thought of him for any length of time. Even now – now she’d come to understand that her love for him had been born from necessity, and his for her, from lust – Siana felt honoured to have been his wife.
Edward Forbes had lifted her from the depths of despair, educated her and given her a life so unlike the one her mother had known that she often had to pinch herself to believe it. She had enjoyed her short marriage, had enjoyed her husband in all his moods and ways. Her grief had been genuine when he’d died before he’d had a chance to see his son and heir.
The young baronet was upstairs in the nursery. Christened Ashley Edward, a name his father had indicated on his death-bed, the little squire was a strong child who resembled his father in feature. His hair was dark, containing the glossy raven blackness of her own. His eyes were the same hue too. A dark, mysterious green, the colour of pines, her husband had described them as. They’d been passed down through the blood of the Welsh ancestors she’d only been told about.
She loved Ashley with all the intensity a mother feels towards her first child. She loved him more because he would never know his father or experience his guidance, and more still because his future was not his own to decide. Cheverton Manor and the estate surrounding it would be his life work. Such a lot of responsibility for such a little boy to shoulder.
It was early as she made her way to the door, stopping only to greet the servant who came to tend the fire. Her own maid was still abed. No doubt Rosie would scold her for going out with her hair hanging in a loose braid down her back. Not that anybody would be abroad at this early hour on New Year’s day to see her.
The morning was raw. The night mist still lingered, floating in shifting layers that writhed around the stark winter tree shapes and hid the sky. The air was sharpened by wood smoke, which rose from the manor’s chimneys to be trapped within the damp blanket of vapour.
Siana slipped the bridle over her mount’s head and led her from her stall. Her horse pocked impatiently at the stable floor with her hoof and snickered softly when she struggled to lift the saddle to her back. She was a pretty bay, with a dark tail and mane and soft brown eyes ringed with dark lashes.
‘Stand still, Keara,’ Siana told her as the saddle began to slip sideways.
She jumped when the steward took over the task, scolding, ‘You should have had the groom kicked out of bed, Lady Forbes.’
Siana eyed Jed Hawkins warily. The steward was a big man, bigger than her late husband, to whom he’d been devoted. Grey-bearded, and weathered, with eyes like dark honey, the enigmatic and taciturn steward was totally to be relied on, but slightly intimidating on occasion. She hadn’t noticed him much before Edward’s death, and it seemed as if he’d suddenly stepped out of his shadow. She hadn’t heard him coming up behind her.
‘It’s the first day of the New Year,’ she said by way of an excuse.
‘New Year or not, the groom still has his duties to perform. One of them is to escort you. Surely you were not thinking of going out alone?’
‘Sometimes I need to be alone, Jed. I have a strong urge to visit the place I grew up in. I’ve not been back there since my mother died.’
As he tightened the cinch around her mount’s belly his eyes softened. Gruffly, he said. ‘All right, lass. I’ll follow on after you and you won’t even know I’m there.’
‘You’re not my father, you know,’ she dared to say.
He gave her a level look. ‘No, but I would have made a better one than that preacher man, Gruffydd Evans, ever was.’
She cocked her head to one side, trying to fathom him out. ‘Perhaps you should wed and produce children of your own instead of trying to be a father to me.’
Jed chuckled at that. ‘Before he died your husband told me to watch out for you. I intend to follow his orders to the letter.’
‘Edward said that? It’s odd that your loyalty to him stretches beyond the grave. What were you to him?’
He lowered his eyes. ‘Childhood companion, comrade-at-arms, friend.’
‘Why did he charge you with my care when you are no relation to him?’
‘Because he knew he wouldn’t be here himself.’ Before she knew it, Jed’s big hands had circled her waist and he’d lifted her on to the saddle. She hooked her knee around the horn and gazed angrily at him. ‘I refuse to let Edward control me after death, so the order is rescinded. Wherever you were going at the crack of dawn, you can continue on.’
‘I’m going nowhere. I’ve just come back.’
Her eyes flared with curiosity. ‘From where?’
‘You’d be surprised.’ Jed grinned slightly to himself, a gesture which reminded Siana forcibly of her late husband when his mind had been absorbed by the ways and means of love.
Jed was unmarried, but, no doubt he would know how to take advantage of certain intimacies necessary to men. She clicked her tongue and rode out before he could see the colour flood to her cheeks, feeling sorry she’d embarrassed herself by asking. Her curiosity about Jed was now biting at her.
Half an hour later she stood under the bones of an oak tree. This was the spot where her mother had died giving birth to a still-born child. Her mother’s blood had poured from her body to nourish this tree. A little way off stood the remains of a labourers’ cottage. The walls were blackened by fire and grass grew amongst the tumbled bricks.
Her mother’s bastard, Siana had been brought up in the cottage. Although she’d survived the constant brutality of the Skinner family, her mother had not. The last of the Skinners still living were Siana’s half siblings, Josh and Daisy. They shared the blood of her own mother.
Despite his youth, at sixteen, Josh was well on his way to becoming a man of substance. Five-year-old Daisy lived at the manor.
Melancholy crept over her. She’d sworn never to come back to this place of sorrow again. For a day or two though, something had been pulling her back. The previous night she’d dreamed of her mother. The cottage had been whole, and her mother had beckoned her from the doorway. Siana had realized then, she could ignore the call no longer.
Sliding from her horse she strode across the grass and into the remains of the cottage. A glance back showed Jed a little way off, m
otionless inside the drifting breath of the mist. Her heart gave a little tug. Jed resembled Edward from this distance. But he would, she told herself. She’d given him Edward’s horse, and Jed had the same way of riding, moving with his mount’s gait instead of trying to force it to his own rhythm.
She closed her eyes, listening for the first sigh of wind over the hill. It usually came keening in from the sea at this time, travelling five miles over the land to bring with it the smell of brine and seaweed. It was too early perhaps, for the wind remained mute and the silence pressed tension against her ears.
There was something here in these sad ruins, something alien to it. She listened to its voice. It was the sound of a breath perhaps, but not a breath expelled. It was held inside, trapped within heart-beats thundering with panic. Whatever it was, it was scared of her. A stray dog? She stretched out her hands and could feel its presence tingling against her palms.
She smiled. The sight she’d inherited from her Welsh grandmother had not visited her for some time. In the past, sometimes it had brought her a warning, sometimes the gift of healing. This time, she sensed something both needful and precious.
‘You needn’t be afraid,’ she murmured, and opening her eyes, gazed around the gloomy interior of the place. It was not a place of happy childhood memories. Here, she’d known nothing but misery. It was still trapped within the burnt spaces, as if the heat of the fire had shrivelled it, but hadn’t been fierce enough to kill it.
The kitchen had caved in long ago, the bricks piling in one on top of the other. The sky showed through the remains of charred roof timbers, which supported nothing but mist. Over to her left, where the second storey wall was still intact, a rough shelter had been built of the charred bricks. Inside, something moved a fraction.
It was not a dog but a small child, huddled against a bundle of grey rags. The girl whimpered in fear as Siana picked her way over the fallen bricks, ignoring the faint, sweet smell of death in the air.
Siana held out her arms. ‘Don’t cry, my sweet little angel. Come to me, I promise I won’t hurt you.’
The waif came creeping into her arms, cold and quivering for comfort like a wretched runt of a kitten. Siana removed her jacket and cuddled the child within its warmth. The thin little body pressed against hers, a pair of pale blue eyes regarded her for a moment then closed. The child’s honeyed hair clung in damp ringlets against her scalp.
‘You have me now,’ Siana whispered to her, her heart aching for the child’s plight, for she’d been in the same position herself once.
As she left the cottage with her burden the first breath of wind came over the hill to push at the mist. Then it blasted with some force against her body, flattening her thin shirt against her shift and chilling her to the bone. She moved into the shelter of the trunk of the oak tree, waving for Jed to come forward.
He gazed down at the bundle in her arms. ‘Not one of ours,’ he said. Removing her jacket, he handed it back to her, then tucked the child cosily inside his topcoat. Siana used his bent knee as a mounting block to scramble into the saddle.
She gazed down at him. ‘Her mother is dead.’
‘I can smell it on her. The poor soul must have been there for several days. As soon as we get back I’ll send some men out with a cart to take the body to the undertaker.’
She couldn’t help but tease him a little. ‘You’re right, Jed. You’d make a good father.’
‘Aye,’ he said comfortably, and giving a quiet chuckle, mounted one-handed and brought his great, black gelding under control. They started back towards Cheverton Manor side by side, the child asleep against his chest.
Francis Matheson was pleased to discover it wasn’t Siana who was ill. Her husband’s death had been harder on her than he’d first thought it would be. It seemed that as soon as she recovered, the melancholy had set in again. At least she had young Ashley to take her mind off her widowhood, and her son’s arrival had been the first real turning point.
Today, she greeted him with a spontaneous smile. ‘I’m so happy to see you, Francis.’
Handing his topcoat and hat to a servant, he followed her up the stairs. There, on the landing, out of sight of the servants’ prying eyes, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. The ardent response from her soft lips displayed a new hunger, so he dared to ask. ‘Have you decided when you’ll wed me?’
‘Soon.’ Her eyes lit up with mischief. ‘Soon, I will give you an answer.’
‘My darling,’ he murmured. ‘If I have to wait for you, I will.’
Her arms slid around his waist and her eyes were dancing now. Pushing open the door to the nearest guest chamber she pulled him inside and invited. ‘You could make love to me now.’
Even as he experienced shock his body reacted positively to the thought. Though tempted, he gazed down at her and regretfully shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, I’m on my way to the infirmary, and wasn’t there someone in need of medical attention? Is it Ashley or Daisy?’
She shrugged slightly. ‘It is neither. Tell me, Francis. Will you be so cold with me after we are wed?’
He tried not to let his surprise show as he held her at arm’s length to gaze at her flushed face. He could see his refusal had embarrassed her. He kissed the end of her nose. ‘I love you, Siana. But I’ve loved you for too long, and respect you too much to take our relationship lightly. That doesn’t mean I’m cold. I’m trying to keep some distance between us, for without a wedding day in sight the consequences could be disastrous for you.’
She nodded. ‘You do not think too badly of me for being forward?’
‘How could I?’ Briefly, he kissed her lips, not daring to do more than that if he was to keep his mind on his work all day. ‘Now, who is this mysterious patient?’
‘It’s a child I have found. Her mother is dead. The men have gone to pick up the woman’s body and take it to the undertakers.’
‘A cadaver to examine,’ he grumbled. ‘Did you have to pick today to go to the cottage?’
‘If I hadn’t, the child would have spent another cold night in the dark with only her dead mother for company. Would you rather have that happen, Francis? I think not.’
A few minutes later he was gazing down at the child. Siana had possessed the sense to isolate her in case she was infectious. ‘What’s the child’s name?’
‘She is called Marigold.’
‘A pretty name. Flowers seem to flourish in your family.’
‘And yours. She’s named for the colour of her hair, I think.’
‘Was there anything on the mother’s body to indicate who she is, or where she came from?’
‘I didn’t look, and she hasn’t spoken yet.’
‘Then how the devil do you know her name?’
She shrugged, and avoiding his eyes, fussed with a piece of lace at her cuff. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken and she whispered it before she went to sleep.’
Francis knew evasiveness when he heard it, and was familiar with the strange way Siana had with her sometimes. ‘And perhaps you just know, aye? I’ll take her with me to the infirmary if she’s fit to travel.’
‘You can’t, she’s my child now.’ Siana bit down on her lip. ‘She has nobody else.’
Francis sighed, because he already knew he was going to lose this battle. ‘The girl is a foundling, you can’t just keep her.’
‘Why not?’
‘There are procedures.’
‘Since you’re on the board which runs the infirmary, I see no difficulty with procedures. Besides, Marigold will be your child when we are wed, so nobody will dare object. I thought the first day of spring might be a good month for the wedding. Does that suit you?’
Astounded by her blatant manipulation of him, he nodded. ‘That’s only three months away.’
‘So it is.’ She gently kissed his cheek, and judging from the laughter in her voice she knew she’d just dealt herself the winning hand. ‘I’ll go and play with Ashley and Daisy whilst you examine Marigold, shall I?�
��
‘Please stay. She might wake and feel scared by the sight of a strange man.’
‘She’ll grow to love you as much as I do.’
He smiled, and wrote on his notebook with a graphite pencil. Female foundling of unknown origin – to be known as Marigold Forbes (Matheson?) Aged about 4 years. Suffering from malnutrition.
He took a good look at the child. He had visited just about everyone in the district over the past few years, and this little girl was certainly not one of his patients. She had a delicate and dainty air to her, like a porcelain figurine. Her limbs were thin, but without too much muscle wastage. He listened to her heart. It’s beat was strong and regular. She was dirty and dehydrated and smelled of death.
She opened her eyes and stared at him. They were of the palest blue. Her hair was a mass of tangled gold curls and freckles were sparsely scattered across her nose. Her gaze was direct, without curiosity, yet slightly assessing. Francis was disconcerted by it.
‘Can you tell us your name?’ he said to her.
Her gaze moved on to Siana and she gave a tentative smile. Her voice was a piping little lisp, like that of a bird. ‘Mariglowed.’
He slid Siana a glance, absorbing the deceptively innocent expression on her face. There was a gleam of triumph in her eyes.
‘Do you have a second name?’
The child shook her head.
Behind him, Siana expelled a sigh of a breath and reached out her hand to close the smaller one inside it. When Francis looked again, the child was asleep.
‘She is free of external parasites,’ he informed her. ‘We don’t know what the mother died of yet, so have her bathed as soon as possible. Feed her on milk-sops, oatmeal and chicken broth for a day or two. Inspect her for worms when she functions.’
‘Yes, Doctor Matheson.’
‘Her appetite will be small to begin with.’ When she kissed him on the mouth he was forced to abandon his professional mantle.
‘Thank you for not making a fuss about her, Francis.’