The Maid's Secret

by Val Wood

  As Christmas drew near a rumour rumbled amongst the servants that the hunt was on to find Master Christopher a wife. Ellen heard it from one of the other upstairs maids, but discussion of the subject was relegated to second place by the news that Flo was leaving.

  ‘Why me, Cook?’ Flo wept. ‘I’ve been here longer than anybody, and I’ll never get a place so close to Christmas.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Flo,’ Mrs Marshall said. ‘But I’ve been told from upstairs that I must cut down on staff, and of all ’maids who work here I know you’re ’most likely to get another position very quickly. I’ll give you an excellent reference and you could apply as an upstairs maid.’

  Ellen was shocked. It might have been her, and how could she ever live without seeing Christopher again? But then it was her turn to listen to Mrs Marshall’s plan.

  ‘You’ve heard about Master Christopher’s search for a wife? So what I’m telling you is that you forget any mooning over him, or trying to meet him. If ’master or ’mistress come to hear of it you’ll get instant dismissal and no reference.’

  ‘But he—’

  ‘But nothing,’ Mrs Marshall interrupted. ‘You listen to me, my girl, and think on your future and it isn’t wi’ young master. You must find somebody else to mek you happy and mebbe marry you. Tuke is fond of you, he’s told me so.’

  Ellen felt desperate. All her plans were crumbling to nothing. ‘I don’t care for him.’ Her flesh crawled when she thought of his hands on her.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Mrs Marshall stared hard at her. ‘Well, think: he’s not that bright and he’s not that handsome but he’s fond of you and in regular work, and that means summat for such as us.’

  Ellen began to weep. ‘I can’t bear to think about it,’ she cried through her tears. ‘I thought that Chri—’

  ‘Aye, well mebbe you did and mebbe he’ll still care for you even after he’s married, but not under ’same roof. It just won’t do, Ellen, you must realize that.’ Mrs Marshall looked sad. ‘A smokescreen has been lit to shield you and sacrifices are being made already. Marry Tuke and leave this house.’

  Ellen didn’t understand all that, but she trusted Mrs Marshall above anyone and it seemed that there was no other option open to her. The next time Nathaniel Tuke put his hand on her waist she didn’t shrug it away, and the following time she agreed to meet him by the stable block; she told him that they wouldn’t have to be long, and he said that they wouldn’t be.

  ‘I’ve waited a good while for you, Ellen,’ he grunted.

  ‘But we were together at Master Christopher’s party,’ she lied, and thought that her heart would break into pieces as she remembered that night. She could never love Tuke. She would only ever love another. ‘You were drunk; I knew you wouldn’t remember.’

  ‘Nay.’ He gazed at her. ‘I wouldn’t have forgotten that.’

  ‘You have,’ she said, and saw the doubt in his eyes. ‘It was after we found Master Christopher. You went for help and then came back. You must remember, surely?’

  And whether he was convinced or not she was never sure, but he grinned and said, ‘Shall we get wed?’

  She met Christopher one more time before she left to marry Tuke. She was in his room making up his bed whilst she thought he was downstairs at breakfast.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir.’ She dipped her knee when he came into the room.

  ‘My fault, Ellen. I forgot to take a handkerchief with me.’ He slid open a drawer and took one out. He glanced at her. ‘You look very well.’

  ‘I am, sir, thank you.’ She could hardly speak, she was so choked at the thought that she might never see him again. ‘You won’t know,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m leaving at ’end of ’week.’

  ‘No! Really? I hadn’t heard.’

  She watched him attentively to ascertain whether he was saddened but couldn’t read anything into his expression. ‘I’m going to be married,’ she murmured.

  ‘Married?’ He sat down on the bed that she had just made. ‘When? To whom?’

  ‘Next week, just afore Christmas.’ She swallowed. ‘Tuke,’ she whispered. ‘He works in ’stables.’

  ‘I know who he is,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Well, I’m – I’m staggered. I had no idea you were seeing Tuke.’ He gazed into space for a second. ‘You’ve probably heard that I’m going to be married too? To Jane Forrester. She’s been here to the house several times. We’re going to announce our engagement at Christmas. So,’ he said. ‘Big changes for us both.’

  He got up from the bed and shook her hand. ‘All the best to you and Tuke, Ellen,’ he said. ‘I wish you health and happiness.’

  ‘And I you, Christopher.’ His name came out on a breath and she saw him blink.

  He kept hold of her hand. ‘I won’t forget the fun we had all those years ago when we were not much more than children. Our secret, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Our secret. No one else’s.’

  And that, she thought, as she walked away from the house and down the long drive on Tuke’s arm, is the only thing I have to cling to. Our secret. She hunched against the biting cold and felt bitterness and resentment surging through her as she thought of the love she had wished for and had been denied. Our secret. Until – until such time as I choose to betray it.

  You can find out more of Ellen’s story and how life turned out for her in Val Wood’s wonderful new novel HIS BROTHER’S WIFE.

  Read on for a sneak preview of the first chapter . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hull, 1860

  Harriet trudged up High Street towards the George and Dragon. How she hated this job! The customers with their stinking breath and coarse hands on her backside, who she had to push away with a smile and quizzical eyebrow so as not to upset them, so that they didn’t get nasty or complain about her to the landlord. The landlord wasn’t so bad; he saw what was going on and didn’t blame her for it, but his wife was a harridan.

  Still, it was a job and they were hard to come by. She sighed. I suppose I must count my blessings and be thankful that I managed to find extra work at ’hostelry, she thought, but even so I don’t see how I can manage to pay ’rent, not if we want to eat. If I’d been nicer to ’mill foreman he might have kept me on full time, but his wandering hands are worse than ’hostelry customers’, and him with a wife and four bairns. So he punished me and has put me on half time, until I change my mind, which I won’t. Instead, she had taken the job at the George, even though she didn’t like being out late in the evening when her mother was so ill. The older woman hadn’t eaten for days but even so she still retched, although she brought up nothing but green bile. I’m going to ask if I can leave early tonight. I wish . . . what do I wish?

  She turned into the yard. This was an ancient inn, one of the oldest in Hull and in the oldest street in the town, set close by the River Hull where the November fog drifted in from the sea and floated amongst the houses and alleyways. I don’t wish for riches, but it would be nice to have enough to eat, and not have to worry about paying ’landlord, and – to have a good man in my life, one who spoke softly, and would look after me and my mother. And I would tek care of him. Was there such a man, she wondered.

  Two weeks earlier a stranger had come into the inn. He wasn’t local; she knew all the regular customers by sight if not by name, and she hadn’t seen this man before. He’d been polite, asked for food as well as ale, and she’d thought . . . well, she’d thought that he seemed pleasant. He’d asked for fresh bread as if he was used to eating good food, and although he hadn’t been flippant or saucy he’d seemed interested in her, for she’d caught him glancing to see if she was wearing a wedding ring, and there’d been something he said. What was it, she thought. Something about a husband. That was it: had I a husband to go home to? But I didn’t answer; I’m not in ’habit of discussing my life with a stranger. He was in Hull on business, he said, so he must live out of ’district. It would be nice if he came back like he said he would, and then I might fin
d out who he is, does he have a wife, where does he live, is he in regular work? She let out a breath of resignation. But no use daydreaming, Harriet. This is your life, such as it is.

  She swung open the door. There was a bright fire burning and already men standing by it warming their backsides. The landlord’s wife stood behind the bar counter with an expression so brittle it could shatter glass. ‘You’re late,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ Harriet replied. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Anger coursed through his veins. It had for as long as he could remember, though he didn’t know why; but it was his retaliation, his way of dealing with what he considered to be injustice, his way of coping with long-standing rejection.

  Noah Tuke rode the stallion hard, testing its health and strength. He’d bought him cheap, doing a shady deal with the owner who was pressed for money and had cursed him for his meanness. This would be Noah’s second visit to Hull and when his quest was done he had no intention of ever going back to the town again.

  He’d gone there seeking a wife in the middle of October, and reckoned that he might have found one. With a bit of luck and a few choice words he might get as good a bargain as he had with the stallion.

  He needed a woman who could work, and although he could have gone to Goole or Brough, both nearer to his marshland home than Hull, Goole was a new company town of no more than four or five hundred people, built for the shipping industry and attracting few women apart from the dockers’ wives; and in the small community of Brough someone might have recognized the son of one of the farmers from the waterlogged wastes outside the town, and the last thing he wanted was raised eyebrows or inevitable questions of motive.

  He had reckoned that a woman employed in one of the inns and hostelries of Hull would be used to long hours and drudgery; she should be young, but not so young that he’d have to teach her the facts of life. Mature, but no more than twenty-five, and presentable and attractive; not a whore, although he had no problem with previous experience, providing she was clean; and she should have no commitments. No children, no parents, no ties, and no one with claims on her. She should be looking for a chance to better herself and be prepared to leave the town and become a countrywoman.

  On the first visit, he had become almost drunk in his search. He hadn’t realized just how many inns and beer houses the town held. He’d gone to those that were slightly run down, the kind of place where a woman without family might apply for a job and be prepared to work for a pittance.

  Some of the places he tried employed women who in his opinion were nothing more than sluts. Some of them leered at him, giving him toothless grins as they asked if he was new to the area.

  ‘Passing through,’ he would mutter, drinking his ale and moving on.

  Other hostelries, crowded with seamen, were attended mainly by a landlord and occasionally by a landlord’s wife, as tough and mean as they appeared to be, and he would leave swiftly without ordering a drink. The meandering High Street with its courts and alleys, the lanes running off towards the Market Place and narrow staithes leading to the River Hull, was a hotchpotch of ramshackle buildings, fine houses, barbers’ shops, workshops and law offices as well as many ancient, crumbling inns. The only way he could retain a sense of direction was by keeping the tower of the Guildhall or the medieval church of St Mary’s within his sight.

  He had been about to give up his search and go home when he came to the stable yard of an alehouse with a sign of the George and Dragon swinging over the door. A narrow alley with the nameplate George Yard led through from the High Street into Lowgate and he decided to try his luck once more.

  It was a cold night but there was a good fire burning in the grate with customers gathered round it; the bar counter was clean, as was the long table in the middle of the room. A woman in her twenties was serving ale from a jug and he saw her skilfully swerve away from a man’s hand reaching beneath her skirt.

  Mmm, he’d thought. Not a whore then, unless she’s playing hard to get. She’d smiled at the man, but not provocatively; no doubt she’d be under orders from the landlord to be nice to the customers.

  She might do, he’d thought, providing she wasn’t spoken for, and he leaned on the counter and ordered a pint of their best ale. She’d spoken pleasantly, with a trace of the local accent.

  ‘Haven’t seen you before, sir,’ she said. ‘Are you visiting ’town?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘A bit o’ business here. Went on a bit late. I’ll be on my way home after this. Have you got owt I can eat? I missed my supper.’

  She hadn’t asked him where home was, but said she could rustle up a plate of beef or ham with bread.

  ‘Bread was fresh this morning,’ she said. ‘It’s not stale.’

  ‘Aye, that’ll do. I’ll not eat stale bread. I like my grub. Did you mek it?’

  ‘No.’ She laughed. ‘Landlord’s wife buys it from ’baker.’

  ‘Bet you know how to mek it though, don’t you?’ He’d pushed his hat back and watched her as she took bread out of a crock under the counter, sliced it, placed it on a plate and took two thick slices of beef and ham from beneath a covered dish. He noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  ‘Course I do,’ she said. ‘My ma showed me how when I was a bairn. I don’t mek it now, though. I don’t have a good enough oven, and besides, ’baker’s cheap enough. Mustard?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, and plenty of it.’

  He ate quickly. It would take at least two hours to get home; he’d left a note on the kitchen table to say he’d be late and reminding Fletcher not to lock him out.

  ‘That were grand,’ he commented, when he’d finished. ‘I’ll come again.’

  ‘Do,’ she’d nodded.

  ‘Are you here every night? Or do you have a husband to go home to?’

  She’d looked sharply at him and he wondered if he was taking things too fast; he wasn’t used to dealing with women and didn’t know their foibles or eccentricities, except his mother’s and she didn’t count.

  ‘I’m allus here,’ she told him, leaning on the counter. ‘I’m lucky to be in work. Landlord’s not bad, not like some I’ve worked for who expect you to work all ’hours God sends for onny a copper.’

  He’d nodded and left it at that, leaving as soon as he’d finished his ale. She hadn’t admitted to having a husband, but he was fairly sure she would have said if she had, if only to warn him off.

  Although it was a long shot, she was the reason he was going back now, two weeks later. He’d been tempted to return within a week, but he didn’t want to appear eager, only as if he really were there on business. Besides, he didn’t want his brother to become suspicious, and he would, he muttered beneath his ragged breath. The heathen would smell a rat and begin muckraking in every dunghill he could find until he discovered what Noah was up to.

  They’d had a bet; at least he had challenged Fletcher to a bet. They’d been fighting as they often did as to who should have the last word over how the farm should be run, and as they’d raged at each other their father, Nathaniel, had come out of the house with a shotgun and fired it over their heads.

  ‘Get back to work, both of you,’ he’d shouted. ‘I give out orders here, nobody else.’

  They’d both muttered and growled. They were grown men after all, too old to be taking orders from an old man, even if he was their father. It was that night, as they were going up to bed, that Noah had said, ‘If one of us had a wife and some bairns, that’d decide who was to run ’farm.’

  Fletcher had glared at him. ‘And how would that decide? And what would Ma say to having another woman in ’house?’

  Noah had shrugged. ‘Nowt,’ he said. ‘She’d have to put up wi’ it.’ He’d grinned. ‘I’ll bet you ’price of a young heifer I’ll find a wife afore you do.’

  Fletcher hadn’t actually agreed to the wager and had turned away with a shrug. He generally avoided confrontation, but Noah thought he’d think about it and turn it over in his mind and decid
e he didn’t want to be beaten by his younger brother.

  Tonight Noah rode straight into Hull’s High Street, dismounted, and walked to the inn’s stable yard. He looked about him. It was very dark and drizzling with rain, and late, about half past ten, yet there were plenty of people about. The doors of the Corn Exchange were open and groups of men were standing on the steps so he guessed there had been a meeting in progress.

  There were also some youths hanging about under a street lamp that cast a sickly yellow glow on them; he eyed them up and down, ignored the ones who were making the most noise and pinpointed one who was standing quietly, not joining in with their frivolity but listening as an outsider might.

  Noah stared hard at him until the youth, as if aware of his attention, turned his head towards him. Noah indicated with his thumb that he should come over.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ the lad mumbled. He looked about twelve or thirteen.

  ‘Are you honest?’

  ‘Yes, sir, as much as most.’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’ Noah hissed.

  The youth took a step back. ‘Erm, it’s a yes.’

  ‘I need somebody to look after this hoss while I attend a bit o’ business. Can you do that?’

  ‘Oh, yeh!’ The lad brightened up considerably. ‘I can do that all right. That’s why we’ve been hanging about here, to see if any of ’gents wanted any errands running, onny they didn’t cos they’re all on their way home.’

  ‘This is a valuable hoss.’ Noah stared down at him and the youth nodded. ‘If owt should happen to him . . . ’ He bent down so that he was breathing into the boy’s face. ‘I’ll give you a penny now and another two when I come back, and if you’re not here or ’hoss has gone, I’ll find you and slit your throat. Do you hear me?’