Jonathan obliged. From the drill in the morning to how he made a point of saying goodbye personally to each child as they left in the afternoon, Jonathan told her of his daily routine.
‘My goodness,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘And the oranges?’
‘The navy has citrus as part of their rations and as I don’t think even I will get the children to eat lemons or limes, I thought oranges best. Half of one each day should be enough. There was an article in the Journal of Scientific Enquiry proposing that fruit of all kinds is of benefit to the growing child.’
Mrs Benson’s cup stopped midway to her lips. ‘Indeed? And do you read other journals of such a serious nature?’
Jonathan laughed. ‘No. But I do take the Saturday Review, The Times and Punch.’
‘Punch!’ Mrs Benson looked suitably horrified and then she laughed. ‘Well, we all like a jolly story.’
The old woman studied him a little longer and then spoke again. ‘And what of you, Captain Quinn? Your mother – is she still alive?’
‘Sadly not. She died when I was seven.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. And your father is a colonel, I understand.’
‘He is. We served the same regiment. There’s been a Quinn in the Coldstream Guards since the Merry Monarch’s time,’ Jonathan said. He gave her a brief resumé of his family, omitting his falling-out with his father and his suspended allowance.
‘And is there a special someone who’s going to be a Mrs Quinn?’
‘I did have hopes that I would be married by now, but it came to nothing and now with this . . .’ He touched his eyepatch.
‘Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve seen several young women all of a flutter when you appear in church each Sunday. Miss Puttock in particular.’
Jonathan smiled politely. ‘I confess I find Miss Puttock delightful.’ The memory of Kate Ellis discovering him and Mabel behind the tree threatened to intrude again. Jonathan pushed it aside and stood up. He went over to the pictures above the fireplace. ‘I was studying your fine portraits.’
The old woman gripped the arm of her seat and rose to her feet. She came and stood beside him. ‘My father,’ she said.
‘And you on his knee,’ Jonathan added.
A soft expression lit her face. ‘I was his little darling,’ she said, without taking her eyes from the image. ‘Of course, he longed to have a son but after twelve infants that were either stillborn or died before their first birthday they had to be content with me. But a son couldn’t have got into any more scrapes or stuck in any more trees than I did.’
Jonathan laughed as he tried to imagine the old women whose head barely reached his shoulder scampering among the branches. ‘And this must be your son. He looks very much like you,’ Jonathan said. ‘Is he still in India?’
A pall of sadness settled over her. ‘He is,’ she replied. ‘In the garrison graveyard at Lucknow.’ She looked up at the portrait. ‘He was my only one.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Jonathan said. ‘How did he die?’
‘Stupidly,’ she said, without rancour. ‘Christopher had been leading a night patrol and they were ambushed. His men fought bravely and he sent a messenger back to the main patrol warning them there were rebels about. He pursued the tribesmen but lost the trail so they headed back. There had been a nasty incident a month before when a supply column had come under fire so the sentries, all young men, many of them fresh from training, were naturally on edge. When Christopher’s patrol rode up the hillside in the half light of dawn, the guards thought it was rebels and opened fire.’ Mrs Benson stretched out and rested her white wrinkled fingers on the bottom of the gilt frame and looked up. ‘Thankfully, only one of the bullets found a target. Unfortunately, it was Christopher. His commander wrote that he was shot in the heart and died instantly.’
‘I am sure that was so,’ Jonathan replied, thinking how many times he’d written the same thing, regardless of the truth.
She gave him a tight smile. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’ She looked back at her son’s portrait. ‘We had this painted the last time he was home on leave. It’s very like him. I’m grateful that his father didn’t live to hear the news. Gerald died in January 1838 and I received the letter from Christopher’s commander on the seventh of March.’ Her gaze flickered on to his eyepatch. ‘Just one bullet.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Jonathan said again.
Grief briefly cut across Mrs Benson’s lined face and then she smiled up at him. ‘I’ve enjoyed our talk, Captain. I hope you will come again. In fact, I would have invited you to join me for Christmas dinner but I expect you’ll be spending the festivities with your family. I’ll have to be content with entertaining you when you return.’ She tilted her head. ‘You know, you are much broader than Christopher, and darker, but you remind me of him in some ways. Perhaps it’s the military bearing. I would have loved to see you in your uniform . . . I’m sure Miss Puttock would have, too.’
Chapter Eleven
Jonathan stood between the boys’ and girls’ doorways and cast his gaze over the small walled playground at the side of the school. The thirty or so children stood in four rows with their hands behind their backs, looking ahead.
‘Good morning, children,’ he shouted, his warm breath turning to mist in the cold morning air.
‘Good morning, sir,’ thirty-four young voices shouted back.
‘And a fine morning it is too, is it not, Miss Wainwright?’ he asked the girls’ schoolmistress who stood on his right.
Miss Wainwright gave him a girly smile. ‘Yes indeed, Mr Quinn.’
‘But cold,’ Jonathan said, rubbing his hands together in an exaggerated manner. A couple of the children giggled. ‘Right then, let’s get warmed up and blow those cobwebs from our brains before we start the day. School! Quick march!’ The boy at the head of the first column peeled off, followed by his classmates. ‘Left right, left right,’ called Jonathan. ‘Let’s warm ourselves up.’ Boots crunched over the beaten earth. ‘Pick up your feet, Walters,’ he shouted at the young boy scraping his toecaps at the end of the line. ‘The girls are marching better than you.’
Jonathan marched them around twice more then raised his hand. They stopped, re-formed their original lines and stood at ease with their hands behind their backs.
‘That is a vast improvement on last week’s drill,’ he told them. The group of children stood a little taller.
‘Miss Wainwright. Ladies first. Will you lead the girls in?’
‘Certainly, Mr Quinn,’ she replied, batting her almost invisible eyelashes at him.
The line of girls stood to attention and followed their teacher in an orderly fashion into the school.
Jonathan cast a sharp eye over the boys. They stood rigid under his inspection. He suppressed a smile. They wouldn’t have passed muster on a parade ground but four weeks of morning drill was starting to bring the pupils of St Katharine’s into line. Well, in the playground, at least; the other areas of the school would take considerably longer.
‘Company!’ he bellowed over the frosty schoolyard. He remembered how many times he’d called men to order on the parade ground, and to face the enemy with the word. ‘Follow on. And no dawdling.’
The line of boys marched into the school with Jonathan bringing up the rear.
By the time Jonathan took up his position in front of them and picked up the school Bible, the children were already sitting in the rows of old rough-hewn benches.
‘Today’s lesson is from St Luke’s Gospel, chapter eight, starting at verse five. “A sower went out to sow his seed . . .” ’ Sitting with their backs ramrod straight the children listened attentively as Jonathan read the parable of the sower. ‘He that hath ears to hear, let him hear,’ he concluded closing the heavy book with a thump. He cast his gaze over the upturned faces. ‘And remember to keep your ears open throughout your lessons today. Now let us pray.’
The large hand of the school clock in the far wall hit the VI at
the bottom of the dial as Amen echoed around the room for the last time and the boys appointed to close the partition sprang into action.
Jonathan went to the blackboard to chalk up the first lesson. ‘Potter and Lamb, please give out the slates,’ he said to the monitors. ‘And Logan . . .’ A lad sprawled across a desk at the back row looked up. ‘Down here where Mr Rudd can see you.’ He pointed at the vacant seat in the front row then finished writing the neat row of words.
He turned and addressed the class. ‘The first lesson today is reading. For those of you who are paying attention’ – he glared at two boys in the middle row elbowing each other who stopped immediately – ‘I have written this week’s words clearly on the board.’ He tapped the chalk on the first line. ‘The under-eights must learn the first three rows and any of the rows after if they can. The rest of you must master all thirty words for the test on Friday. I am leaving Mr Rudd to supervise you as I have matters that require my attention.’
He signalled to Mr Rudd, ‘If you please, Mr Rudd.’
The young man picked up the pointer and tapped the board. ‘D-o-g dog.’
‘D-o-g dog,’ repeated the class.
Jonathan left them to it and returned to his office. Mrs Delaney had already brought his morning coffee across and it sat in its usual place beside the inkwell with the saucer on top to keep it warm.
He took up the bookseller’s catalogue and sat behind his desk. Taking a new sheet of paper he opened it on the page he’d dog-eared the day before and wrote his order.
Three dozen each of Vere Foster copy books and Merry Multiplication. Two copies of Busy Hour A B C for the younger children. An illustrated copy of Child’s Companion and Juvenile Instructor for Miss Wainwright to read to the girls and The Swiss Family Robinson, with a map of the island, for the boys. He added two dozen slates and scribers to the list to replace the broken ones and then two quires of best writing paper with matching envelopes and a quart of best Indian ink for his own use.
He looked it over and totted up the cost. Seventeen shilling and ninepence! No doubt the guardians would have something to say about that, especially when they also saw the order he placed with the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge for new Bibles; but no matter. They had appointed him to raise the standard and bring the school around and that was exactly what he was going to do.
He rolled the blotter across the sheet a couple of times then folded it and slid it into an envelope. He scribbled on the address and then reached for his coffee. He took a sip and pulled a face.
Perhaps he should send Mrs Delaney to Kate’s Kitchen so Mrs Ellis could teach her how to make proper coffee. An image of Kate Ellis staring at him with Miss Puttock in his arms flashed into his mind once more. He shoved it away. Why should it niggle him that it was Kate Ellis who had found them together? He dismissed it. After all, it wasn’t as if it mattered that Kate Ellis came upon him and Mabel in the shrubbery.
He picked up the letter and glanced out of the window. As the Royal Mail hadn’t yet installed letter boxes anywhere in the area, Miss Wainwright usually posted any letter on her way home in the main office on Mile End Road. But as it was a pleasant afternoon for a stroll, perhaps he’d do it himself.
Kate plopped the last of the potatoes into the saucepan and scooped the peelings into the pail ready for the pig man to collect.
‘You can go when you’ve finished, Bette,’ Kate called across to the woman scrubbing the tables. ‘And there’s a bit of bread pudding left you can take with you.’
‘I’m right thankful to you, Mrs E,’ Bette replied, pausing for a moment and looking up.
Kate moved to fill the kettle and the doorbell jingled. She turned as Captain Quinn ducked his head and strode into the shop. He spotted her behind the counter and smiled. Before she could stop it, her heart did a little double step.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she said, trying to dispel the image of Mabel Puttock in his arms that seemed permanently lodged in her brain. ‘Can I get you your usual?’
He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Please.’
He took a stool on the other side of the counter and smiled again. Kate busied herself with the percolator.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes it is,’ she replied, not looking around.
‘Miss Wainwright told me Ella did very well in her spelling test today.’
‘Did she?’
‘And I commend Joe on his drill.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that.’ Kate closed her eyes for a couple of seconds and turned. ‘There you go, sir,’ she said, brightly. ‘One coffee; strong and sweet.’
He drew in a deep breath over the steaming cup and then took a sip. ‘Marvellous, as always.’ He swallowed another mouthful. ‘Did the Agamemnon match up to Joe’s expectations?’
‘He talks of nothing else,’ Kate replied. ‘Did Miss Puttock enjoy her evening?’
‘Yes, very much.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Kate said chirpily. ‘She’s a charming young woman.’
‘Yes she is.’ There was an awkward silence then Captain Quinn forced a laugh. ‘I have to confess I was surprised to see you down by the river that evening.’
Kate didn’t answer.
He laughed again. ‘I suppose finding me and Miss Puttock behind the tree, it could have looked a little—’
‘Fishy?’
His cup stopped halfway to his mouth and he frowned. ‘I was going to say odd.’
Kate wiped the counter she’d cleaned only a moment before. ‘I’m sure it’s no business of mine what you were doing in the bushes with Miss Puttock.’
‘I wasn’t doing anything in the bushes with Miss Puttock. As I explained quite clearly at the time, she fell and I caught her. It was all quite innocent.’
‘Of course.’
‘No, really,’ he protested. ‘I warned her the area was uneven but she wanted to get a better view of the ship and tripped.’
‘So you say. But don’t worry,’ Kate said, trying not to thinking of them entwined together, ‘I’m no gossip. I won’t mention it to anyone.’
Captain Quinn looked very annoyed. ‘I don’t care if you tell the whole parish, Mrs Ellis, because there is nothing to tell. I only mention it because I’m here and I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression of the situation, or me, for that matter.’
‘Of course.’ Kate forced a smile. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t act improperly towards a young lady like Miss Puttock.’
‘I certainly would not.’ He finished his coffee. ‘Well, I ought to head back to the school so I can’t dawdle but I’m glad we cleared up that little misunderstanding. Good day, Mrs Ellis.’
‘And good day to you too, sir,’ Kate replied, wiping the surface for the third time.
He studied her for a moment then put on his hat and left.
Kate stared after him. It was none of her business what Captain Quinn was doing with Miss Puttock in the shadows. Besides which, Miss Puttock was a very nice young woman, if a little bossy and overbearing. Why wouldn’t he set his sights on her with her refined ways and dowry? And anyhow, why should it matter to her? Even if she were free, she didn’t imagine for one moment that someone from Captain Quinn’s background would look twice at the likes of her. And she shouldn’t let her foolish mind imagine that he called into Kate’s Kitchen for anything more than a good cup of coffee.
But as much as she knew the truth of it, as she watched him march down the street, a grey cloud of unhappiness settled on her shoulders.
Chapter Twelve
Kate spooned up the last chunk of suet pudding and popped it in her mouth, enjoying the sharp taste of the plums as they mingled with sweet eggy custard. She looked around the table at her family. Well, ‘table’ was pushing it – the Nolan family were eating their Christmas dinner off a door propped up by Mattie’s dining table at one end and a barrel at the other. It wasn’t ideal, as the barrel was fractionally lowe
r than the table so when someone leant on it everyone had to grab hold to stop it tipping. But to Kate’s mind, with a sheet thrown over, it was grand as any.
Presiding over the table sat her brother-in-law, Nathaniel, dressed in his best suit with Mattie to his right. To his left sat Sarah, Kate’s mother, wearing a new dress and her feather-like white hair drawn back under a small lawn cap and a shawl around her shoulders. She lived with Patrick and Josie and, despite gnarled knuckles and swollen knees, insisted on doing the family’s washing and helping with the children. Beside her were Mattie and Nathaniel’s four children: ten-year-old Brian, Beth, who was the same age as Ella, five-year-old Bertie, Joe’s partner in crime, and baby Catherine, who was having an afternoon sleep on the sofa.
At the other end of the table sat Patrick, also in his Sunday best with Josie and their four children on his left. They had been blessed with Annie, a dark, slender sixteen-year-old; Mickey who at fourteen was so like his father he could have been his twin; Rob, an inquisitive ten-year-old; and Nell, a chirpy seven-year-old.
The table took up most of the floor space in the parlour and so it was a devil of a squash to get everyone around. Mattie had gathered all the chairs in the house but even so the boys were sitting on upended crates.
The magnificent feast that Kate, Mattie and Josie had spent all morning peeling, roasting and boiling had been totally demolished. Patrick had carved the joint of beef to its bones, the three tureens that had been piled high with roasted potatoes, cabbage and carrots were empty, as was the large jug with rivulets of gravy clinging to its sides. A few crumbs were all that remained of the plum duff.
Kate glanced at her son beside her, doggedly chopping his pudding with the edge of his spoon.
‘Are you having a nice time?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Ma,’ he replied, glancing at her and then returning to his task.
‘We’ll be opening the presents soon,’ she continued encouragingly. ‘What do you think you might get?’
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