‘I’m sure they’ll find everything in order, Belle,’ said Dusty, praying this were true.
‘Well, once I receive their confirmation then I can be more positive,’ said Belle. ‘Well smile, someone! I’ve just given in to your threats, haven’t I?’
‘Am I going to live here now?’ Fred had crept back to listen.
Belle turned on him. ‘You most certainly are not! I’ve told you you’ve got that front step to clean every morning for a week.’ At his look of disappointment, she softened. ‘But at least you’ll soon know about your new father and mother, one way or another.’ She turned brisk again. ‘Now that we’ve sorted that out, could we think about getting luncheon ready? I’m starving.’
As was customary on Mothering Sunday, the staff had been granted the day off to go and visit their own mothers, hence someone else had to cook luncheon. Sonny’s girls volunteered, but left such an impact on the kitchen that their mother declared she might as well have done it herself for all the washing up she had to do afterwards. There was much jollity at the table – not least over the disastrous meal.
Liz and Sophia took the jibes in good part, though Amelia was stung by the reception to her pudding.
‘It looks scrumptious, darlin’,’ salved her Uncle Dick as the bowl of indeterminable pudding was set before him. There was a twinkle in his eye when he tried to dig his spoon in. Amelia asked, didn’t he want custard on it?
Eyeing the lumpy mess in the jug, Dick said he would just try the pudding without. ‘I don’t want to swamp the flavour.’ Never the diplomat, he made it plain this was a joke. The spoonful was almost to his mouth when Fred refused the custard too on the grounds that, ‘It looks like snot.’
Everyone groaned and lowered their spoons. Thomasin started to laugh. Unable to speak, she laughed and laughed till the tears came, infecting those around her – with the exception of Amelia who was mortally hurt.
‘It’s just as well it’s Lent!’ wheezed Sonny behind his napkin.
The first to recover, Dusty poured a generous helping of custard over her pudding and assured Amelia that it was the best custard she had ever tasted, most of the adults agreeing. When the meal had been digested, Josie went off to see her own mother, accompanied by her husband and offspring. The moment their car was out of sight of the house, she began the frantic task of examining her daughters’ hair for signs of lice, as she did every time they had been in contact with Belle’s foundlings. Win, Nick and Johnny, too, departed in order to spend the rest of the day with the Cordwells in Leeds. Those who remained were entertained by Belle’s children, who played the piano, danced and gave recitations till Thomasin felt utterly exhausted and wished that Mothering Sunday was over.
Erin had thoroughly enjoyed her day, apart from the news about Brian. Later when her daughter was leaving, she sought to assume the role of arbitrator. ‘If it’s too hard for ye to go round and make it up with Brian, I’ll go and smooth the ground, if ye like.’
Belle thought this amusing. ‘I can remember when you did everything you could to deter Brian’s attention from me.’
Erin helped yet another child into his coat. ‘That’s a long, long time ago, before I saw how good he was for you. Go on, go see him … you miss him really, don’t you?’
Belle was silent for a moment, then nodded. ‘I suppose I do.’ She did not tell her mother just how she missed Brian; the sexual need he fulfilled.
‘Well, go on and see him.’
‘What is this, Benevolent Sunday? Just because I’ve done one good deed doesn’t mean to say I have to be nice to everybody.’
‘I’m glad you decided about the children. I feel so sorry for Dusty now, he’s led her a merry dance.’
‘Well, prepare to feel sorry for her again if the investigation shows anything criminal.’
‘So you really are having Dickie investigated?’
‘Of course.’ Belle frowned at her mother’s naïvety.
‘I thought maybe you were just saying it … well, it was wrong of you to raise Dusty’s hopes if there’s chance of her being let down – not to mention the children’s feelings.’
‘Mother, you are the most contrary woman! Weren’t you amongst those bullying me into a decision this morning? And weren’t you the one most opposed to the idea of your brother adopting the children?’
Erin conceded that this was true. ‘But I’ve been watching him and he does seem to get on well with the children. We’ll have to wait and see what the detectives turn up … oh, do go and make it up with Brian, darlin’.’
Securing her hat, Belle replied, ‘It’s far too late to go this evening … however, I may just call some time this week.’ She smiled and received her mother’s kiss then gathered her children and left.
13
There was scant chance of sleep for Dusty now that Belle had voiced her decision – nor for her husband either. For an hour or so he listened indulgently to her excited patter before begging her to shut up.
‘Sorry.’ She settled down and made as if to sleep. But a moment later began again. ‘I think it’s awful, Belle making poor Freddie scrub the step in this weather.’ Dickie mumbled that it would hardly kill him. ‘But he’s only little. Never mind, once he’s with us he won’t have to do things like that.’
He pleaded with her again to shut up. She did, for a time. Dick was just rolling over the verge of unconsciousness when he heard her sobbing. ‘For Christ’s sake, what’s wrong now?’
She sobbed and laughed at the same time. ‘I’m just so happy!’ The excitement was so acute it had become unbearable. She could hardly draw breath. ‘I can’t believe they’re almost ours.’ He enveloped her in muskiness and ordered her to calm down. ‘I just keep thinking – what if Belle changes her mind?’
‘She won’t. Now stop.’ His embrace, his scent and his kisses had a tranquillising effect. Her chest began to rise less frequently and soon her breathing returned to normal. Dickie fell asleep. She herself could not remember doing so, but she must have done for it was now morning and the sun was shining through the curtains. Dickie had turned over. Slipping from the bed, she dressed, made herself as presentable as she could, then went downstairs. It was seven o’clock. She hoped she would be in time.
When she arrived at Belle’s house a small figure was kneeling on the pavement scrubbing half-heartedly at the step. Hurrying up, she forestalled his greeting with a finger to her lips and knelt down beside him. An amazed Fred allowed her to take the brush from his hand. ‘Oh, look at your poor little fingers,’ she whispered. ‘They’re all blue – here, put my gloves on.’ She dipped the brush into the bucket and exclaimed, ‘Why, it’s cold water too! Whatever is she thinking of on a day like this? I wouldn’t even make a servant use cold water.’ She set to scrubbing at the step. ‘Never mind I’ll soon have it done. I’ll come and do it tomorrow for you too.’
She had just dipped her brush into the pail and sloshed water onto the step, when a pair of feet appeared on the doormat – one of them wearing a platformed boot. Hardly daring to raise her eyes, she stopped scrubbing.
Belle looked down her nose, but didn’t say a word. After a moment of staring, she turned and went back along the passage. Dusty lifted her head and stared after her, then glanced at the boy. Fred wore an expression similar to her own. She spluttered a laugh and pressed the back of her raw hand to her mouth – then laughed again. Fred laughed, too. Before long the pair of them were giggling uncontrollably.
Able to hear them in the back parlour, Belle was compelled to smile herself at the memory of her aunt’s face – it had been a picture.
* * *
Every morning that week Dusty came to relieve Fred of his chore. After that first confrontation, Belle had decided to pretend not to know she was there. If her aunt wanted to make a rod for her own back then she must find out the hard way. Belle had other matters to sort out.
Brian expected to see a patient when his housekeeper announced that there was a visitor, but when he looke
d up from his Evening Press he was surprised to see Belle. Standing, he directed her to a chair and waited for his housekeeper to leave.
Belle didn’t care for this room. It was far too cluttered with furniture and ornaments, and the dark wallpaper made the walls close in on one. With the velvet curtains drawn and the gas lamp at its lowest, it was most claustrophobic. She chose a green velvet button-backed chair and sat down, looking not at him but at the array of medical books that lay open on the carpet. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
‘No, I’d just broken off to read the Press.’ He was still holding the paper, but now folded it and laid it on his lap.
‘How are you?’ asked Belle.
‘I’m fine … and you?’
‘I’m fine.’ She waited for him to add something, but when he didn’t she said, ‘I thought you might have called to see me.’
He frowned. ‘And what reason would I have to call – oh, to say I’m sorry, you mean? Like I did all the other times we fell out?’
She nodded sheepishly. ‘I realised that it’s always you who has to apologise first whenever we’ve rowed. That’s why I’m here now. It should be my turn. I’m sorry, Brian.’
‘Why?’
Belle looked puzzled. ‘I’ve just told you.’
‘Yes, but I’d like to know your reasons for this apology; it all seemed pretty final when you told me to leave.’
Her expression was one of remorse. ‘I know … I lay awake that night for ages thinking.’
‘Thinking about me or Uncle Dickie?’
The remorse vanished, but she managed to entrap the natural retort. ‘About you, and how I missed not having you there.’
‘Yes…’ Brian crossed his arms and looked deeply thoughtful. ‘I know the feeling. I smashed a particularly useful jug last week.’
Belle rose stiffly and limp-marched to the door, expecting him to cry out and stop her; but he didn’t. Her hand on the white glass doorknob, she looked round. There seemed to be no regret on his face. ‘Well … I’ve made my apology.’
‘Yes, you’ve done your duty, Belle, you can run along.’ He unfolded the newspaper and started to read.
She hauled furiously on the door and exited, slamming it behind her.
Brian’s nonchalance collapsed. You bloody clown, he told himself.
* * *
When Belle reached home, she was still livid over the way he had humiliated her and was about to give Sally a diatribe on the doctor’s true character, if Sally hadn’t butted in first. ‘Your uncle’s here.’ When Belle looked round, the nursemaid added, ‘He’s upstairs tucking the girls in.’
Belle’s mood altered. ‘Good, I can do with some company who doesn’t argue.’
‘I don’t know if you’ll be quite so pleased to see him when you know what he’s done,’ said Sally. ‘The landlord called for the rent and your uncle let him in.’
Belle groaned, just as Dickie appeared with Fred at his heels. ‘Why did you let him in? I’ve managed to keep him out of here for years so’s he won’t see how I’ve improved the place and try to put my rent up.’
‘Improved the place?’ Dickie laughed rudely and looked around.
‘It might not be a mansion,’ retorted Belle, ‘but it was almost derelict until Grandfather got to work on it.’ She hung up her cloak and smoothed her black clothes. ‘My rent’s been the same for years – but I’ll wager it won’t be much longer now he’s seen what he’s got.’
Dickie apologised and watched her set up her painting equipment on the table. ‘I’ll go if you’re busy…’ He took out a watch and looked at it. ‘I just came to see the lad here.’
‘No, stay,’ she said hastily. ‘I must get this illustration finished but I’d welcome the company while I work.’
‘Call that work?’ Dickie grinned.
‘It pays the rent,’ she censured. ‘Or did do till you …’
‘All right, all right.’ He looked over her shoulder at the half-completed painting. ‘How much will that bring?’ He was told to mind his own business. ‘Huh, touchy. What sorta person’ll put that on their wall then?’
‘It’s not for a wall, it’s an illustration for a children’s book.’ She dipped her brush into water and swished it round. ‘Normally I only do pictures for journals, but someone saw my work and offered me a commission. Freddie, it’s time you were in bed.’
‘It’s not my bedtime yet.’ Frederick took the watch out of the man’s hand and studied it. ‘It’s only – eh, this clock’s got no hands.’
‘Neither will you if ye bust it.’ Dickie tried to retrieve the watch but the boy held it away from him.
‘How d’you tell the time if it’s got no hands? Where’s it come from?’
Dickie told him it was Swiss and explained the process. ‘Now give us the darned thing back an’ go to bed.’
‘Will you buy me one? It’s my birthday next week.’
Dickie said yes, but Belle forbade it. ‘It’s far too expensive a gift for a little boy. Now go to bed.’
At the crestfallen look, Dickie said, ‘I’ll buy ye something more useful – a rugby ball like Paddy’s – now hop it.’
When the boy had gone, Dickie turned to the pictures on the walls and asked Belle, ‘These yours too?’ She told him they were. ‘Mmm,’ he sounded impressed. ‘Everyone in this family seems artistic ’cept me.’
‘I’m sure there’s something at which you’re gifted,’ said Belle. At his silence, she looked over her shoulder to catch him grinning. Overlooking the innuendo, she added, ‘Languages, for instance. You seem very fluent in more than one.’ Being multilingual herself, she recognised his talent. Apart from Italian, she had heard him speak French and Spanish. It had been meant to impress and it had done.
‘Ah, I don’t see that as a gift. I just like to talk to people in their own lingo; it promotes good relations.’
‘When you say people, do you mean women?’ Belle stroked colour onto the paper.
Dickie laughed and came to sit at the table with her. ‘You ain’t heard my German yet – it sounds like I’m trying to cough up a hairball.’ He watched for a while, then asked, ‘Have ye made it up with Brian?’
She was irked at being reminded. ‘No and I don’t intend to. Neither do I wish to talk about him.’
‘Let’s talk about our love affair, then.’
‘I don’t think that’s in very good taste, Uncle.’
‘Well, what do ye want to talk about?’ Using his elbow as a prop, he leaned his chin on his palm and gazed at her.
‘Something, anything… I do miss not having Grandfather here to talk to. We used to have some lovely bits o’ crack, as he called them.’ Her bush of dark hair got in the way; she tossed it back.
‘Well, I’m a good listener,’ he said softly.
‘Ah, but can you be trusted to keep a confidence like Grandfather could? I should hate to tell you my secrets then find that all the family knew.’
‘It may interest you to know, young lady, that back home I have such a reputation for discretion that I even have the President’s ear.’
‘Really?’
‘If ye don’t believe me I can show you it, I keep it in a little box on my bedside table.’ He laughed and dodged as her paintbrush was jabbed at his face.
Belle went back to her painting. ‘I believe you were the last one to speak to Grandfather. Did he … did he say anything about me?’
‘Such as?’
‘He didn’t, then … it doesn’t matter. Huh, it’s funny the things you think about when someone dies, isn’t it?’ She gazed into mid-air. ‘When I was a child, I used to love the smell of whiskey on his breath. If I’d known then that it was the stuff that was going to help kill him … I can’t rid myself of the vision of him lying there on his deathbed and me thousands of miles away …’ She went back to her painting. ‘Speaking about foreign parts, there’s something on the mantelpiece which should interest you.’
Dickie brushed past her and took hol
d of the scrap of paper that she had indicated. After reading it he turned on her. ‘How long have ye had this?’
‘It came this morning.’
‘An’ it was gonna sit there for another week by the looks of it – why didn’t ye tell Dusty when she was here? Ye know how keyed up she is.’
‘Dusty? Oh, you mean my charwoman.’ Her uncle’s face begged an explanation. She told him about his wife’s arrangement with Fred.
Having believed Dusty had only been helping with the children, he took great umbrage at the news that she was scrubbing steps. ‘Ye should get somebody to do jobs like that!’
‘I had someone, but if Aunt chose to take on his punishment – and not even to announce her presence – then the blame lies with her. Where is Aunt, by the way?’
‘She’s caught my cold – the one you so generously gimme. She’s got Erin faffing round with goosegrease and brown paper. The two of them are hitting it off better these days. Though I expect Sis’ll be glad when we’ve gone.’ Face inscrutable, he read the cabled report from the detective agency, which stated that the subject had no criminal record and that he had applied to several orphanages but had been turned down on the grounds that he and his wife were too old. Investigation into his business had thrown up nothing sinister, and he enjoyed considerable income.
Dickie folded the report. ‘Sorry ye had to waste your money when ye’ve so little, Belle. Especially when it could have been used to better purpose – like hiring someone to scrub your step.’
Belle said she didn’t consider it wasted and contrary to what he might believe she was glad to hear he led an honest life in America.
‘Ah well, ye see, if you’d only taken our word for it, it would’ve been a lot cheaper. We said ye wouldn’t find anything.’ Dick congratulated his friendly detective in New York with whom he had made urgent contact after Belle had dropped her thunderbolt in his lap. Thank goodness her man had used the cable; if his report had been in the form of a letter it would have already been on the boat and there would have been no way to alter its contents. As it was, a word into the ear – or rather a few hundred bucks into the pocket – of the agent working for Belle, and Dickie’s more nefarious dealings slipped from memory.
Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4) Page 28