A Handful of Ashes

by Janet Woods

  The landlord leaned over the bar and pinched one of Alice’s nipples. ‘Let me know if she needs a job. I’ve got a client who would pay a pretty penny for a young ’un like ’er.’

  ‘Sod off,’ Alice snarled and the man laughed.

  ‘She’s got spirit, too.’

  ‘Leave her be, will ya? She’s not gettin’ into that game.’

  ‘I hear tell you’ve got another one staying with you.’

  ‘My sister-in-law. A sullen little cow, she is. She doesn’t get on with her brother and is vicious towards Alice. My girl is covered in bruises where the little shrew kicks and pinches her. She needs a good crack around the ear, if you asks me. We left her with Seb. He says he’s going to sort her out, tell her what’s what. Otherwise, she can bugger off back to that fancy family who took her in. Fancy or not, they didn’t teach her no manners, for she thinks she’s a cut above the likes of us.’

  Betty quaffed her ale in several gulps and smacked her lips. ‘Well, must be off. My Sebastian will be waiting for his jollies.’

  They went noisily up the street, determined to be noticed by waving to a couple of their neighbours, the fishmonger who rented the premises next door, and the woman from the bookshop on the corner, who was married to a Jewish gentleman.

  The print shop premises were in darkness.

  ‘I thought you left the lamp burning,’ Betty whispered, suddenly nervous.

  ‘It must’ve blown out.’ Groping their way through the shop they lit a candle from the kitchen range and crept upstairs to the bedroom.

  ‘Blind me if the bugger ain’t gone!’ Alice said.

  They searched the rest of the house, with no result. Perplexed, they stared at each other.

  ‘It’s no good making a fuss now. He’ll probably turn up in the morning with nothing more than a headache. If he does, we’ll tell him the girl ran off. Fetch us the scrubbing brush and pail, Alice. I’ll clean the blood off the floor.’

  Goldie had sat there for several minutes, her heart thudding in her chest, her breath coming in little whimpering sounds. It was a while before she realized that they’d left her there. Pulling off the blindfold she gazed around her. She was seated on some stone steps, a door at her back. Before her was an iron fence. Beyond, the street was almost empty, except for the sound of a couple of men in the distance, who were singing a raucous ditty.

  They staggered under a pool of light spilling from the gaslight on the corner. She averted her eyes as the pair stopped to relieve themselves. As they came nearer she edged into the corner, covering her head and shoulders with the shawl. The men passed her by without seeing her, weaving drunkenly from side to side.

  She stayed huddled in the corner like that, undetected. The night sounds terrified her. There was the sound of drunks passing by, their voices raised in song or mouthing obscenities, the loud laughter of fallen women, the sudden, explosive yowls of cats and the squeaks of rodents.

  She seemed to be in a garden, and bit back a sob. She would stay here until morning, then try and find her way back to Dorset. Her papa would know how to help her, her mamma would cuddle her until she felt safe again, and Daisy would listen wide-eyed to the story of her adventure. Gradually, Goldie’s quivering nerves relaxed and she fell asleep, only to be jerked awake when a hand descended heavily on her shoulder.

  The scream she gave would have woken the dead, if the flesh attached to the bones in little crypt behind her hadn’t corrupted several years previously.

  Not more than a mile away, Sebastian Groves staggered towards the infirmary, blood dripping from the wound in his head.

  He didn’t quite make it. Dogged by a pack of young felons who found him easy prey, he was dragged into an alleyway and brought down.

  His pockets yielded nothing, his only riches being the clothes on his back. The youths graduated from thieving to murder by taking it out on his body.

  Sebastian was identified by his hair. The next morning Betty Groves was informed of his demise, and became a respectable, grieving widow.

  7

  Siana was in the garden weeding the border when Francis arrived home. Straightening up, she ran towards him, trying not to look too worried. ‘Was there anything at the postal office from Goldie?’

  Francis had a smile a mile wide when he fished the letter from his waistcoat pocket. She grinned at him. ‘You’re just as relieved as I to have received a letter from her.’

  ‘Aye, I shouldn’t be at all surprised, for I’m very fond of the girl.’

  ‘What does she say?’

  ‘I haven’t read it yet.’

  She slit the envelope open with her thumbnail. ‘Oh, the letter is printed.’

  ‘And badly spelt,’ Francis observed, reading it over her shoulder.

  ‘I suppose printing is harder than writing. Goldie told me the letters were set back to front in printing, which seems odd to me, for how does it turn out the right way round?’

  Francis chuckled. ‘No doubt she’ll explain if you ask her.’

  ‘Oh, you.’ When she turned to frown at him he kissed the end of her nose. ‘She said we mustn’t worry if she doesn’t write very often because she’s helping in the print shop.’ Siana gazed at her husband, beset by a moment of unease. ‘There’s something odd about this letter.’

  ‘What do you find odd about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. The wording. It doesn’t sound like Goldie’s voice.’

  He laughed. ‘You worried because you didn’t receive a letter, now you’re worried because you have. It probably doesn’t sound like her because it’s printed, so appears to be much more formal. Goldie is ten years old now, and a very capable girl. She must be given the time to get to know her brother so she can make her mind up as to what her future will be.’

  ‘All the same, I can’t bear the thought of losing any of them, Francis. Will she be working long hours, do you think? I wouldn’t want her brother to take advantage of her, and she doesn’t mention coming home.’

  ‘His wife seemed a nice enough woman. She has a daughter about the same age. I’ll be going to London in a couple of weeks. Why don’t you come with me? We can check on her.’

  ‘Promise.’

  She laughed when he gave an exaggerated sigh, lifting her face to his so she could be kissed.

  ‘Don’t forget we’re going to the christening of your grandchildren on Sunday.’

  ‘You mean Maryse has finally decided on names?’

  ‘Marcus and Pansy have. The girl is to be Jane Louise, as you suggested.’

  ‘Aye, I did, didn’t I?’

  She linked her arm in his when his face took on a slightly pensive expression and said softly, ‘It’s fitting that she’s been named in remembrance of your first wife.’

  ‘Jane would have liked that. What about the boy?’

  ‘Alexander Marcus, after his Ibsen grandfather.’

  Francis nodded. ‘A good name.’

  ‘Now, before you relax, there’s some doctoring you need to do.’

  His eyes slanted greyly towards her. ‘I’ve already kissed you.’

  ‘I thought it was I who kissed you.’

  So he kissed her again, taking a little bite of her bottom lip which promised much for later, when they were alone together and unlikely to be disturbed.

  ‘It’s Bryn,’ she said, afterwards. He tumbled down the steps, scraped his hand and cut his lip. I’ve put ointment on it, but he’s been limping all day. He told me it was because I’m not a proper doctor.

  Bryn wasn’t limping when they gazed around the nursery door. Kneeling, he was lining his wooden soldiers up in rows. When he finished he pulled himself upright, took several steps backwards, then ran and kicked them all over the nursery.

  His nursery maid came through from the other room. ‘That’s naughty, Bryn. Help me pick them up again. You were supposed to be in bed. Susannah is already asleep.’

  Bryn put his hands on his hips and stuck his bottom lip out. ‘Won’t. I’m not going to b
ed. Not ever.’

  ‘You most certainly are,’ Francis said.

  ‘Papa!’ A smile spread across Bryn’s face and he flew across the room, expecting to be picked up. Francis gazed down at him. ‘Say sorry to your nursery maid for being rude to her, then help her pick up the toys.’

  Bryn’s hands went to his hips again. He thought better of it when he saw the glint in Francis’s eyes, brought them down to his sides and hung his head. ‘I fell down and hurt myself. I want you to make it better.’

  ‘So your mother told me. Go and pick the toys up, then we’ll talk about it.’

  Bryn went off with a sigh, nursing an exaggerated limp. ‘Sorry,’ he said reluctantly to the maid as he helped her collect the scattered toys, then hugged her. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

  Siana tried not to laugh as she gazed at Francis. ‘I think he just wanted your attention.’

  ‘It’s nice to have someone like him, who desires my attention.’ He took the boy on his lap when he’d finished his task, gazing at the scratches on his hand and his cut lip. Those will be better in day or two. How bad is your leg?’

  Bryn pulled on his wounded expression. ‘It’s broken, Papa.’

  Francis didn’t so much as twitch a lip. ‘We’ll have to mend it then. I’ll rub some arnica on it, and you can go to bed and rest it until morning. It will be better then.’

  Bryn hugged Francis tightly as Siana handed over the salve, and said, ‘Where did you go today, Papa. I was looking for you everywhere.’

  ‘To work. I had sick patients to see.’

  ‘I want to come with you.’

  ‘You can’t. You have to stay here and learn your letters, then, when you’re older, you can become a doctor too.’

  ‘I want to be a soldier and march up and down.’

  ‘Tomorrow, when your leg is mended, then.’ Laughing, Francis gave him a final hug before handing him to the nursery maid.

  As they went downstairs Francis kept glancing at her.

  She grinned at him. ‘Is my face dirty?’

  ‘I was wondering where Bryn’s nose came from. It’s nothing like mine, or yours. In fact, I can’t see anything of you in him. You’d think there would be something in him. An earlobe or a dimple, perhaps.’

  Siana’s heart gave a sudden, sickening thud. ‘He’s very much a Matheson.’

  Francis shook his head. There’s a lot of Matheson in him, but there’s something entirely different too. He must be a throw-back to one of the ancestors, though I grew up with their portraits hanging on the wall, and can’t recall anyone like him.’

  ‘You’re not the only one with ancestors. His looks might have come from my Welsh forebears. Apart from my father and mother, I have no idea what any of them looked like.’

  ‘If they produced you, they must have been exquisite. Let’s go and visit Daisy in her new quarters.’

  ‘Daisy is feeling very grown-up about moving out of the nursery.’

  But they arrived to find Daisy’s clothes strewn about all over the place. Seated at the dressing table, Daisy was gazing despondently into the mirror. Francis frowned as he glanced around him. ‘There’s a cupboard and drawers for your clothing.’

  ‘Usually, Goldie helps me put things away.’

  ‘Goldie isn’t here, so you’ll have to manage for yourself.’

  There was an unexpected moment of envy. ‘I expect Goldie’s having a lovely time in London, going to social events, while I’m stuck in the country, being bored.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Siana told her, losing her initial thrust of anger when she remembered Daisy couldn’t recall their former poverty. She’d been only a baby when their mother died. ‘Goldie’s brother isn’t well off. He runs a small printing business and Goldie helps him in the shop.’

  Daisy seemed to cheer up at the thought. ‘Good, that sounds even more boring, and she won’t want to stay there. I was hoping Pansy would take me to Kylchester with her for the summer, but she’s gone to Cheverton to look after Maryse, instead. Have we been invited to Kylchester for Christmas? I’m so dying to see it.’

  Francis gave a small sigh. ‘I’d prefer to celebrate Christmas here, with my own family and friends around me, this year. We’ll have the twins to celebrate.’

  ‘When I get older I want Aunt Prudence to give me and Goldie a season in London, like Maryse and Pansy had. Then we can marry wealthy husbands, and Goldie won’t have to work in the print shop.’

  Daisy didn’t realize that the countess considered her as lower class. The chances of her being taken to London for a season were remote. Siana exchanged a wry glance with Francis, who lifted his eyebrow and left her to answer.

  ‘Daisy, my dear, as you know, you and Goldie are not part of the Matheson family by birth, as Maryse and Pansy are. There will be no season in London. You will have to learn a useful profession to earn your keep. That’s why it’s important for you to learn as much as you can from Miss Edgar, for you may wish to become a governess, like her.’ Her fingers grazed gently across the back of her husband’s hand. ‘Besides, marrying for love is better than marrying for wealth.’

  ‘Then I’ll fall in love with Thomas Matheson and marry him. He’s nice as well as wealthy. He’s the same age as me, and gave me a shilling the last time he was here. He’s going to be a pirate and look for treasure. I daresay I’ll go with him.’

  That settled, Daisy gazed at the clothes on the bed, and sighed. ‘Will you tell Rosie to come and help me hang everything up?’

  ‘No, Daisy,’ Siana said as gently as possible. ‘You thought you were grown-up enough to move out of the nursery. Now you have to accept the responsibility of looking after your own things.’ She gazed at the little china clock on the mantelpiece. ‘If you leave your clothes thrown all over the place they’ll be creased the next time you wear them and you’ll appear untidy for the christening at the weekend. I expect them to be tidied away before you come down for dinner, which will be in half an hour. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Siana,’ Daisy said, making a face. She began to pick up her clothes as Siana had known she would, because Daisy always liked to look her best and be admired. ‘I wish I had my own maid,’ she wailed as they walked away.

  It was a cold, gusty day late in November. The Matheson family had come from Hampshire for the christening of Jane and Alexander Ibsen in the Cheverton Church.

  Pansy was a godparent, as was Josh Skinner. Proud to be chosen, Josh grinned from ear to ear as he looked down on his dark-haired, dark-eyed little goddaughter.

  Wynn Lewis stood at the back of the church. She was observing her great-nephew and her two great-nieces, while remaining unobserved herself. Siana was the image of her mother with her dark hair and green Welsh eyes. There was none of the preacher man, Gruffydd Evans, in her, which gave Wynn a huge amount of satisfaction.

  Siana was holding a boy on her lap. It would be the child born in Wales by the look of him. But he bore such a resemblance to the younger woman, there was no mistaking who his mother was. And she was standing up with the man who’d been in Wales with them. He was no longer in the robe of the penitent, but looking as proud, dark and handsome as the devil himself.

  So, it was not as she’d always believed. The pair were married. It was Siana who’d lost her child in Wales. And none to replace it by the look of things, though a fine upstanding man she had. A physician and surgeon by profession, Reverend White had told her. A smile softened her lips when the pair gazed at each other for a lingering moment. Now there’s a match, she thought. But Siana had best mind herself, for her man has a look of no nonsense about him.

  Siana appeared quite at home with the company she was in, though a haughtier company Wynn had never seen. The older man was an earl, no less. Just fancy, the bastard girl was rubbing shoulders with an earl. Grandmother Lewis would have laughed at that.

  ‘Not that he’s much to look at, mind,’ she whispered, in case the old woman could hear her. ‘And his lady looking like a chicken with that scrawny neck an
d great beak of hers.’

  Daisy and Joshua, children from Megan’s marriage, didn’t resemble their sister, much.

  ‘They have a different father to Siana, see,’ she muttered. ‘The young man is a bit like my brother, though he’s fairer in colouring and lacks his dour expression. The younger girl is bonny, but she’ll lose her pretty looks later in life, for her face is not fine-boned and dainty like that of her sister. Skinner, the reverend said the two younger ones are named. The men will be around the girl like bees to the honeypot in a few years. They should marry her off early, else she’ll be trouble later, mind you.’

  And so Wynn carried on, talking softly to herself. She passed comment on the English gentlemen with their funny way of talking and their fancy ways. She watched the kin she’d never known, different to her, but feeling part of them nevertheless. And she smiled upon the reverend, a gentle and learned man, who listened to her opinion and prayed privately with her. It was her pleasure to serve him and to worship him from afar. She didn’t dare to hope for more, though he consulted her over his sermons, helped her in the garden and took her to market on Thursdays.

  Wynn twitched with nerves. Today Reverend White had promised to introduce her to her great-nephew, Joshua Skinner. The church had nearly emptied when the reverend beckoned her forward. The tall young man beside him turned to gaze at her, curious, but without awareness.

  ‘Joshua, I’ve asked you to stay behind so I can introduce you to your great-aunt, Miss Wynn Lewis. Miss Lewis is employed as my housekeeper.’

  Wynn nearly bobbed a curtsy, but Josh took her hand in a firm grip, preventing her. Close up, Joshua Skinner’s eyes were blue and astute, which made her feel uncomfortable. No fool, this one, despite his affable nature.

  ‘There’s no love lost between my sister and myself with the Welsh kin. So why are you here, Miss Lewis?’ he said straight away.

  ‘I have something for your sister. A legacy from her great-grandmother Lewis.’