by Penny Jordan
‘Not every child, Heywood dearest, merely the children of those who work for you,’ Marianne protested, distracted from her purpose by his reminder of her plans for the children of his workers.
‘A dozen or a thousand—it matters little to me in truth, just so long as you smile at me so sweetly, my love. Can it really be another two full days before I can make you mine…?’
Inside her head a small voice whispered to her that if she were to lose him then perhaps she should ensure that she had something special and wonderful from him first. She had, after all, only promised herself that she would tell him before they were married—not before she gave herself to him. But even as her longing filled her Heywood was gently releasing her, as though somehow he had sensed that he needed to chaperon her desire for him as well as his own.
‘Of course you don’t disturb me, Marianne. Indeed, I have been thinking this last half an hour that it has been far too long since I last saw you.’
‘We had luncheon together,’ Marianne reminded him with a small smile.
‘A lifetime ago,’ he replied with mock solemnity.
When she did not respond his expression became more grave and concerned.
‘You look distressed. If someone has upset you…’
‘No one has upset me. But…but the truth is that perhaps I deserve to be distressed, because…’ She stepped back from him and began to pace the room, her agitation straining her voice and her expression. ‘The truth is, Heywood, that I have behaved most deceitfully.’
‘You don’t love me after all?’ he demanded.
‘No. Never that. I love you with all my heart, and I always will,’ Marianne told him passionately.
‘How so have you deceived me, then?’ he asked calmly.
Marianne bit her lip. ‘It is a long story,’ she began huskily, ‘and…’
‘And it is one that began when a caring and loyal young woman agreed to marry a young man in order to carry out his dying wishes,’ Heywood supplied for her, whilst Marianne stared at him in disbelief.
‘You know…But—’
He shook his head, commanding her silence, and continued. ‘When, through the most unfortunate of circumstances, you found yourself in the workhouse you befriended another young woman you met there. Pretty, and plainly used to better, she confided to you that she had run away from home with her sweetheart. They had planned to marry, but nature and their love for one another had overwhelmed them and she had become pregnant. Without money or any means of support they had been taken up by the town worthies and sent to the poorhouse where, as is the custom, they were separated. She to the women’s quarters and he to the men’s, although he managed to get permission to leave and go in search of work.
‘She was afraid, alone, and with child, and she turned to you and made you her confidante and friend. The weeks and then the months passed. The young woman’s health suffered badly, despite you doing what you could to get her extra food, even giving her your own when she went into labour. After many days of dreadful travail her child was born—a son—and his birth cost her her life. The child too would have died if you had not taken charge of it—against the rules of the workhouse.
‘You were in despair, knowing that the child would be taken from you and put in an orphanage, when a young man came to the workhouse asking for the young woman. It was her sweetheart, who had finally secured a job working on a farm. The work was hard and the hours long, but he had finally managed to get together enough money to come for her. When you had to tell him of her fate he was bereft. All he had to live for now was his child. He asked you to go with him to the farm where he worked, where he had a small cottage, so that the child could be cared for.
‘Out of love for your friend you agreed, but then he too became ill, and that was when, knowing that he would not survive, he begged you to marry him—so that the child might be protected. You felt you had no choice other than to agree. As he lay dying he told you about his childhood and his home. He begged you to take his child to that home and hand him over to the person he believed he should be with, and you gave him your promise that you would do just that. But at the same time you had heard such a harrowing tale of this person’s cruelty that you vowed you would not reveal the child’s identity until you had assured yourself that the child would be safe.’
Marianne couldn’t restrain herself any longer. ‘You do know. How can you…? When did you…? I—’
‘I knew from the first…before that, even. Had you tarried so much as a day longer on your journey my agents would have found you and brought you to me.’
‘Your agents? You had sent someone to search for me?’ Her fear escaped into her voice.
A look that contained both pain and sadness darkened his eyes. ‘I can understand, given what you knew of me then, that you might once have found it hard to accept that I cared so deeply about both my stepson and my ward that I would do everything in my power to find them and bring them home safely, but I had hoped that with what we have recently shared I might have shown you a different side of myself from the one Milo must have described to you.’
‘No—please, you must not speak like that or think like that.’ Marianne cut him off immediately. ‘It is true that when Milo and Amelia ran away together they were both filled with anger and bitterness. Amelia, I think, more than Milo.’
‘Aye, beneath that sweet gentleness there was always a strong determination.’
‘She feared that you meant to marry Milo to someone else. She was very conscious of the fact that she had no inheritance to bring to their marriage, and I believe it was she who prevailed upon Milo to leave. Milo had only the happiest memories of you until you spoke so harshly to him, forbidding his engagement to Amelia, especially coming as it did so close on the heels of his mother’s death.’
‘They were so young, and I knew that Lucinda, who had seen what was in the wind, wanted them to wait until they were older and sufficiently sure of their feelings. I blame myself for not explaining this to Milo more fully, but at the time there were problems with the mill. Other mill workers were going on strike, and I was involved in meetings in Manchester with regard to that and to other associated matters. Of course there was also the burden of guilt I carried for not being here, as I should have been, when Lucinda went into labour, so I was less patient with Milo than he deserved. I missed Lucinda’s calm hand on the household and on all of us. She was a good woman, and despite all that is said of me and my reasons for marrying her I honoured her for what she was. Even if I could not love her as…as a man loves the woman who has his heart.’
There was a small silence, and Marianne could feel tears stinging her eyes.
‘From the moment I knew they were gone I tried to find Milo and Amelia, but too much time had been lost and they had covered their tracks too well, using false names. Milo’s choice of Brown being particularly effective. Eventually, though, we did track them down. But by then it was too late. All my agents could tell me was that my stepson had contracted a deathbed marriage to a young woman by the name of Marianne Westall, to whom he had entrusted his child. I instructed my agents to make contact with you, and to beg you to agree to a meeting, but by that stage you had already set out on your journey here. Not knowing where you were going or what you planned, initially I told my agent to follow you, but he lost you in Rochdale—the small matter of a railway ticket?’
Marianne nodded her head.
‘He telephoned to tell me of this, and to ask for instructions, for by this stage we had deduced that you were making your way to Bellfield. Everything my agent had reported about you seemed to point to a young woman of great courage and fortitude—a young woman, moreover, possessed of tremendous loyalty and honesty. And with everything I learned I grew to want to know this young woman more and more. Indeed, I felt that in part I already did know her, and her grave sweetness of expression, plus her concern for the weak and the vulnerable. Foolishly, perhaps, I even began to think that she might bring me not only
the child that belonged here, through whom I might make atonement to my stepson and my ward, but also the warmth and laughter and the love that this sad house and I both lacked.’
Marianne couldn’t speak. There was a huge lump in her throat and she felt overcome by emotion. When she did find her voice all she could say was, ‘You knew I would come here, but when I arrived you said nothing? I thought you were going to turn me away. I feared—’
‘I admit that at first I didn’t realise who you were—it was only when I saw the child…But by then we were at odds, and since you had said nothing to me—’
‘I…I wanted to. But I needed to be sure, for baby Miles’ sake.’ Her voice broke. ‘I am sorry. I should have trusted you—especially once I had begun to love you—but somehow that made it harder.’
‘My dearest love, please do not cry. I should have said something, and would have done so had it not been for my accident.’
‘And you really love me still? Despite—’
‘My sweetest love, there is nothing in this world nor the next that could stop me from loving you.’
‘But why did not you say anything about Miles?’
‘Why did not you?’
‘I was afraid it might change things between us, and that I might lose your love.’
‘I felt the same. I feared that whilst you loved me you did not entirely trust me to have Miles’ best interests at heart. I knew that Milo and Amelia must have entrusted you with their confidences, and I knew too that there was still gossip in the town about them.’
‘They say that you refused to allow them to marry because you wanted Amelia for yourself.’ Marianne gave a small sigh. ‘But of course I knew that was not likely to be true because of the way in which Amelia had talked to me of you.’
‘You cannot know how much I wish that I had been less harsh. If I had—’
Marianne went to him and placed her fingers against his lips, telling him, ‘Hush, my love, you must not blame yourself. The truth is that Milo wanted to come back, but Amelia begged him not to. She refused to believe, as he did, that you would relent and allow them to be together—especially once she was with child. Milo told me that he pleaded with her to let him ask you for your help, but she was beyond reason and said that she would destroy herself if he did. I believe she was thinking of the Reverend Johnson, who I know she feared.’
Heywood’s face darkened. ‘Between them he and that wretched man Hollingshead have a lot to answer for. The one of them puts the fear of God into your sex for their natural inclinations to show their love, and the other sees to it that they are killed by the results of those inclinations. If I had my way they would both be run out of town.’
‘Milo entrusted to me a letter he wrote to you. I have it in my room. It explains everything and…and begs for your forgiveness and your love for baby Miles.’ She made to go to the door, but Heywood stopped her, reaching for her hand and pulling her into his arms.
‘There was no need. I am the one who should ask his forgiveness, and I would that I could. As for his son, I shall treat him and raise him as my own. Milo’s mother left his inheritance in trust, and that trust will always be there for Miles. I wish with all my heart that he and Amelia could know how much I thank them for sending you to me, dear heart, my love, my bride-to-be…’
‘I’m honoured to become the Bride of Bellfield,’ Marianne whispered softly to him—before abruptly remembering what she had still not told him. She stiffened in his arms, her colour deepening, her expression anxious.
‘What is it?’ Heywood asked with concern.
‘There is still something I have not—that is…I should…The truth is that whilst Milo and I did marry, he did not…I was not actually ever a true wife to him,’ she managed to whisper. ‘So I am afraid that I do not…I am not…’ She fiddled with one of the buttons on his shirt, her gaze downcast. ‘I realise that from…from my behaviour on a certain occasion you may think that I am a woman of experience, and thus be disappointed when—’
His shout of laughter stopped her in her tracks.
‘My dearest, darling girl, you are adorably absurd. Of course I have known from the outset that, despite your claim to the title of Mrs, and your marriage lines, you are in truth still chaste and untouched. I would have known it anyway, from the way you tremble and sigh at my slightest touch, and the look of sweetly shy uncertainty in your eyes when your body responds to mine. However, even if I had missed those telling signs, there could have been no mistaking your reaction when you realised that I sleep in my skin.’
‘I was shocked,’ Marianne admitted.
‘It is not your shock to which I refer,’ Heywood teased, causing her to blush warmly as he drew her back into his arms and proceeded to kiss her very thoroughly.
It was Christmas Eve, and the new Mistress of Bellfield Hall was busy about the same business as the rest of her sex: preparing her home for the celebration of Christmas.
Hams had been baked, poultry bought and plucked and left to hang, and puddings bought—for it was true that this year at least there was no time left in which to make them. Extra pairs of hands belonging to the newly important and scrubbed clean older daughters of the master’s workers, in their pretty tartan frocks and white pinafores, hurried to restrain the excitement of their younger siblings as they were all admitted into the hall, with its wonderfully decorated Christmas tree—so tall that its angel brushed the ceiling, and so wide that there was scarce room for the children to gather round to admire it.
‘Just look at them, Heywood,’ Marianne whispered as they watched their young guests from the shadows of the galleried landing. ‘It was truly generous of you to do this.’
‘There is nothing I would not do for you, my precious love. Nothing,’ he told her emotionally.
‘You wouldn’t wear the Father Christmas robe and beard I made,’ she reminded him, teasing.
‘Ah, yes…That is because I did not want to deprive Archie of the pleasure of playing such a role,’ he answered, tongue-in-cheek. ‘Have I told you yet today how much I love you, my Marianne?’ He was leaning towards her as he spoke.
Suddenly one sharp-eyed little lad amongst the excited throng in the hallway below looked up and yelled out, ‘Look—t’master’s kissing t’mistress!’
After that there was no gainsaying their young guests. The Master of Bellfield and his wife were made to come down and be thanked for their generosity, with cheers and, in the case of the littlest ones, big hugs and happy kisses.
Marianne smiled to herself. It was far too soon to know yet, of course. She was after all a bride of a matter of days only. But she felt it was not too out of the question for her to hope that by this time next Christmas the Bride of Bellfield Mill would be a mother, and would have presented her husband with a very special Christmas gift indeed.
In the busy hallway the mill manager was raising a glass of Christmas punch, calling out, ‘A Christmas toast. To the Master of Bellfield and his bride. God bless them both.’
‘Happy?’ Marianne heard Heywood asking her.
‘How can I not be when I am with you?’ Marianne whispered back lovingly.
A FAMILY FOR
HAWTHORN FARM
Helen Brooks
CHAPTER ONE
The North-East of England, 1899
‘IT’S coming down thicker than ever. Me gran said we’d be in for a packet this year and she was right.’
Connie Summers raised her head from where she was standing peeling a mountain of onions and looked out of the grimy window of the pickling factory. She could see the snowflakes dropping to rest in their white purity on the roof of another factory opposite, and the heavy sky was laden.
She nodded a reply to the girl who had spoken but said nothing, knowing if she opened her mouth the bitterly cold air—which was only a few degrees warmer than that outside—would bring on her cough. All she wanted was to get through the last few minutes of her twelve-hour shift and get home.
‘You all
right, Connie? You look bad—really bad.’
Again she nodded, forcing a smile before lifting the massive tin bowl full of onions and carrying it over to one of the big vats at the far end of the factory floor, trying to stifle her racking cough as she did so. The last few days she had found that every time she carried the bowls, which always threatened to tear her arms out of their sockets, the strain seemed to aggravate her wheezy chest. How she was going to walk home tonight she didn’t know, but she’d have to. She couldn’t afford a penny for the tram. But she’d manage. She always did.
When Bill O’Dowd, the foreman, blew his tin whistle ten minutes later Connie took off her apron and hung it on the peg behind the table where she worked, before taking down her hat and coat. She had a job to do up the buttons of the coat, her hands were so red, raw and swollen, but she was used to that. It had been the same for the last three years, since she had left school at thirteen. All the women who worked at the pickling factory suffered in the same way on account of the work they did.
But she wasn’t complaining. As Connie began to file out of the factory she gave a mental nod to the thought. Most of the girls she had been at school with had gone straight into service, but that hadn’t been an option for her—not with her mam being so poorly and her younger sister and brothers to see to in the morning and at night. She couldn’t have been away all week, they wouldn’t have managed. She’d been lucky to get this job.
She stood for a moment on the snow-covered flags in the factory yard, catching her breath. The burning in her chest and back was worse tonight, and the pain when she coughed seemed to radiate out to every part of her. But she couldn’t be ill. She couldn’t have any days off work. They were already behind with the rent, and Tommy had holes in his boots and Flora couldn’t do her coat up, it was so small for her. Whatever was she going to do? Oh, Mam, Da, help me. I’ve tried so hard to keep us all together, like you’d have wanted. Don’t let it be for nothing. Show me what to do. Somehow show me.