Peace Comes to Honeyfield

by Anna Jacobs

  ‘I wish my mam had found someone like that to help her when she found she was carrying me after her employer had forced himself on her. He turned her out and denied everything. She managed, but she worked hard all her life, so very hard.’

  ‘She loved you, though, and you loved her. I can hear it in your voice. You must have been a big comfort to her.’

  ‘I like to think so. She married a kind man later, but he wasn’t very clever with money, so she was still struggling to put food on the table. I have a younger half-brother. But I don’t know what he’s doing now Mam’s dead. We don’t get on all that well.’

  She patted his arm. ‘And I don’t even know my real mother’s name, so there we both are – bastards.’

  He looked at her in shock. ‘I don’t like to hear you use that word about yourself.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘Well, perhaps when things settle down, you can persuade your father to tell you more about your mother.’

  ‘He’s refused several times already. He always says to let her rest in peace and not upset her family. I doubt I’ll ever persuade him to change his mind about that, though I get the impression he loved her dearly.’ She wiped a tear away with one fingertip.

  Patrick put his arm round her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze and again she felt comforted by his touch. But they couldn’t stay there for too long, so she pulled herself away reluctantly.

  ‘If that’s all you need to discuss, Patrick, let’s rejoin the others and I’ll sort out with Marge where we’re all going to sleep.

  Westcott amazed Patrick in many ways as he was shown round the old house, but unfortunately its size only emphasised the differences between him and Georgie.

  He’d been billeted in big houses a few times, but they’d been full of men, with beds crammed into the big rooms, so that you didn’t get this sense of spaciousness and elegance. And there had been people coming and going all the time as well as patients: nurses, doctors, orderlies, visitors.

  This house was full of shadows, silence, well-loved old furniture and a myriad possessions. There was even a room Georgie called the ‘library’, saying the word casually. To him it was a treasure house with walls full of books, enough of them to provide a lifetime’s reading. How he envied Mr Cotterell and Georgie that, far more than the size of their house!

  ‘You’ll want your old room, Miss Georgie?’ the old housekeeper asked after she’d panted her way to the top of the stairs.

  ‘Yes, of course. But I need to have my friends sleeping nearby, in case there’s trouble. And if there is, you and Cecil are to go and hide in the cellar, as my father ordered.’

  ‘Yes, we know, miss. We’re too old to be anything but a hindrance if there’s any unpleasantness. But the door to the little side cellar is sticking, so we can’t open it easily, or close it fully, come to that. We’ll have to get someone in to look at it. It’s probably feeling its age, like me and Cecil are.’

  ‘One of us can have a look at it for you tomorrow morning,’ Patrick offered. ‘Us lads are all good with our hands.’

  ‘That’d be a big help, sir. Thank you.’

  In the end, Georgie arranged for Rosie to sleep on a truckle bed in her dressing room, which would placate her father’s sense of propriety, and for the three men to share a bedroom across the landing.

  ‘This used to be my father’s wife’s room.’ Georgie scowled round it.

  ‘All her clothes have been cleared out, though, miss,’ Marge said. ‘The master saw to it himself, wouldn’t let her do any of her own packing. I helped him and we crammed everything into trunks to send to her new home. She was very angry and—’

  Georgie finished the tale for her. ‘And she probably threw a fit of screeching hysterics.’

  ‘Yes, miss. She did that a lot towards the end. I’ve heard she doesn’t do it much these days. Getting very forgetful, they say.’

  Patrick saw Georgie scowl at the doorway as if she hated even the room Mrs Cotterell had occupied. Only it was the closest to hers, so it made sense for them to use it.

  ‘One of us should stay on watch at all times,’ he reminded the others.

  Georgie looked as if she was going to insist on doing her share of that, but a huge yawn caught her unawares and he said quickly, ‘Leave it to us three men. We’re more used to staying awake than you ladies are.’

  ‘All right. Just this once, mind. And only because I’m too tired to keep watch properly.’

  He didn’t answer, because he’d just noticed a low bookcase stuffed full of well-worn books in a corner of the bedroom. He pointed to it. ‘All right if I have a look through these?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Read any you want.’

  Dennis yawned. ‘I’m going straight to sleep.’

  Patrick tilted his head to read some of the book titles. ‘I’ll have a quick look at these before I turn in. Sometimes I have trouble dropping off and if I read for a few minutes, it helps.’

  He looked at the two men. ‘I know you’re tired, but before any of us go to sleep, lads, we need to be sure of where all the entrances are. And I want to double-check that every single one is locked and bolted for the night.’

  He got Cecil to show them round the ground floor again, after which he and Dennis went back upstairs and left Martin on watch patrolling the interior of the house.

  As he got into bed, Dennis teased his companion for being a bookworm, but within two minutes he was breathing slowly and deeply.

  Tired as he was, Patrick couldn’t resist having a quick look at the book titles. When he saw one on the bottom shelf that he’d long wanted to read, he pulled it out. Other books tumbled out with it, and behind them he saw a mess of papers.

  ‘What on earth—?’ He bent to gather them up and realised they were letters. He didn’t mean to read them but when he saw the first paragraph of the top piece of paper, he stiffened and brought his oil lamp closer.

  He read the first two letters, whistling softly in surprise because he was so deeply touched by the tender love they showed between Georgie’s father and the woman he couldn’t marry but clearly loved desperately. What did the Frenchies call it when love struck like that? Un coup de foudre. He’d had many a chat with his allies, ranging over everything you could think of and some phrases had stuck in his mind.

  It just went to show that making a match of convenience wasn’t always the best thing to do, even for people he considered rich. Money hadn’t brought Gerald Cotterell happiness, whereas Patrick had seen at first-hand how happy and loving his mother and stepfather had been together, and they’d always been a bit short of money.

  He didn’t read any more of the letters, feeling as if he was intruding on their privacy, but gathered up the rest carefully and put them in his bag underneath his clean underwear. These were not for his two friends to read.

  He put the book into his bag with them almost as an afterthought, not attempting to read it now, because he had too much to think about, the main thing being should he show Georgie what he’d found or not? Or would it only make her sad?

  He was still worrying about that when he fell asleep.

  The first thing that came into his mind when Dennis woke him to take his turn at patrolling the house was the papers and how Georgie would feel about their contents.

  That didn’t stop him keeping careful watch.

  Chapter Eight

  When the group gathered for breakfast in the morning, Georgie noticed that the men had found time to shave and make themselves as smart as possible. A lot of soldiers had picked up that habit in the Army, she’d noticed, and still kept it after they’d been demobbed. Some of them even walked more briskly down the street as if they were ready to start marching at any second.

  ‘Did you read yourself to sleep?’ she asked Patrick.

  ‘I didn’t read anything but I chose a book and I’ve put it in my bag. I’ll give it back to you after I’ve finished reading it, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Keep i
t. We have plenty of books here and those looked well worn.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter to me if a book is worn. We used to pass them round in France and read them to pieces in the quiet times. I taught a few of my chaps to read better from tattered old books.’

  ‘I’d like to read better,’ Rosie said wistfully, then clapped one hand across her mouth as if she was afraid she’d offended them.

  ‘Once this is over, I’ll see you get the chance,’ Georgie offered. ‘I bet you missed a lot of school helping your mother with the younger children.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I’ve met others with the same problem. It’s easily fixed.’

  ‘Ooh, thank you, miss.’ She jumped up after she’d finished eating and without being told, went to help Marge clear up and wash the dishes, while the men asked Cecil what they could do to help.

  He wasn’t much use, but kept looking at Patrick for guidance.

  ‘One of you can repair that cellar door for a start, then see if there’s anything else needs mending. I need to speak to Miss Cotterell again. But see you stay indoors, whatever you find to do. And keep away from the windows.’

  Patrick turned to Georgie. It had seemed so obvious when he woke that she had a right to know. ‘Do you have a few minutes?’

  They went back into the small sitting room and she took a seat on the sofa, clasping her hands together in her lap as she waited for him to speak. When the seconds ticked past and he said nothing, he watched her puzzlement grow, but he was having trouble working out how best to tell her.

  In the end he said it bluntly. ‘Last night when I was choosing a book, I found some papers hidden at the back of the bookcase in my bedroom.’

  ‘Papers? What sort of papers?’

  He went to sit down beside her on the sofa, taking her hand. ‘They’re letters. I’d not normally read another person’s private letters, but they were crammed behind the books any old how, so when a few fell out, I had to pick them up. I couldn’t help seeing the top one.’

  Another pause while he studied her hand and searched for more words. ‘They’re love letters from your real mother and father to one another.’

  She gasped. ‘My real mother?’

  ‘Yes. At least, that’s what it seems like to me.’ He let go of her hand to fumble in his pocket and pull out some pieces of paper. ‘There are quite a few others. The rest are in my bag, hidden among my clothes.’

  ‘What are they doing in his wife’s bedroom, then?’

  He handed the pieces of paper to her. ‘Perhaps she found them and crumpled them up. I didn’t do that to them. She might have been intending to destroy them then changed her mind.’

  Georgie took them from him with a hand that trembled and stared down at the top sheet, reading it slowly, then rereading it. ‘Mary Jane. So my mother was called Mary Jane. Only she doesn’t sign her surname.’

  Tears welled in her eyes as she read a couple more letters. ‘Oh, how they loved one another! I’m glad he had that for a while, because that woman was one of the nastiest people you could meet. I wonder where this Mary Jane lived, whether she has any family left there.’

  ‘If I bring the other letters, we could see if there are any envelopes among them. The address will tell you her surname and where she came from.’

  ‘Yes. Please do. I’ll wait here.’

  While she waited she stared at the pieces of paper, trying to smooth them out. Her father would never have screwed up letters from the woman he loved, even if he wasn’t pernickety about keeping things neat. So Adeline Cotterell must have got hold of them and hidden them in her bookcase.

  Was there no end to that woman’s spite? Couldn’t she even have left her estranged husband his letters from a dead woman who could no longer be a rival? Clearly not.

  The minutes seemed to pass very slowly as Georgie waited. A couple of times she mouthed the words ‘Mary Jane’. Such a pretty name.

  Patrick pounded up the stairs to his bedroom. The papers were an untidy mess and he had nothing to put them in, so he clutched them against his chest and ran down again, nearly bumping into Dennis in the hall.

  ‘Everything all right, Patrick, lad?’

  ‘Yes. Fine. I’m helping Miss Cotterell with something. You keeping busy?’

  ‘Yes, I’m working on that cellar door with Cecil. I’ll come and fetch you if we need help fixing it, but it seems straightforward enough. Martin will keep watch on the house while I’m down there.’

  ‘Fine. Right.’

  He knew Dennis was surprised by the abrupt way he’d responded, but he’d seen Georgie’s face when she found out her mother’s name and he knew she was close to tears. She needed a friend beside her as she did this.

  If there was anything he could do to help her, he would. Some things were important, whoever you were, however much money you had. And hurtful.

  Georgie was still sitting on the small sofa with the first few letters in her lap. He saw that her eyelashes were wet and when he got closer, he noticed an ink smear on the handwriting of the top letter. The smear hadn’t been there before, so a tear must have fallen on it.

  He wanted to pull her into his arms, but didn’t allow it, just held out the rest of the letters and said gently, ‘Here you are. Do you want me to stay with you while you read them, or leave you alone?’

  ‘Please stay.’

  He sat down beside her and watched her hands tremble as she tried to sort out the other papers. When she dropped a couple, he picked them up. ‘Want me to help with that?’

  She nodded, holding them out to him, saying in a low voice, ‘I’m not as strong inside myself as I thought. Only … I’ve been wanting to find out about my real mother ever since I discovered two years ago that Father’s wife wasn’t related to me. I’ve wanted to know so desperately, Patrick, and he wouldn’t tell me a thing.’

  He made a soothing noise.

  ‘Even to know my mother’s Christian name is wonderful.’ A sob escaped her and she clapped one hand across her mouth.

  How could he help it? He took her hand and pulled her into his arms – only for a moment, just to offer comfort. She seemed so alone in the world, except for her father, and he rarely spent time with her.

  ‘Let’s sit at the table together, Georgie, lass. It’ll be easier to see what’s what if we spread these out.’

  When they were seated shoulder to shoulder, she hesitated so long he began to go through the papers. More letters, some from Mary Jane, some from her ‘loving Gerald’. But no envelopes. It was as if someone had destroyed them on purpose to remove the address.

  But just as he was about to give up hope, an envelope came to light near the bottom of the pile, caught between the two pages of the same letter. He recognised the handwriting at once: Georgie’s father’s.

  ‘I reckon this is what you’re looking for.’

  She took it from him, managed to hold it steady enough to read the address, and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘Mary Jane Baxter. Her surname was Baxter.’

  She took a few deep breaths as she read on. ‘And she lived in Swindon.’

  ‘Do you want me to make a note of the address?’

  She gave a hiccup of laughter that was almost a sob. ‘No need. I couldn’t forget it if I tried.’ She clutched his arm. ‘Patrick, will you take me to Swindon? Now, at once. If we find this address, there may be some Baxters still living there. I may have … family.’

  ‘It’s a long time since she died, Georgie.’

  ‘I know. Over twenty-eight years. But even if her family has moved, there’s got to be someone in the street who knows where the Baxters are now, there has to be! Please will you take me to Swindon? It’s not far away. I have to find out.’

  And heaven help him, he said yes, only keeping enough control to add, ‘But we have to make escape plans first, plans for all of us to get away from here quickly if need be. We can’t leave the others here like sitting ducks.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’


  Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, such beautiful eyes. Oh, he’d kill dragons for this woman!

  ‘And Patrick, thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.’

  He had a very fair idea, just from the expression on her face. He was learning to read her feelings. This was a calculated risk, he knew, but he thought they had time to do it.

  Patrick gave Georgie a few moments to pull herself together, then got to work. He’d always been good at planning operations, had helped his captain with them regularly. ‘We might as well go this morning if Swindon is only an hour or so away. But first, will your friend in Honeyfield be on the phone? We need to let her know you’ll be coming, and bringing four friends with you.’

  She looked startled. ‘Of course she is! Why didn’t I think of that before? Oh, I’m being so stupid. Shall I go and telephone her now?’

  He grabbed her arm. ‘No. Not yet. Let’s go and look at the other cars, see what condition they’re in. We’d be better taking one of those, if you’re sure your father wouldn’t mind.’

  They went out through the kitchen, stopping at the door as they noticed that light rain was now falling.

  ‘How stupid. I didn’t even notice that it had started raining,’ she said.

  ‘Here. We’ll take this.’ He grabbed one of the umbrellas from the battered hallstand nearby and held it over himself and Georgie as they picked their way across the muddy yard. He nearly fell once on the slippery ground, thanks to that damned limp, and she had to hold him steady for a few moments.

  Kill dragons for her! he thought bitterly. He couldn’t even walk properly.

  The car they’d used to get here was standing where they’d left it next to the Humber and the equally large Talbot. Cotterell must have plenty of money to buy four motor cars, three of them just to keep in the country – or did the government pay for the latter?

  The car Patrick was interested in was the one in the stable itself, dimly visible through a dusty window, and there wasn’t even a padlock on the big double doors. Anyone could have driven off in it.