by Darcy Burke
“What’s this?” She couldn’t touch anything so expensive and pretty.
“Open it.”
She tugged at the ribbon. Lifting the lid revealed six perfectly formed chocolates, each with either a crystallized piece of green angelica or pink crystallized rose petal on top. She stared. This was more than an orange. It had been a decade since she’d had chocolates like these. The cost was unjustifiable.
“I didn’t know which sort you liked.” There was a gentle pink in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes. He pulled out a small paper bag from his pocket and placed it onto Annie’s bed. “There’s barley sugars too, for Annie, when she’s awake and well enough to eat them.”
“Thank—” Her breath caught in her throat. His buying sweets for Annie was one thing, but this was different. This was undeserved. It was unwanted charity, chipping away at her pride even while it provided sustenance. But neither did she want Mr. Lowe, with his warm presence and comforting voice, to leave, or to be offended. She couldn’t cope with being alone when all she had—Annie—was in peril.
She usually categorized men into safe or dangerous. It wasn’t clear what Mr. Lowe was. Dangerous, she’d assumed when she’d first met him. Handsome men were not to be trusted. But then, when a teacher was calling on a poorly girl, that was surely safe?
“Thank you.” She managed a tentative smile. “For the barley sugars.” They were golden orange sweets that tasted like late summer. “I’m sure Annie will like them. I can’t accept the chocolates. It’s much too excessive a gift.”
His face fell.
“I can’t accept your charity.” Picking up the chocolates she held them out to Mr. Lowe.
He didn’t take them, shaking his head slightly. “Why didn’t you call the doctor?”
She looked back to Annie, static and quiet. Mr. Lowe knew she was poor and had come to aid her. Mortification heated her neck. She placed the chocolates back. Her hands and heart felt somehow empty without the treats he’d brought or his smile washing over her. “We couldn’t afford it.”
He frowned. “But...”
She shouldn’t have said that. They maintained a polish of, if not respectability, then dignified poverty. But she scrimped to afford everything and budgeted for every ha’penny. They weren’t in debt, unlike so many Elmswell families, but unexpected costs were unaffordable.
“But you have a war widow’s pension.” Mr. Lowe continued. “Assistance is available for widows of soldiers. I can—”
“I have my pride,” she snapped. Nothing could be worse than being an object of pity. But her own web of lies had caught her. She couldn’t apply for aid for war widows, so she needed to explain her expenditure. “The rent here is... A little high. More than I can afford.”
“This is one of Sir Thomas’ properties isn’t it?” Mr. Lowe’s frown deepened. “I didn’t know he charged so much. I’ll talk to him about it.”
“Please don’t.” Everything would come out. But it already would. She’d already said too much in her exhausted stupidity. “His land agent changed the fee when he met me.”
“Why?” Mr. Lowe growled.
Only a man would ask such a question. Lydia avoided Mr. Lowe’s gaze. “He thought...” Correctly... “I was a woman of disrepute.” A fraudulent woman who’d been ruined and had a child out of wedlock. “I didn’t want to make a fuss. I didn’t want the neighbors objecting to me or to search for another place to live. I paid. And the fee has increased every year since.” She risked a peek at him.
“For ten years.” His mouth dropped open.
“Yes.” And the dearer it became, the more ashamed she was. She couldn’t ask Matilda for more money. She wouldn’t ask. Living off her sister’s generosity was already humiliating enough.
“He’s been blackmailing you.” His deep voice escalated in fury.
“No. Yes.” She shrugged. “Please don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold in Elmswell. If this is heard about…”
“Yes. I can imagine,” he said grimly.
There was a long silence. Lydia turned away from Mr. Lowe and focused on Annie. She was sleeping quite soundly now. Lydia could almost deceive herself this was normal, and she was just a tired little girl. But it was only four o’clock in the afternoon. A ten-year-old girl shouldn’t be asleep at such a time. She took Annie’s hand and stroked the soft skin of her little knuckles.
Mr. Lowe sighed. “I’ll leave you to your ministrations and visit tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
He stood and then hesitated.
She didn’t look up.
“Here.” He placed the chocolates and the plate with the orange segments on the bed next to her hand. “Eat. Please.” She felt him beside her for long moments until she gave a jerky nod.
The front door closed downstairs.
It was dark when Lydia stopped holding her daughter’s hand and stood to relieve the ache in her back. On the bed sat the orange. Still fresh and sweet looking. Would it be wrong? It would be a pity to allow the orange to go bad.
Piece by piece, she ate the tangy segments, her eyes never leaving Annie’s face. Her beautiful daughter with her dark blue eyes, so like her father’s, closed. She couldn’t lose Annie. Tomorrow she’d call for the doctor again to advise. Damn the cost and her pride and everything else.
Then she didn’t allow herself to think. She reached for the chocolates and ate them all in tiny bites, relishing the taste even as it didn’t fill the void caused by fear. Afterwards, her stomach was full of sugar. But without Annie being well and Mr. Lowe’s comforting presence, there was no sweetness.
Chapter 4
For the second night, Lydia watched her daughter sleep fitfully, mopping her brow to cool her fever as Doctor Woodward had suggested. In the morning, Annie was kitten-weak. Lydia struggled to feed her a little porridge before she fluttered her eyes closed again.
She quashed the impulse to shake her daughter back to the lively child she was. Seeing her inert ripped at her insides.
A knock sounded at the door. Lydia bit her lip. She wasn’t expecting anyone. It couldn’t be a visit from Mr. Lowe, since he taught in the morning. Her back clunked and tweaked as she rose from the chair beside Annie’s bed. She had no idea of the time. Her stomach was turning in on itself, perhaps because she hadn’t had any breakfast, as well as because her daughter was ill. She didn’t have a clock and the grey light gave no indication of the time. The church bells must have chimed, the chickens squawked, and the noisy mail coach must have rattled past at its usual hour, but Lydia couldn’t remember hearing them. Annie didn’t move, even when the knocking came again. Lydia hesitated by the door.
The knocking became louder and more insistent.
“I’ll be back immediately, sweetheart.” The reassurance was for herself, not Annie.
A woman she didn’t know was in the street when she opened the door, neatly clothed in black and wearing a white lace edged cap over her hair. “Good day, are you Mrs. Taylor?”
Lydia nodded cautiously. Probably this was some woman sent to ask about Annie’s absence from school.
“Lovely.” The woman’s face broke into a wide smile. “Lady Lakenham sent me to help you tend your daughter.”
“What?” It was so unexpected to hear her sister’s name here in Elmswell that it was almost a slap. How in heaven did Matilda know about Annie’s illness? The woman’s smile faltered only slightly. Lydia became aware that she’d left her mouth open, gaping in shock. “Um. Well, you had better come in.” Lydia stepped back. “And your name?”
“I’m Nurse Moylan, but please call me Elizabeth.” The woman removed her bonnet with efficient fingers. “Perhaps you would show me to the dear little patient?”
Bemused, and so tired she couldn’t protest or question, Lydia showed Elizabeth upstairs.
“Oh, poor little mite,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “But you’ve been looking after her wonderfully.” She picked up the flannel Lydia had been using to mop Annie’s brow and gentl
y dabbed Annie’s cheeks.
Annie’s flushed face was in contrast to the bright blond hair that had escaped its plait and was fanned around her temple.
“Now, I’ll do her chamber pot and then shall I light the stove, warm some water and we’ll give her a bed bath together?” Elizabeth nodded in a way that brooked no argument, though it was phrased as a question.
Lydia watched Elizabeth every moment she was with Annie. They washed Annie with warm damp cloths. Elizabeth had careful hands, and she didn’t chatter needlessly. Neither did Elizabeth try to send Lydia away. Presumably she knew it was impossible for Lydia to leave her daughter. Elizabeth was from a nursing agency in Colchester, it turned out. She knew nothing more about why she was there than Lydia. A telegram had arrived from Lady Lakenham with a request for a nurse to attend Mrs. Taylor at this address, with a promise of double pay if she arrived that day.
Habitual wariness couldn’t let her relax. Elizabeth’s soft-spoken competence eased the racing of Lydia’s blood around her edges, and she was so tired. Even so, Lydia was on her guard. A woman with secrets as humiliating as hers learned to be wary.
It wasn’t until early evening, when the sun had set outside, that another knock sounded at the door.
“Shall I go, Mrs. Taylor?” Elizabeth asked, beginning to rise.
She ought to send Elizabeth. But what would the neighbors think of her sudden visitor answering the door for her? Answering herself meant leaving Annie with Elizabeth. But the neatly dressed woman had been sensible all day. An instant to answer the door wouldn’t hurt. Her silly, fluttering heart whispered that it could be Mr. Lowe.
“I’ll go.” Lydia stood. She swayed as she stood and had to clutch the back of her chair before she felt almost strong enough to manage the stairs.
At the door, hat in hand and with a look of worried anticipation, was Mr. Lowe. Her heart cartwheeled.
“How is she today?” he asked without preamble. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to visit earlier. I’ve come as soon as I could.”
His brow was furrowed, and he’d come despite the dark and the cold, like a father or a family member. Neither of which she had. She’d been alone, and now she wasn’t. First Matilda had sent a nurse and now this lovely man was visiting her. Pressure built up behind her eyes. Oh no.
“It’s very nice of you to come and enquire at all,” she choked out. The strain was about to spill in many inappropriate ways. She must get away from the street. Abruptly, she turned. The door to the kitchen blurred, but she grasped blindly and managed to get through it before sobs overtook her. There was only the agony of Annie being ill and hot tears dropping from her eyes.
Then she was being cradled, then held against a firm chest, hands stroking her back.
“It will be fine.” His voice rumbled through her like a purr.
She turned into him and allowed herself to cry. It was her fault. Her daughter, her perfect, illegitimate daughter might die.
When she’d first discovered she was with child, she’d wanted it gone. She’d felt her curved abdomen and wished it flat. She’d thought the child would always be disgrace and agony. She hadn’t been ready for the tidal wave of love when she’d first held Annie. This red, thrashing, yelling bundle of limbs who stole her whole heart.
In the salt storm of her fear, he was the rock she clung to. Mr. Lowe’s hand was rubbing her shoulder, saying words she could only feel through his chest. His cotton shirt was impossibly comforting against her cheek. And warm, oh so warm. He was firm and beautiful, she recognized as her sobs decreased to hiccups.
Gradually she came back to herself. Mr. Lowe was a teacher. An educated man, a virtuous man, and she’d just thrown herself on him.
“I... I’m sorry.” His shirt was wet with her tears. She moved to ease herself away from him and for the merest second he didn’t relinquish her, his strong arms keeping her braced with him. But then the air rushed between them and with it, awkwardness.
“You didn’t bring this upon her,” he whispered. “This is not your doing, it’s the sadness of the world.”
The blood seemed to drain from her. “Did I...” She must have said something in her outburst.
His fingers touched her chin, then tilted her face up to his. Brown eyes full of compassion regarded her. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
His look spoke of unshakeable confidence in her virtue. For an ephemeral moment she felt his equal in value. But then the sensation vanished. Once a lady fell, she was always fallen. But she couldn’t break his hold on her; his gaze kept her steady. Close to, his eyes were not as uniformly brown as she’d thought. They had little flecks of green around the inside edge.
“She’s going to live,” he said softly. “And you need to be well enough yourself to care for her. I...”
She looked up when he didn’t finish. He was holding out a book. She hadn’t noticed it in his hand earlier.
“I thought you could read to Annie. Or read yourself while she’s asleep, to keep your mind off things.”
“You’ve already done too much,” she demurred. A book. It was excessive and yet like the greedy woman she was, she wanted it. Years ago, before her rent had increased so much, she’d been able to afford occasional books and a subscription to the lending library. It had been one of the first things she’d culled from her budget. They were a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not like her previous life, when she’d taken such delights for granted.
“It’s only a yellow-back.” His mouth tugged up at the sides.
The cover featured a woman and a soldier. The title was Under the Red Dragon. A war novel then. She’d supposedly lost Captain Taylor in the Duar war, and perhaps Mr. Lowe thought this was what she liked. A woman fainting over a man who thought a lot of himself. Hardly.
“It’s a generous thought.” A lump formed in her chest. “Thank you.”
She accepted the book with the most grateful smile she could manage and put it on the table. It was difficult to know how she felt about her fictional husband. Hating the real man who ought to have married her was easy, but ‘Captain Taylor’ was blameless. As was Mr. Lowe. He was perfect. Unlike her.
It was a clear night when Alfred stepped out of Mrs. Taylor’s house into the street. It would be a late season frost by dawn, knocking back the spring buds. He breathed in deeply, taking the cold air into him. His lack of coat made him want to dash and get inside the warm vicarage where he lodged. But he lingered over every freezing step, keeping his hands out of his pockets to feel the bite as much as possible.
It was wrong to take so much pride that she’d leaned on him in her moment of weakness. A paradoxical mix of sympathy for her evident pain and gratification that he could offer solace had sung through him as he held her.
She’d choked that it was all her fault. Some of the great philosophers and philanthropists of the age believed vice brought about punishment from God. But try as he might, he couldn’t see evidence for that idea that didn’t have an equal and opposite example. For every man who swore, drank and fornicated who was struck down by a terrible disease, there were ten worse who enjoyed long life and robust health. He had no qualm, when hearing yet another mother castigate herself over an ill child, in putting her right. Terrible things happened as trials not just to the person themselves, but also as trials of compassion and care to those around.
It tore at him to see her so distressed. Even more, it hurt him to leave her alone, so vulnerable. She’d told him about the appearance of Nurse Moylan, but that didn’t calm him. He wanted to stay till morning, holding her whenever she needed, bolstering her, and being close to her for every hour of the dark night.
He’d allowed himself to stroke her hair while she wept, telling himself it was to comfort her. Honestly, it answered a question he’d been wondering about for a long time - how did her springy, pale hair feel? Heavenly, was the inappropriate, but truthful answer. Her hair was silken and sensuous, inviting his fingers to curl into it.
But there was a mor
e serious problem than his indulgence in the physical delight of her hair. Until now, he’d told himself marriage was a pragmatic matter for some unspecified time in the future. A sensible union with a woman who had a modest dowry could help him realize his dream of opening his own school.
As he’d held Mrs. Taylor as she cried, scared for her daughter, tenderness had overwhelmed him. His heart had felt three times too big for his chest, honored this strong lady condescended to rely on him. He’d recognized Mrs. Taylor’s beauty upon their first meeting. Whilst teaching he’d seen her diligence as a mother. But if he allowed himself to feel for her as a person, that was more problematic. Because then he must ask himself the question that he had been avoiding since Spring of ‘73. Why not court Mrs. Taylor, and if she would accept his suit, marry her?
The answer was simple. Because his meagre salary was barely enough to support a wife, never mind his ambitions, and as a widow she had no dowry to ease household expenses. She didn’t have enough to call a doctor when her child was unwell.
Poverty did not make for a happy marriage. He couldn’t afford to marry her. But he wasn’t sure he could stay away.
Chapter 5
“What do you think you’re doing?” Lydia kept her voice calm as she addressed Elizabeth from the doorway. The nurse had Annie’s leg in her hands and was slowly moving it up and down, bending it at the knee. “Get off my daughter.”
Elizabeth gently released Annie’s leg, allowing it to rest onto the bed, then backed away.
She’d left Elizabeth alone with Annie for an hour while making dinner and she returned to this. She pushed Elizabeth aside to get to Annie. “Are you all right, my darling? I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes were closed and her breathing labored, but Annie nodded sleepily.
“Mrs. Taylor—”
“No,” she snapped. “Polio should be treated with lack of movement. That’s what Doctor Woodward said.” She stroked Annie’s forehead and into her hair, soothing her back to sleep. Relief poured into her. Leaving Annie was a mistake. It was always a mistake. It had been two days since Elizabeth had arrived and Lydia had come to depend on her. Elizabeth’s presence allowed her to dress and wash. Elizabeth had made broth, which seemed helpful for Annie. Lydia could barely stomach anything. She hadn’t been out to see the chickens, collect eggs, or take them to Mrs. Dhesi at the shop for days. The lack of money nagged at her, but she couldn’t ask Elizabeth to do it and evidently she couldn’t leave Annie with the nurse.