Penningtons
Page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Pamela Oldfield from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Recent Titles by Pamela Oldfield from Severn House
The Heron Saga
BETROTHED
THE GILDED LAND
LOWERING SKIES
THE BRIGHT DAWNING
ALL OUR TOMORROWS
EARLY ONE MORNING
RIDING THE STORM
CHANGING FORTUNES
NEW BEGINNINGS
MATTERS OF TRUST
DANGEROUS SECRETS
INTRICATE LIAISONS
TURNING LEAVES
HENRY’S WOMEN
SUMMER LIGHTNING
JACK’S SHADOW
FULL CIRCLE
LOVING AND LOSING
FATEFUL VOYAGE
THE LONGEST ROAD
THE FAIRFAX LEGACY
TRUTH WILL OUT
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
THE BOAT HOUSE
THE PENNINGTONS
Pamela Oldfield
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2010
in Great Britain and in 2011 in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2010 by Pamela Oldfield.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Oldfield, Pamela.
The Penningtons.
1. Housekeepers–England–Bath–Fiction. 2. Family
secrets–Fiction. 3. Bath (England)–Social conditions–
20th century–Fiction.
I. Title
823.9’14-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-255-9 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6988-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-320-5 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
ONE
Wednesday, 1st October, 1902
On Friday mornings Daisy looked forward to the reading of the weekly letter from the housekeeper’s mother whose name was Emily. This unfortunate woman, it seemed, was constantly beset by a variety of medical problems which provided fascinating information to the uninitiated – Daisy among them.
Emily Dutton suffered with her back and that was ‘something chronic’; she suffered with her lungs – ‘tight as a drum’ or ‘hack, hack, hack’; but, most dramatic of all, she suffered with her heart which gave her ‘dreadful palpitations’ and sometimes threatened to stop beating altogether. Presumably, Daisy thought, when the latter happened, Emily Dutton would be in no fit state to write a letter to anyone and poor Miss Dutton, the middle-aged housekeeper, would become an orphan.
But today was not Friday, it was Wednesday and Daisy had no idea that today’s post would set in motion a change to the course of her own life. On this particular morning the postman had brought a small mixed bag which Daisy rushed to gather up from the mat. By considering the postmarks in conjunction with the handwriting she could often discover the name of the senders. Today she found one for Montague Pennington, Esq. (otherwise known to his small staff as Monty), and one for the housekeeper which was addressed in an unfamiliar handwriting. Definitely not from the housekeeper’s mother, Daisy decided, narrowing her eyes inquisitively. The address was a scrawl, large and generously looped, with an odd splatter of ink in the lower left-hand corner of the envelope.
‘Interesting!’ Daisy pushed unruly ginger hair back under her lace cap and smiled with satisfaction. Their morning tea break would last for a few moments longer today and she might manage to sneak an extra biscuit from the tin while the letter, from whoever it was, was being read out.
The third and last item of post was a postcard from the local farmer reminding Mr Pennington that he could purchase kindling wood direct from a nearby farm at a reasonable price.
‘We know that!’ Daisy told the absent farmer, ‘but Miss Dutton doesn’t like your delivery boy since he trekked mud in on our clean floor and wouldn’t apologize. She won’t give you another order so you’d best save money on the postcards!’
She busied herself with the black lead, applying it to the stove with a practised hand then finishing it off with the brush.
Miss Dutton came into the kitchen, making no attempt to hide a yawn. ‘I swear my bed gets lumpier by the day!’ she grumbled. ‘Think yourself lucky you can go home each evening.’ She settled her ample body on a chair and poured herself a cup of tea.
Daisy said, ‘There’s a letter for you.’
Miss Dutton picked it up from the table and regarded it with suspicion. ‘Now who on earth might you be?’ she asked the absent sender, considering the letter unhappily.
Daisy said, ‘Might be good news. I’d open it.’
‘And it might not.’ She reached for a knife and slit the flap of the envelope.
Daisy bit back a sigh of frustration. Satisfied with the stove, she stood up as the housekeeper began to read the letter silently.
Miss Dutton’s expression changed and she gave a little scream and said, ‘Oh my good Gawd! It’s me ma! She’s in the hospital. Fell and broke her leg!’
‘She never did!’ cried Daisy, thrilled by the drama of the moment. ‘Then who’s written the letter?’
‘Miss Bligh, her next-door neighbour.’ She stared distractedly at Daisy. ‘That’s it then. That’s me finished here.’ She clapped a hand to her chest and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm her nerves. ‘I can’t stay on a moment longer. I’ll have to go and get her out of there. Take her home. She’ll be relying on me, poor dear.’
Taken aback, Daisy asked, ‘What’s the rush? She’ll be safe in the hospital for a few days.’
‘Safe?’ She stared at Daisy. ‘In hospital? People die in those places. I shall have to get her home – she’ll be terrified!’ Gazing round the kitchen with unseeing eyes, she was already dealing with a variety of problems far removed from Montague Pennington’s breakfast. She glanced again at the letter. ‘She’ll be bedridden for a week or two and Miss Bligh’s going to lend me a commode. Now I call that very decent of her. I never really liked the woman but that is very decent.’
‘Very decent.’ Daisy was experiencing a frisson of disquiet. ‘So when exactly will you be leaving?’
‘As soon as I’m packed. Ma will be in a terrible state. I mean, hospital! All those doctors and nurses rushing about and people groaning – not to mention bed pans! Everyone’s worst nightmare!’
‘But when will you come back here to Park View? I mean, what about poor o
ld Monty? Who’s going to look after him? He’s bedridden too!’
Miss Dutton rolled her eyes. ‘But he’s not family. He’ll have to find someone else to run around after him. My mother comes first and if you had a grain of sense in your head, Daisy, I wouldn’t need to be telling you so. Now let me think . . . What time’s the next bus into the town?’
‘It goes past here at quarter to the hour which would be quarter to nine but . . . you can’t just abandon the poor old man!’
‘Can’t I? Just watch me.’ She glanced at the wall clock. ‘Ten minutes. I’ll just about do it. I’m off upstairs to break the news, throw some clothes into the bag and run for the bus.’
Daisy’s disquiet was developing into a feeling of panic. Surely she wasn’t going to be left alone here with a creaky old man. ‘But you . . . aren’t you supposed to give notice?’
‘Too bad. He can pay me up to today and that’s that.’
‘But Monty must be turned seventy! The shock might be too much for him. You’re always saying he can’t manage without you. Now you’re going to “up sticks” and leave him helpless!’
‘My ma’s the one who’s helpless. She’s broke her leg, remember, and been carted off to hospital! Now I’ll tell the old chap that I’ll just take a few bits and bobs for now and I’ll be back for the rest of my clothes in maybe a week. See how things go at home. Run upstairs, Daisy, and fetch down the small carpet bag from the box room. No one’ll miss it and I’ll bring it back when I come for the rest of my stuff.’
‘So you are coming back to Park View, aren’t you?’ Desperate for reassurance, Daisy looked at her appealingly.
‘Coming back? Course I’m not! Leastways not to work. You don’t recover from a broken leg at the snap of a finger. It’ll be weeks – legs are funny things. If it doesn’t set properly she might be on crutches for the rest of her life! No, he’ll have to find someone else.’ She fumbled in a pocket, found a handkerchief and mopped her brow. ‘I’ll dash upstairs and tell him what’s happened and then you can take it from there. Just find another housekeeper for him.’ She snatched her apron from the back of the kitchen door and rolled it into a ball. ‘Well, don’t just stand there gawping, Daisy. Fetch the carpet bag. If I don’t get that bus it’ll be another hour!’
Daisy obeyed and when she came down she found the kitchen deserted but a minute later Miss Dutton came downstairs with a bundle of clothes under one arm and a pair of shoes clutched in her hand.
Daisy said, ‘I don’t know how to get another housekeeper. I mean, who do I ask?’
‘Put a card in the window of the village shop. Or better still, get in touch with Horrible Hettie . . . or his sister, Dilys, Do them good to do something useful for a change. She’s always got time for the Ladies Groups and Soup Kitchens but never time to visit her elderly brother.’ She stared round distractedly. Now where’s my purse? Ah! Got it.’
Stunned by the speed of the disaster, Daisy watched helplessly as Miss Dutton issued a few last instructions about the day’s meals and then dashed out of the house. Just in time. The bus screeched to a halt for her and the conductor helped her aboard.
Daisy watched her departure from the front step, feeling slightly sick with shock. ‘Get another housekeeper,’ she told herself. ‘Right then, that’s what I’ll do . . . Bread and milk for Monty’s breakfast . . . order the Sunday joint, pay the window cleaner when he’s done the windows – money’s in the tea caddy . . . fetch the coal . . .’
For a long moment she stood on the front step of the large elegant house, looking out over Alexandra Park and past that to Bath. How could Miss Dutton just walk away from her life here, she wondered. Housekeeper to Monty was an enviable position – at least Daisy considered it to be so. She closed the front door thoughtfully.
On the way back to the kitchen she remembered the mention of Monty’s sister and felt a glimmer of hope – Dilys Pennington, now Mrs John Maynard, a widow for three years. She would know what to do. Miss Dutton had never liked her because she had tried on one occasion to interfere with the running of Monty’s household, but Daisy was not proud. She would ask for help. And there was another family member – Monty’s brother Albert who was married to the woman Miss Dutton had nicknamed ‘Horrible Hettie’.
‘Thank the Lord for small mercies!’ she whispered. She would put everything in the capable hands of the Pennington family.
After Miss Dutton had gone Daisy sipped a cup of tea while she tried to gather her wits. There was so much to think about and she had no idea where to start. It seemed wise to notify the family as soon as possible but that meant using the telephone and Daisy had never been allowed to answer it let alone initiate a call.
‘The numbers to ring must be in the telephone book,’ she told herself. Not that she would recognize the Pennington women if they passed her in the street. They rarely came to call except at Christmas and on Monty’s birthday when they arrived with gifts and departed within the hour. It was not what you would call a close family.
Her train of thought was broken by the jingle of a bell from upstairs and she jumped to her feet in alarm. The first bell of the morning usually meant that he was awake and Miss Dutton would jump to her feet and make her way up to the main bedroom with his breakfast tray. Today, however, was different because the housekeeper had already spoken to him and had told him the situation. The breakfast must wait, she decided. She would ask him for details of the family and suggest that she telephone someone.
Before she could change her mind she hurried upstairs, knocked on the door and went in. Daisy saw a small elderly man sitting up in a large bed. He had wild white hair, frightened blue eyes and gnarled hands which clutched the bedclothes to his frail body defensively. He eyed Daisy with a look of alarm.
‘Good morning, Mr Pennington. I’m Daisy, the housemaid.’
They stared at each other for a moment, each trying to adjust to the new state of affairs. Montague Pennington saw a young woman, barely seventeen, her hair pinned into an untidy bun below a small white cap. She was plump but not fat, wholesome rather than pretty and she smiled nervously. As she approached the bed he saw that her eyes were pale brown, her teeth were good and her apron was clean. He recalled vague memories of the occasional glimpse of her on the rare occasions when Miss Dutton was too busy elsewhere to answer his bell.
He relaxed slightly. ‘Good morning, Daisy. We find ourselves in a bit of a pickle.’
‘Yes sir, we do.’ Her gaze took in his dressing gown thrown across the bedside chair and the small table which held a water jug (empty), tumbler, pills, crumpled handkerchief and a half hunter watch. A quick glance around the room presented closed windows with dingy curtains and dead coals in the fireplace. There was an upholstered armchair in one corner but it was piled with books, folded wrapping paper, board games and a pair of binoculars. Hardly a cosy room, she reflected. ‘I think we should alert your family, sir. One of them could arrange for a new housekeeper. Miss Dutton says she’ll never be able to come back.’
His face fell. ‘Never coming back? But when her mother recovers . . .?’
‘She seems to think it will take months and maybe the leg will never be healed.’
‘I never thought she’d leave me.’ He smiled sadly. ‘She was very good to me. She looked after me.’
But not very well, thought Daisy. The lace curtains needed a wash, there was no smell of polish and a few dead flies decorated the window sill.
After an awkward silence he said, ‘They won’t be at all pleased – the family, I mean. They lead busy lives, all of them. My sister Dilys is on her own now, since her husband died. She is on various committees of some kind, to do with the poor and needy . . . and Hettie plays bridge – she’s very good – and I understand she and Albert entertain a lot. And she has Albert to look after and the house to run and always has trouble with the servants. Poor Hettie.’
‘You certainly don’t see much of them.’
‘No.’ He brightened. ‘But they never f
orget my birthday.’ He pointed to the dressing gown. ‘That was a present from Albert and Hettie. It’s from Harrods. When I commented on it Hettie said, “Only the best for you, Montague!” I thought that was very sweet of her.’ His smile faded suddenly. ‘Oh dear! There’s the matter of the weekly housekeeping money. Miss Dutton always collected it from the solicitor for me. I gave her a letter to show to the cashier – an authorization. They will have to be notified.’
Daisy shrugged. ‘One of the family could do all that.’ He made no answer. ‘Should I telephone them, sir? You could tell me how to do it.’
He sighed heavily. ‘I’ll have to give it some thought but in the meantime could you bring up my breakfast tray. Miss Dutton makes me bread and milk and . . .’
‘I’ve watched her. I can do it. And a small pot of tea. Is that it?’
He nodded. ‘And I need some more water for my tablets. I find it difficult to swallow them dry.’
Daisy picked up the water jug and the glass and made her way downstairs. She had an uneasy feeling about her employer. Had Miss Dutton been neglecting him?
Hettie Pennington was in the garden just before eleven that morning, talking to the gardener about the apple tree. ‘I’m very disappointed, Mr Trew. The apples are so small this year.’
Mr Trew, short, and weather-beaten by years of outdoor work, shook his head. ‘I did warn you, ma’am, back in April. They need thinning out. I told you at the time but you said no. You was quite definite about it.’
‘Thinning out? You said no such thing, Mr Trew.’
‘Oh but I did, ma’am! Young Clarence was here at the time, making a bonfire, and he heard me. I said quite clear that it was going to be a bumper crop but we needed to . . .’
‘Bumper crop? What nonsense!’ Hettie tossed her head. She was tall and thin with cold grey eyes. ‘Are you doubting my word, Mr Trew?’
‘See, this is exactly what we got, ma’am,’ he continued stolidly. ‘A bumper crop of small apples. If we’d thinned them when I suggested it . . .’