She had thought beforehand that she might run into his arms and he would kiss her. But knowing what she did about his companion, it somehow did not seem appropriate, even if she wished it. If he loved another he would reject her, put her to one side, and that would be too much for her to bear.
He seemed as disinclined as she to embrace and she wondered if he too had regrets about their one brief night of love. He would know that she had been married to another until recent weeks. She had not waited for his return. Neither could assume that things between them were the same. They stared at each other wordlessly.
He broke the silence. ‘I - I - I don’t know what to say to you. My letters were returned.’
‘Letters?’
‘Two. I didn’t get them back until I reached England. They said you had gone away.’
She had. She had married. She chewed at her lip and looked beyond him to the open door of the cowshed. ‘Is - is your - your companion with you?’
‘My . . . ? Oh, you mean Faith? You know about her?’
‘Yes.’ She wished she didn’t, for then she could run into his arms and kiss him without shame, and - and, yes, risk his rejection. It would be worth it to feel his lips on hers, his two-day growth of beard rasping at her skin and his arms around her for a few moments, a few precious moments.
‘She has stayed at the inn in town. The post was delayed and it was past midnight when we arrived. I travelled on by livery horse but the cottage was quiet and in darkness and I did not want to disturb you.’
‘I believe I heard you. I was woken in the night.’
‘I am sorry.’ His voice was quiet. He seemed unusually nervous and she wondered how much he had been told of her life since he was taken from her. She remembered how he could suppress his emotions and thought that skill must have served him well as a soldier. Would he go back to soldiering? Would he leave with Faith and his son and not with her? He said, ‘I am so very anxious to see my child.’
Yes, of course you are, she thought. That is why you have journeyed through the night and slept in my cowshed. Do you know of my hardships and think me unfit to mother your firstborn? She glanced over her shoulder again and lied, ‘He is sleeping.’ She needed water, but now she dared not leave little Patrick alone while she fetched it. She picked up the empty pails and turned back to the cottage, leaving them outside.
Her heart was thumping in her ears and she felt shaky. She closed the door and leaned against it, then turned quickly to drop the bar in place. What if Patrick wanted to take her child from her today? She could not bear it! She watched her son stacking wooden animal shapes into a child’s cart. The toys had been sent over from the Hall and were old and worn, but little Patrick adored them. She stood with her back to the door for a long time wondering what to do next. A rap on the wood startled her.
‘Quinta!’ he called. ‘I’ve brought you water from the stream. Please let me in.’
‘No,’ she breathed and her whole body tensed. She turned the key in the lock to be sure. The light dimmed. He had moved to the window, where there was a direct view of little Patrick, playing quietly on the rug and unaware of her anxiety. She ran across the room, snatched her child up into her arms and cowered at the bottom of the stairs.
Little Patrick grumbled and wriggled. One small hand clutched at a wooden cow and the other stretched towards his toys scattered on the rug as he began to protest more loudly. His father was blocking out the light. He was leaning on the window with raised arms, his face against the glass, peering into the gloomy interior.
‘Quinta, let me see my son,’ he pleaded.
She clambered awkwardly up the stairs, into the bedchamber and through to the store room where she had slept as a child. It was dark in there, and cold. She stood panting and clutching her crying child. ‘Hush, my little Patrick. I shan’t let him take you from me. Not ever.’ But he struggled in her arms and she was forced to go back to the chamber, lay him on the bed and give him her hairbrush and comb to play with.
His father was shouting at her.‘Will you speak to me, Quinta? Please. I have no wish to distress you so.’
She sat rigidly and silently, listening to his pleas until eventually he called, ‘Very well. I shall leave you in peace for now and return in a couple of days.’ She thought he sounded angry when he added, ‘He is my son, too.’
She heard the cowshed door and his horse whinny, and moved to the window to see him lead out his saddled mount and ride away. She knew that one thing was certain; she loved him as much now as she had ever done. But he did not seem to feel the same about her and her heart felt heavy. He was not here for her; he was here to claim his son.
She could not run any more. Little Patrick was too heavy to carry far and he was not yet walking. She would have to face his father sometime. But her child needed his mother. She must make his father understand that. Her boy was never from her side over the next few days. She fetched water one bucket at a time, sitting him on the bank and then hoisting him on to her hip to balance her burden.
Patrick returned as he had threatened, this time in a trap and - oh no, with his companion. Through the window, Quinta took in her young age - similar to her own - and exotic appearance, and a bonnet that would have made Beatrice Wilkins envious. It was after dinner and little Patrick was tired and grizzling on the couch. But she knew she had to face this interview and had stiffened her resolve. She was ready to fight for her child.
She unlocked and unbarred the door, glancing warily at Patrick’s companion, who wore kid gloves and was carrying a small round travelling box, which she handed to Patrick.
‘Quinta, this is Faith,’ he said. ‘You know about her.’
Faith bobbed a curtsey and smiled. Her teeth looked remarkably white against her dusky skin. Bows of red ribbon adorned her bonnet and her cloak fell open to reveal a similar colour trimming the bodice of her dark gown. Quinta bowed her head graciously.
‘This is for you.’ Patrick handed her the box. ‘Faith made it for you.’
Surprised, Quinta took the box. ‘Please come inside. But quietly, for little Patrick is tired and needs to sleep.’
Patrick saw his son and stopped in his tracks. A look of sheer delight flooded his handsome face. He stared at the child hungrily.
‘Shall we sit at the table? I have tea if you would like refreshment. ’ She put the kettle to boil over the fire and collected china cups and saucers from the dresser.
‘Will you open your present, madam?’ Faith asked. She seemed eager for Quinta to do this.
‘Very well.’
It was a bonnet, a Sunday-best bonnet with a pleated brim, dressed with ribbons the colour of lilac blossom. It was beautiful and Quinta said so. ‘Did you trim this yourself?’
Faith nodded. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Very much.’
‘Patrick described your colouring to me and I think it will suit you well.’
‘Yes it will. Thank you.’
Faith stood up and Patrick did the same as Faith said, ‘I should like to take a walk on your hillside, madam. I have not seen such country before.’
‘Of course.’
Faith curtseyed again and left. Patrick sat down.
‘Aren’t you going with her?’ Quinta asked.
‘I have more important things to deal with here.’ Little Patrick’s grizzling turned to a persistent whimper. ‘He is still awake.’ He got up from the table and crossed the room with his arms outstretched to pick up his son.
Quinta moved quickly to reach him first. She sat on the couch and slid the boy on to her knee, gripping him tightly. His crying became louder. ‘He - he doesn’t know who you are and he is thirsty, I expect,’ she explained.
‘I see.’
She got up with difficulty, still holding her child. ‘Sit here, on the couch. He will be happy on the rug near me while I make his drink.’ She gave him his toys to quieten him.
She felt Patrick’s eyes on her all the time as she prepared tea for them both
and cooled boiled water for her boy. She wanted to ask now, this minute, what he was going to do. Yet she dare not in case she did not welcome his answer.
Patrick said at last, ‘I should like to visit regularly and get to know my son.’
Well, that was clear, Quinta thought, and said,‘Will you bring Faith as well?’
‘She will be well occupied looking at bonnets and ribbons in the High Street.’ He paused. ‘I am so very sorry about your mother, Quinta.’
Tears sprang into her eyes and she blinked them back. ‘We have both lost a parent who was very dear to us. I - I have had little Patrick to love and keep me going. Have you found Faith to be a solace to you?’
‘Faith? I had not thought of her in that respect. She was willed to me by an old soldier.’
Quinta was shocked. It sounded as bad as being sold. It must have shown on her face for he went on quickly, ‘Oh, it is nothing immoral, I assure you. Her father was my sergeant and he rather assumed I would be her guardian when he died. She has a small income from him, you see, and needed a trustee—’
‘She was your ward?’
‘Yes, and will be until she is one and twenty.’ Now Patrick looked shocked. ‘Who did you think she was?’
‘Your wife, of course! Who else?’
‘Dear Lord, no! My colonel encouraged us to marry, he put pressure on both of us, but Faith and I agreed that neither of us wanted it. Faith looked after his children and his wife spoke well of her in that respect. But she is also very skilled as a milliner. She is looking for premises in the town.’ After a short silence, he added, ‘She is my ward, Quinta, and nothing more. She will be of age in a couple of years with her own shop in the High Street if she has her way.’
‘I see.’ Quinta tried hard to keep her voice steady. She concentrated on dodging little Patrick’s weaving hands as she fed him water from a cup.
His father watched with interest. ‘I think he wants to do that for himself. Try him. Give him the cup.’
Startled, she took the drink away from his mouth and his little arms reached out. She let him take the cup and hurriedly placed a cloth beneath his chin. He tipped most of it over his himself but appeared to enjoy it and gurgled happily.
‘May I visit?’ he asked.
‘It is your farm, Patrick.’
‘It is your home, and one you were once very determined to keep, as I recall.’
‘That was a long time ago.’ She said it wistfully. It seemed like years to her. Everything was so different now.
Patrick stood up and said briskly, ‘Well, I have victuals and sweetmeats for you in a trap that I should return to the livery stable before dark, so I must make haste.’
He went outside. He knew her life had been difficult since the shooting. He knew and understood about her marriage to Noah and his subsequent ill treatment of her. But he did not know the full details of her life without him and could only guess at the hardships she had suffered. All he saw now was a young woman who was devoted to her son - to the point of over-protecting the boy - and he wasn’t at all sure that she still loved him.
He returned with packets and parcels that he placed on the kitchen table. ‘I want to show you something,’ he said. ‘It’s in the cowshed. Bring little Patrick with you.’
Quinta still held him, wriggling and grizzling, on her lap. ‘He is tired. He needs to sleep.’
Patrick stepped forward and picked him up before Quinta could stop him. ‘I shall carry him for you. Come.’
Quinta stood up quickly with her arms outstretched. ‘Give him to me, Patrick.’
‘No. It is my turn and he is quite safe in my arms.’
‘I don’t know that.’
‘I am his father.’
He was not going to give up his child now. Her heart seemed to shrivel and she felt shaky. She followed him outside, fearful of losing her son.
He left the cowshed door wide open to let in the light. ‘We slept in here when I first came back,’ Quinta commented, ‘until Mr Wilkins brought me the cottage key. He arranged everything for me.’
‘He had good reason to.’
‘You know about his sister?’
‘Sir William wrote to me.’ He sat little Patrick on the barley straw near one of the wooden stalls and he led Quinta into the other. ‘It’s still here,’ he said, and began to lever away the planks of wooden panelling at the rear of the stall to reveal a cavity in the stone wall. ‘My father removed the stones that day we were at the market.’ He took out his rifle, wrapped in greasy sacking.‘This is where I hid it.’ He leaned the gun against the stall. ‘There’s more.’
Quinta watched in amazement as he took out a small leather satchel, unfastened the stiff buckles and removed two drawstring pouches. One contained precious gems and the other, gold coins.
Patrick explained:‘It was all my father had left but he decided that your cowshed was safer than a bank.’
‘These have been here all this time?’
He nodded and took her elbow to steer her out of the stall. ‘I’ll rebuild the wall.’
Little Patrick had crawled across the straw to the end post of the wooden stall and was using it to hoist himself to his feet. Quinta started forward, anxious for his safety. Patrick stilled her movements with his hand on her arm. He held her tightly, so tightly that she frowned at him, puzzled by his determination.
‘Let go of me! He will fall.’
‘He will not break.’
‘He will!’ His grip on her arm did not slacken. She glared at him now. ‘You wish him harm?’
‘Of course I don’t! He is my son and I love him.’
Quinta inhaled to protest that no one could love her son as she did. He was of her flesh, she had borne and suckled him and he was a part of her. But before she could speak, Patrick added quietly. ‘I love him as much as you do.’
She closed her mouth and remembered how much her father had loved her. And how Sergeant Ross had loved Patrick, rescuing him from a poverty much worse than her own, teaching and guiding him to wisdom and to adulthood, making him the man he was today, the first man she had loved and the only man she had loved. Had? No, she still loved him, as passionately as she ever did and perhaps even more. If he loved their son half as much as that, it was enough.
‘Let him go, Quinta,’ he went on. ‘He needs to learn about his little world in his own way. He will come to no harm. We can watch him from here. Look, he is lifting his hands off the post.’
Quinta pulled against his restraint. ‘But he is only a—’ She stopped. A baby? She saw him wobble on his sturdy legs. His arms waved about and he sat down with a bump on the straw and wailed. And even then Patrick would not let her go to him.
‘You must not stifle him,’ he said. ‘You have to let him grow.’
Quinta inhaled to protest. Little Patrick turned over and crawled back to the post to begin his challenge again. She breathed out slowly as he repeated his attempt and collapsed again with even more noise than before.
This time Patrick released her. ‘I love you, too,’ he said.
She turned to face him and saw a light spring into his eyes, a glow that darkened into a smoulder as they continued to stare at each other.
‘Do you?’
‘But what about you, Quinta? Do you still love me?’
She was indignant. How could he think otherwise? ‘Do you have to ask me?’
‘I do. You have shown no affection towards me. It is only our child that you desire to hold. I see how much you love him and I wonder if you have any left for me.’
‘But I thought you didn’t want me, you only wished to see your son.’
‘You seem so fragile and so dependent on having our son near to you at all times. I am afraid of causing you further distress.’
Her mind was in turmoil. He did love her and she had not been able to see it because she was too busy protecting her child. From what? From his own father? Who loved him as much as she did? She must not allow the love she felt for their child to
come between them. Patrick was her one true love and he loved her in return. They had a child that they adored. What was wrong with her? Had she forgotten how to show her emotions?
She wanted to hold and kiss and love Patrick as he stood beside her in the stall. But her child was crying for her; he was tired, he needed her and her heart was yearning to cuddle him. Her eyes swivelled back to Patrick. Would she be torn in two by this man and this child?
‘Go to him and comfort him,’ he said.
She ran to her child, but did not pick him up to hug him. Rather, she lifted him with his arms and supported him on his strong little legs so that he could dance and kick. ‘He wants to walk already,’ she said. He began to grizzle again and she picked him up and settled in the straw, humming softly to him until he quietened. He rooted for her breast. He was not hungry, he had eaten dinner as she had, mashed up and warm, but she undid her bodice and comforted him until he fell asleep and she could place him gently on the straw.
Patrick did not take his eyes off her as he walked over, his hand outstretched to take hers. He lifted her to her feet, she tilted her head back and he bent to kiss her, unlocking a passion that for both of them had been suppressed for far too long. He sat down on the straw, pulling her on top of him and then rolling her on to her back. He took off his jacket and gazed at her longingly as he prepared to love her.
‘I wish my mother were here to see us wed, and our child baptised.’
‘My father, too. It was all he wanted for me.’
It was a cold January day, but Quinta left her warm cloak in the pew where Faith sat with little Patrick. Faith had trimmed her best bonnet and gown with the lace and ribbon that Sergeant Ross had given her. She had carried it with her to Bilton Farm, Crosswell and the High Peak, in her bundle on the canal barge and back to Top Field. In all her travels and poverty she had never thought to sell it, for when she remembered the reason it was purchased, it had given her hope. Faith had also fashioned a delicate silk veil for her bonnet and Quinta felt, truly, like a bride. She glanced at Patrick beside her, clean shaven all the time now, tall and straight and smiling.
A Mother's Sacrifice Page 35
