Half a Sixpence

by Evie Grace

‘I was wondering if there was any news. The doctor?’

  ‘Oh that?’ Cook scooped up some stew and sucked it noisily out of her ladle. ‘I should ’ave thought you would ’ave bin the first to know, Miss Treen, the way the family favours you.’ She smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly smile, Agnes thought. ‘If the rumours are true, your position here will be secure for many years to come. I don’t know what it will mean for our young lady here.’

  ‘It won’t change anything. She will be loved just the same for her disposition that never fails to bring sunshine to a dull day and a smile to everyone’s faces,’ Nanny said. ‘So it is true, Mrs Nidget? The doctor has confirmed it?’

  ‘Mr Turner overheard the master congratulating the mistress on her news.’ Turner was the butler who did everything from managing the indoor servants to ironing Papa’s newspapers in the morning. He was also in charge of the safe.

  Mrs Catchpole, the housekeeper, was supposed to be responsible for running the household, subject to the mistress’s instructions, but it was Mr Turner and Mrs Nidget who ruled the roost at Windmarsh Court.

  ‘I don’t know how it is possible after all this time, and at her age,’ Cook said. ‘She is forty years old.’

  ‘God has answered her prayers at last.’

  ‘I don’t think He had much to do with it.’ Mrs Nidget uttered a coarse laugh.

  Nanny frowned with displeasure, as Cook went on, ‘I’m planning some new dishes to help the mistress keep her strength up. I’ve ordered oranges and lemons for a posset served with a dainty sugared-almond shortbread. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think that you will bankrupt the Berry-Clays,’ Nanny said.

  ‘They are made of money. It pours into the master’s hands on tap like the beer that flows from the brewery. We aren’t doing anything wrong. The mistress doesn’t like to be worried by trivial matters. She trusts us to do right by the family. She’s never complained, not once.’ Cook gave Nanny a long, hard stare. ‘You’ll keep your nose out of my business if you know what’s good for you.’

  Agnes shrank back, shocked at the way Mrs Nidget had spoken to her governess.

  ‘I thought Cook was rather impolite,’ Agnes ventured as she and Nanny made their way upstairs to the schoolroom on the third floor.

  ‘She is no lady. She is without manners, breeding and education,’ Nanny agreed. ‘You, however, should have more delicacy than to criticise your elders. Children should be seen and not heard.’

  Agnes sighed inwardly at the expectation that she should behave like one of her dolls, sitting in perfect silence on the shelf in the schoolroom.

  After a tea of hot chocolate and scones, she practised reciting the poem she had learned that morning and read quietly for a while before a meal of chicken and potato stew that didn’t taste of anything at all.

  The mantel clock chimed five, then six o’clock.

  ‘Look at the time,’ Nanny exclaimed. ‘Wash your hands and face, and brush your hair. Quickly. We mustn’t keep your mama and papa waiting.’

  Agnes didn’t take a second bidding.

  She loved all the rooms on the middle floor of the house, their extravagant decoration being in marked contrast to the starkness of the nursery and schoolroom. In the drawing room, a fire danced in the marble hearth, bringing the cherubs carved into the mantel above to life. Gold and turquoise brocade drapes hung across the tall windows and rich tapestries decorated the walls. There were chairs with sumptuous upholstery, a chaise longue for Mama, a gleaming piano, and all kinds of trinkets and curios that Papa’s grandfather had brought back from the voyages he made around the world upon his retirement from the brewery.

  The precious Italian glass vase had been moved to the safety of a side table when the drapes had been closed for the evening, and the candle that flickered in the sconce above scattered fragments of the rainbow onto the cloth on which it stood.

  Dodging the clutter and ignoring Nanny’s pleas for decorum, Agnes made straight for her father who was sitting in his leather armchair, dressed in a jacket and patterned cravat. He was tall with wide shoulders, flamboyant copper hair and a beard.

  She threw her arms around his neck, catching his scent of malt and cigar smoke.

  ‘Agnes, you are getting far too old for that,’ her mother sighed. She reminded Agnes of the Snow Queen in a fairytale Nanny had once read to her. Her long, fair hair was caught back from her thin face by two silver combs and she was wearing a pale grey bodice and skirt, lace undersleeves, and an ivory shawl with a sparkling silver thread run through it. She was very beautiful, but her frozen features rarely softened to a smile, and her touch was like ice.

  ‘Mama, are you sick?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Berry-Clay. Please, miss, come here,’ she heard Nanny say in vain.

  ‘Don’t worry, my dearest child. Your mother is quite well,’ Papa said. ‘Nanny, let her be a child for a little while longer. She’ll have to grow up all too soon.’

  Reassured as to Mama’s state of health, Agnes pulled away from her father and took a position in the middle of the room.

  ‘I’m going to recite a poem for you,’ she said, and without hesitation, she straightened her spine, took a deep breath and plunged in.

  ‘Never was the word “daffodil” enunciated in such a clear and enthusiastic way,’ said Papa admiringly when she had finished. Agnes smiled at his glowing praise. She knew he was exaggerating, but that was what he always did, as though he was deliberately compensating for Mama’s more critical appraisal of her talents.

  ‘It was decidedly average,’ Mama said, stroking her hair. ‘What would Mr Wordsworth think upon hearing his delightful words put through the mangle like that? I’m sure I would have taught you to recite with far more expression.’

  But you didn’t, Agnes thought, feeling sore. Mama had this way of hurting her feelings.

  ‘How can you say that?’ Papa said. ‘How can two pairs of ears hear so differently? I heard the voice of an angel.’

  ‘Really, James. You do exaggerate.’ Mama pouted.

  Papa stood up and walked across to his wife. Standing beside the chaise, he rested a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘There, my dear Louisa, you have every reason to be distracted. Why don’t you tell Agnes our wonderful news?’

  ‘What is it?’ Agnes said. ‘Are we going to Italy?’

  ‘Where did you get that idea from, you peculiar creature?’ Mama said.

  ‘Perhaps I should leave,’ Nanny said.

  ‘You may stay,’ Mama said. ‘This announcement concerns you.’

  ‘There will soon be a new arrival in the house,’ Papa said, beaming.

  ‘A puppy?’ Agnes had always wanted a lap dog.

  Mama touched her stomach where the sides of her bodice met at a point at the front.

  ‘Not one, but two doctors have confirmed that I am with child.’ She had dark circles beneath her eyes and her complexion, which was always fashionably pale, looked whiter than ever, but a smile played on her lips. ‘I never thought I would live to see this day. I thank God for this miracle.’

  ‘In a few months’ time, Agnes, you will have a baby brother or sister,’ Papa explained, but it didn’t help.

  Mama said she was with child, but Agnes couldn’t see a child anywhere.

  ‘Pay attention to your father,’ Mama said.

  ‘I said, you’ll have a brother or sister,’ Papa repeated.

  ‘Oh, I’d like a sister, please.’ She clapped her hands together with delight.

  ‘No, it is a boy. I am certain of it,’ Mama said.

  ‘It would be better all-round if that was the case,’ Papa said.

  ‘Indeed.’ Mama’s voice was suddenly brittle with resentment. ‘My husband has put me in a situation where, if he should die without a son, the brewery will pass to his brother and then his brother’s eldest son, and I shall be dependent on their generosity and a small annual income given to me by my parents upon my marriage. It is a sorry state
of affairs that has caused me much anxiety in the past.’

  ‘I have no intention of dying for a very long time, but if anything should happen, our son will inherit the brewery. Don’t fret. I am but fifty-two years old. My father was hale and hearty until he was eighty-three.’ Papa slapped his thigh with delight. ‘My brother will be one of the first to congratulate us, I’m certain.’

  ‘May I offer you my felicitations,’ Nanny said calmly.

  ‘Felicitations accepted,’ Papa guffawed. ‘Of course, we will continue to require your services until the boy is eight, when he will go to school.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Agnes could hear the relief in her governess’s voice.

  ‘Can I go to school?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Agnes,’ Mama said.

  ‘Why not, Mama?’

  ‘What sensible young lady would wish to go to school in preference to remaining here at Windmarsh Court with her mama and papa, and Nanny’s excellent teaching?’ Papa said, but no one gave her time to reply.

  ‘Nanny, remove Agnes to the nursery,’ Mama said. ‘Mr Berry-Clay and I have much to discuss.’

  ‘Kisses first.’ Papa pointed to his whiskery cheek. Agnes stepped up and kissed him as she always did. She walked across to kiss Mama, who turned away as she always did, and then she followed Nanny back to the nursery.

  ‘Where is the baby now?’ Agnes asked when she was getting ready for bed. ‘Who will bring it to the house?’ She thought she recalled one of her cousins telling her how there was a stork that delivered babies.

  ‘It is too delicate a subject for a young lady’s ears.’

  ‘I imagine it is painful.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I mean the way that the baby is dropped down the chimney. I’m glad that we don’t remember that part.’ Agnes changed the subject. ‘Will Mama and Papa still love me?’

  ‘Of course they will. What a strange thing to say. They have always loved you as their daughter, and always will. That will never change.’

  ‘But I’m not their daughter.’ Papa had never kept it a secret from her. He had taken pity on a poor orphan infant dressed in rags whose mama couldn’t look after her, and brought her back to Windmarsh Court where he had given her the name of Agnes Berry-Clay.

  ‘When they adopted you as a baby, they took you on as their own. No one could have been more delighted with you than your papa.’

  ‘And Mama?’

  ‘She was happy, too.’

  ‘How could she be when she really wanted a boy?’

  ‘She would have loved a boy or a girl equally,’ said Nanny but Agnes wasn’t sure she was convinced. ‘Goodnight, Agnes. Sweet dreams.’

  As soon as her head touched the fragrant lavender-scented pillow, Agnes fell asleep, reassured that she would soon have a companion in the nursery, someone she could call her brother, and her life would carry on as before, but with more joy in it.

  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 unauthorized 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.

  Epub ISBN: 9781473538306

  Version 1.0

  Published by Arrow Books 2017

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  Copyright © Cathy Woodman 2017

  Extract from Half a Heart © Cathy Woodman 2018

  Cover image by Larry Rostant

  Cathy Woodman has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is not affiliated with, authorised or endorsed by Dilly Court.

  First published in Great Britain by Arrow Books in 2017

  Arrow Books

  The Penguin Random House Group Limited

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781784756222