by Dilly Court
‘Of course, I’ll take care of her,’ Mirabel said firmly. ‘She’s my friend.’
Any awkwardness Mirabel might have felt on entering her new home was quickly dispelled by the urgent need to find a bed where Gertie could sleep off the excesses of the wedding feast.
Mrs Flitton pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest, but when she realised that Gertie was not at all well she turned her disapproving face to her employer. ‘What possessed you to allow this child to drink alcohol, Mr Kettle?’
Hubert bowed his head like a schoolboy caught out in a naughty deed by a stern governess. ‘I didn’t realise that she had imbibed so much wine, Mrs Flitton.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Mirabel said hastily. ‘I’ll see to her.’
Mrs Flitton raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s staying here?’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Flitton.’ Hubert gave her an encouraging smile. ‘This won’t mean more work for you. I’ve taken the girl on as my wife’s maid, and she’ll relieve you of some of your more onerous duties.’
‘Are you saying that I’m getting too old to run this house, Mr Kettle?’
‘No, of course not. You know I didn’t mean anything of the sort.’
Mirabel could see that this argument was going to escalate and Gertie was no light weight. She hooked the semiconscious girl’s arm around her shoulders. ‘Gertie will need your help, Mrs Flitton,’ she said tactfully. ‘She hasn’t had the benefit of training, but she’s willing and eager to please. I’m sure she will respond to someone like yourself who is experienced in such matters.’
Mary Flitton puffed out her chest. ‘Indeed, ma’am. I have trained such girls in the past, although I’m a little out of practice. There’s a small room next to mine. I’ll make up the bed, but in the meantime I suggest you put her in the parlour. The sofa is quite comfortable and I can keep an eye on her until she’s recovered enough to climb the stairs.’
‘An excellent suggestion, Mrs Flitton. I know I can rely on you for a commonsense solution to every problem.’ Hubert’s relief was palpable as he slipped Gertie’s limp hand through the crook of his arm. ‘The sofa will do nicely, as Mrs Flitton so wisely says.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Mrs Flitton walked towards the staircase with her head held high.
Hubert winked at Mirabel. ‘Well done, my dear,’ he whispered. ‘Mary is a good sort, but get on her wrong side and you’re in trouble.’
‘I think I’ve passed the test,’ Mirabel said cautiously. She had won a small victory and she hoped that it boded well for the future.
When Gertie was settled comfortably in the parlour Hubert closed the door, facing Mirabel with a satisfied smile. ‘She’ll be in good hands. Mary will look after her.’
‘I’m sure she will.’ Mirabel looked round the sombre wainscoted entrance hall with the sudden realisation that this was her new home, and she was overwhelmed by a feeling of being trapped and unable to break free. She clenched her hands beneath the silken folds of her wedding gown, fighting for each breath like a drowning woman. The excitement of the wedding preparations was over and now she must face the reality of living with a man she barely knew. She was no longer a girl; she was a married woman with all that entailed.
Seemingly oblivious to her state of near panic, Hubert laid his hand on her arm. ‘I have something to show you, Mirabel.’
‘Really?’ To her surprise and relief her voice sounded quite normal. ‘What is it?’
‘Come with me.’ He led her towards the baize door at the rear of the entrance hall. ‘I’ll go first in case you fall. Perhaps I should have allowed you to change into something more suitable, but I can’t wait to show you my treasures.’ Holding her hand, he led the way to the basement kitchen.
‘I hope you don’t expect me to cook for you, Hubert,’ she said with an attempt at levity. ‘It’s not one of my accomplishments.’
‘Of course not, my dear.’ He sounded genuinely horrified and his pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
‘I was joking,’ she said hastily. ‘What is it you want me to see?’
He avoided her amused gaze, staring at a point somewhere above her head. ‘I’m not very good at seeing the humour in jokes. It was always a cross I had to bear at boarding school, and did little to endear me to my fellow students.’
She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Hubert. You must have had a difficult time.’
‘I was always a little out of step with the other chaps. Wearing spectacles puts a boy at a disadvantage, especially when sport is an important part of the curriculum, and I’m afraid I was what they called a swot. The fact that I was passionate about botany and collecting wild flowers set me apart from the others. It was not a happy period in my life.’ He took a deep breath, forcing his lips into a smile. ‘But you will see the result of my lifelong studies now. It’s a secret I’ve been keeping for this moment.’ He guided her through the kitchen and the scullery, stepping outside into the small back garden, most of which had been given over to a large conservatory. He opened the door and ushered her inside. The heat and humidity almost took her breath away as did the heady scent emanating from the delicate blooms. The rows of staging were packed with clay pots overflowing with orchids of every shape, size and colour.
‘This is where I spend the majority of my time,’ Hubert said proudly. ‘Each plant has its own special requirements, and I treat them all as individuals. You might say that they are my children, and I love each and every one of them.’
Mirabel hesitated, gazing at him with new insight. ‘You haven’t been married before, have you, Hubert? We’ve never discussed such matters and I didn’t think to ask.’
‘No, my dear. I’ve rarely met a woman who mattered to me as much as you do. I suppose it might have been nice to have had children, but as I said, my orchids fulfilled my need to nurture and care for living things.’
She moved along the rows, inhaling the fragrance of each individual bloom as she examined them closely. ‘They are incredibly beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Really?’ His voice shook with emotion. ‘Do you mean it, or are you just saying that to please me?’
She looked up in surprise. ‘I wouldn’t lie about something that you care for so deeply, and I can see now why you are so enthusiastic about these lovely flowers.’
‘Flowers,’ he repeated, frowning. ‘Roses are flowers, daisies and daffodils are flowers; these delicate blooms are far and away superior. You should see them growing in the wild, Mirabel. They inhabit the most inhospitable places and their beauty shines out, taking one’s breath away. If it’s the last thing I do I want you to see the miracle for yourself.’
‘I would love to see them in their natural state,’ Mirabel said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve always dreamed of travelling abroad.’
‘Men have died in their search for rare specimens, and some have committed murder to further their ends, while others have plundered an area and then destroyed what was left so that their rivals would gain nothing. It seems that the world has gone mad with orchid fever.’
Mirabel gazed at him in surprise. The passion in his voice was matched by the fire in his pale eyes, and his face was flushed, with beads of sweat standing out on his brow. ‘Are you all right, Hubert? It is very hot in here. Perhaps we ought to go outside and get some air.’
He shivered as if feeling a sudden cold draught, and the wild look in his eyes faded. ‘Of course, my dear. You are unused to these temperatures. We will go indoors.’
‘I’m quite all right,’ she protested. ‘I would like to hear more about your collection.’
‘Later, perhaps.’ Like a man exhausted by an overwhelming burst of emotion, he moved slowly to the door and opened it. ‘Hurry, my dear. We mustn’t allow a sudden drop in temperature.’
She stepped outside, taking deep breaths of the icy air. It had stopped snowing and darkness was already overtaking the city. Pinpricks of starlight pierced
the indigo sky and frost particles sparkled on the surface of the fallen snow. Mirabel felt the cold strike up through her satin slippers and she wrapped her arms around her body in an attempt to keep warm as she hurried into the house. Hubert followed more slowly, having taken time to check the fire in the boiler house which heated the conservatory.
Mrs Flitton looked up when Mirabel entered the kitchen. ‘I thought he wouldn’t be able to keep his little darlings a secret much longer,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’ll get used to it, ma’am.’ She slapped a pastry lid onto the pie dish. ‘Those plants come first above everything else.’
‘I’d better check on Gertie.’ Mirabel headed for the staircase. ‘And I need to change out of my gown.’ She hesitated, conscious that she was blushing. ‘I – I don’t know which room is mine.’
Mrs Flitton wiped her floury hands on her apron with a barely suppressed sigh. ‘I’ll show you the way, ma’am.’
‘It’s all right, Mary.’ Hubert strolled into the kitchen. ‘I’ll show my wife to our room.’ He crossed the floor swiftly and led the way up the narrow staircase.
Their tacit agreement that she would have her own room seemed to have been forgotten. Mirabel picked up her skirts, following him as fast as her long train would allow. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said breathlessly when they reached the main staircase. ‘I thought I was to have my own room, Hubert.’
With one foot on the bottom step he turned his head slowly. ‘Did you really? Come along, my dear, you’ll need to change for dinner.’
Chapter Ten
MIRABEL HURRIED AFTER him. She was angry now, and anxious. She was not afraid of Hubert, but she knew that as a married woman she was bound to obey her husband in everything, including the rites of the marriage bed. He had promised, she told herself as she negotiated the steep stairs; he had said that he would not expect anything of her in the physical sense, and now he seemed to have gone back on his word. She caught up with him as he opened the door of a room on the second floor, directly above the drawing room.
‘Come in, my dear.’ He stood aside. ‘This is our bedchamber.’
‘You promised, Hubert. You gave me your word that you did not expect anything other than companionship and mutual respect from this liaison.’
‘Won’t you take a look?’ A grim smile curved his lips, but there was no spark of humour in his eyes.
She peered over his shoulder. The room, lit by a brass oil lamp with a cranberry glass shade, was uncompromisingly masculine, with cumbersome mahogany furniture, a four-poster bed with a tapestry tester and curtains in sombre autumnal colours which might once have been vibrant but were now faded to almost nothing. The polished floorboards gleamed with a rich chestnut sheen and the occasional Persian rug provided islands of subdued colour, but it was a man’s room with no hint of femininity. ‘You promised me,’ she repeated dully. ‘I thought you were a man of honour.’
‘I was teasing you,’ he said, raising a smile and puffing out his chest. ‘It’s a joke, Mirabel.’
‘A joke?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘You call this a joke?’
‘It’s the sort of joke they played on a fellow at school, only then it had nothing to do with the marriage bed, I need hardly add.’ His expression darkened. ‘I thought you would find it funny. I wanted to prove that I have a lighter side to my nature and that I understand humour.’
Relief gave way to anger and she realised that she was shaking from head to foot. ‘You don’t understand anything, Hubert. This is not the least bit funny, and now Mrs Flitton thinks that you will be sharing your bed with a woman young enough to be your granddaughter.’
‘That’s unkind, my dear.’
‘No, Hubert, it’s the truth.’
‘I know, but it hurts my pride.’
‘I’m sorry, but we had an agreement.’
He hung his head. ‘You’re right, of course, and I doubt if I could honour my duties as a husband even if I felt so inclined. I thought if I could make you laugh you might feel more at home. I know this is a big change for you.’
‘It is, but I promise I’ll do my best to be a good wife to you in every other way.’
‘Thank you, my dear. I know you will.’ His shoulders sagged and he stared down at his feet, as if inspecting the polish on his shiny shoes.
‘And I love the orchids,’ she added in an attempt to raise his spirits. ‘I want to learn everything I can about them.’
He looked up, meeting her gaze with an eager smile. ‘Do you mean it? You’re not just saying that?’
‘I’m fascinated by everything I’ve seen, and if you should decide to make a trip abroad to find more I’ll gladly go with you.’
‘Thank you, Mirabel.’
There was no doubting his sincerity and she felt ashamed of thinking ill of him, but she was cold and a draught was whistling up the stairs like an angry spirit out to cause havoc amongst the living. ‘Now, do you think I could see my room?’ she said, hugging her arms around her body. ‘I’m freezing to death in this thin gown.’
‘You are my prize orchid, Mirabel,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’ll take good care of you and I promise never to try to be funny again.’
Touched by his desire to please her, she laid her hand on his arm. ‘You don’t have to prove anything to me.’
Picking up the lamp, he moved quickly to open the door to the room a little further along the landing. ‘Your room is next to mine. Mrs Flitton made it ready for you. She understands our arrangement so you have no need to feel embarrassed. I hope this meets with your approval.’
Mirabel entered the candlelit room, her breath catching on a gasp of surprise and delight. In complete contrast to her husband’s bedchamber hers was as feminine as she could have wished. Despite the fact that the curtains had been drawn and a fire blazed in the grate, it was like walking into eternal summertime. The wallpaper was patterned with a tracery of rosebuds, pinks and cornflowers garlanded and adorned with blue ribbons. The theme was repeated in the curtain material, the cushions on a velvet-covered chaise longue and the coverlet on the rococo eighteenth-century French bed. The dressing table and clothes press were of the same period, and vases spilling over with hothouse flowers filled the warm air with their sweet scent. Her feet sank into the thick Aubusson carpet and she turned to Hubert with a bemused smile. ‘I – I don’t know what to say.’
‘Do you like it, Mirabel?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I’ve had expert advice on furnishing a room fit for a lady, but if it’s not to your taste . . . ?’
‘Oh, it is. It’s perfect and I love everything in it. I’m not used to this sort of luxury.’
He frowned. ‘Your father was a rich man and you were his only child.’
‘I didn’t want for anything, if that’s what you mean, Hubert. But Pa didn’t believe in spoiling anyone, at least not until he married that awful woman. She saw to it that I was put firmly in my place.’
‘Well, this is your place now, my dear. You are my wife and will be treated as such by all and sundry. Our private arrangements are nobody’s business but ours.’ He backed towards his own room. ‘I’ll see you at dinner, Mrs Kettle.’
That night, after a tasty meal served by Mrs Flitton, and a pleasant evening sitting by the fire listening to Hubert’s accounts of his travels, Mirabel slept in state feeling like a queen. She awoke next morning to the sound of someone raking the ashes in the grate. For a moment she thought she was back in the small attic room in Tenter Street, but the softness of the feather mattress and the crispness of the Egyptian cotton sheets reminded her that she was now a married woman, lying in her own bed in a room more luxurious than she could ever have imagined. She raised herself on her elbow, peering into the semi-darkness. ‘Who’s there?’
A small figure scrambled to her feet, adjusting the mobcap which had fallen over one eye as she worked. ‘Good morning, ma’am. I’m sorry I never meant to wake you.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Gone six o’clock, ma’am. I’m a bit l
ate starting but I’ll get the fire going in a minute and then I’ll bring you your hot water and a nice cup of tea.’ The girl, who could not have been more than ten or eleven, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Even in the poor light Mirabel could see the smudge of soot on the child’s cheek. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tilda, ma’am. I comes in every morning to do the fires and put out the slops for the night soil collector.’
‘But you don’t live in?’
‘No, ma’am. I lives in Black Raven Court with me Pa. Ma died last year and now there’s ten of us living in one room, so I gets work when and wherever I can.’
‘And your pa? Does he work too?’
Tilda squared her small shoulders. ‘He works on the docks, but he’s got the rheumatics something chronic and it’s worse in winter, so all of us what’s old enough to earn a penny or two has to help out.’
‘I see.’ Mirabel reached for her wrap. ‘So you’ve eight brothers and sisters, is that right?’
‘That’s right.’ Tilda shifted from one foot to the other. ‘There was ten of us until last month when baby Joe was took.’
‘He was taken from you?’
‘Died from whooping cough, ma’am. Went to heaven to join Ma.’ Tilda went down on her knees and proceeded to light the fire.
Despite the relative warmth of the room Mirabel felt a cold shiver run down her spine. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Pa said it’s one less mouth to feed.’ Tilda glanced up at her with a wry grin. ‘But he didn’t mean it. Pa does his best to make us feel better, but I seen him crying at night when he thinks we’re all asleep.’ She leaned over to blow on the flames and soon had them licking round the kindling.
Mirabel put on her wrap, watching Tilda as she worked. Life was unfair, she had learned that long ago, but this poor child with her scrawny arms and legs and the face of an old woman was a victim of poverty and ignorance. ‘The fire has caught well,’ she said, tying the satin sash around her trim waist. ‘I’ll come downstairs with you, Tilda.’
