by Janet Woods
By the same author
A Dorset Girl
Beyond the Plough
Born and brought up in Parkstone in Dorset, Janet Woods now lives in Perth, Western Australia, although she returns to her English roots on a regular basis to visit family and friends.
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2004
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Janet Woods 2004
This eBook edition, 2014
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Janet Woods to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
PB ISBN: 978-0-74348-401-5
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-47113-660-3
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated with my thanks
to fellow writers, and friends,
Wendy Evans and Karen Saayman.
*
The author is happy to receive feedback from readers via her website
http://members.iinet.net.au/~woods
or by post
PO Box 2099
Kardinya 6163
Western Australia
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
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20
1
It was the middle of the morning, late in the July of 1841. The Dorset countryside was a tapestry of colour. The meadowlands, dotted with blue cornflowers, flaming red poppies and golden buttercups, were displayed at their prettiest. A light breeze set the leaves dancing on the fingers of the boughs spreading overhead.
With Francis Matheson at the reins and a handsome chestnut trotting between the shafts, the overhang made a welcome shade for the occupants of the two-seater phaeton as it bowled through the tunnel of soft jade light, for the weather had turned warm in May and had remained that way.
Between the two adults, three-year-old Bryn, his honey-brown curls ruffled by the breeze, pressed hard against Siana Matheson’s side and squealed with delight. ‘Gee-up, Papa.’
Francis inclined his head to smile at him, at the same time exchanging a rueful smile with his wife. ‘That boy has more energy than the five girls put together.’
Siana kissed Bryn’s head, squashing the tremor of guilt she felt at the pride Francis displayed in him. But what her husband didn’t know couldn’t hurt him – it couldn’t hurt anyone. Only one other person knew the secret of Bryn’s parentage, and he’d never tell.
Francis slowed the carriage to a halt when he spotted a pair of red deer up ahead, grazing at the side of the road. Siana took advantage of the interlude to place a kiss at the side of his mouth. That mouth stretched into the smile she loved so much as he turned her way, the grey depths of his eyes seething with his awareness of her.
Their relationship had been passionate since his return from Van Diemen’s Land, an island off the coast of Australia, the year before. The event of his arrival had been greeted with much joy, for Siana had been informed of her husband’s death by drowning and, although she hadn’t been able to totally believe it then, her hopes had been beginning to fade.
His hand slid to the nape of her neck, holding her, so he could kiss her more thoroughly. Somewhere near, a speckled song thrush trilled a song.
‘Me too,’ Bryn demanded, his lips and eyes screwed into a ferocious-looking pucker as he tried to push them apart.
Glancing down at him, Francis laughed. ‘I heard your mamma call you her baby cuckoo the other day. Now I know why.’
But Francis didn’t know why, Siana thought, her heart leaping in alarm. She must guard her tongue from now on. Gathering the child up, she smothered his face with kisses, making him giggle and diverting her mind from the vague feeling that somehow her happiness was threatened.
Bryn suddenly spotted the deer and yelled out, ‘Horsies!’ The startled animals sprang off to the safety of the trees before Siana could blink.
‘You’ll see plenty of those if we buy the house we’re going to look at. And they’re not horses, they’re deer.’
‘Horsies,’ Bryn insisted and made a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘Gee-up, Papa.’
Francis set the rig in motion again, slower now, for they’d soon be on the outskirts of Wareham. Rivervale House, the property they were about to inspect, had once been a rectory. It had been replaced by one of more manorial proportions when a legacy had increased the size of the rector’s fortune.
The property had been suggested to them by Marcus Ibsen, the new owner of Cheverton Manor. ‘I considered Rivervale when I first decided to come here, though it was occupied by the rector at the time,’ he’d told them. ‘The house has a great deal of charm, and I was taken with it.’
‘Is there a reason why didn’t you buy it?’
‘I needed a property with land attached. Besides, I believe the house has been waiting for the right person to claim it,’ he’d said and, although Francis had grinned at such a fanciful notion, Siana had known exactly what Marcus meant.
As they turned through wrought-iron gates into a wide carriageway, which curved gently upwards between lilac bushes interspersed with copper beech and silver birch trees, Francis said to her, ‘Are you sure you won’t mind leaving the house at Poole? I know you’re fond of it.’
The Poole property they currently lived in had been a gift to Siana from her first husband. ‘I’ll enjoy living in the country again, especially in a place that is ours. The Poole house will attract a good rent, but if the need arises we can sell it. I already have a buyer waiting.’
His face expressed his surprise as he turned towards her. ‘Who?’
‘Josh,’ she said with a grin.
‘Your brother?’ Francis chuckled. ‘Hasn’t he acquired enough property in his short life?’
‘He wants it to live in.’
‘What about the house he always planned to build over Branksome way?’
‘He’s got plans for that when it’s built. He’s decided to turn it into a residential hotel. He says there are plenty of wealthy families looking for places to leave their unwanted relatives. Besides, he’d rather live in Poole. He’s used to the place and likes to be in the thick of things.’
Francis slowly shook his head. ‘Trust Josh to come up with something like that.’ He whistled to himself as they rounded a curve and the house came into view. ‘If we decide to buy this house, you might have to sell the one at Poole to him.’
Unexpectedly, her heart gave a little wrench at the thought, though it was quickly forgotten at the sight before her.
The early Georgian House was build of red brick. It stood in a spacious garden which, although slightly unkempt, was a riot of colour as bergamot, delphiniums, poppies, daisies and flowers of every hue j
ostled for position in the flowerbeds.
Francis picked a bloom as he stooped to retrieve the house key from its hiding place under a boot scraper, securing the flower amongst the ribbons on her bonnet.
A flight of steps led up to the porticoed front door, over which a high arched window of stained glass reached up to the second level. Ranged either side were two large, square windows. Two more were set each side of the door, with smaller ones at garden level. White and yellow roses rambled over trellises affixed to the wall.
Siana had fallen in love with the house at first sight. She loved the inside even more, with its handsome staircase and panelled rooms. The stained-glass window, decorated with a border of red roses, depicted a woman with flowing hair holding aloft a garland of lilies. Her other hand was cupped protectively around a small boy’s head as she cuddled him against her thigh.
The child reminded her of Ashley, the son from her first marriage. The heir to Cheverton Estate and the last of the Forbes family, he had succumbed to scarlet fever nearly three years previously.
Anguish stabbed so strongly at her; she wanted to sob with the unfairness of it. Instead, she stood in the quiet hall, with the light from the window streaming in on her, cherishing the precious living memory of her firstborn. It escaped from her too soon, slipping away like his short life had, leaving her in pain. Closing her eyes, she absorbed the peace of the house into her heart and felt herself grow strong again.
‘What were you thinking of?’ Francis asked.
‘Ashley.’ She managed a smile. ‘Can we afford this house? I would very much like to live here.’
‘That remains to be seen. I have the money from the sale of my house and the legacy my brother Will left me. I intend to keep the Van Diemen’s Land property and the logging business for the time being, as it brings in a good income.’
‘And I have my allowance from the Forbes investments. There was not much left from the sale of the estate once the debts were settled. Perhaps I could sell those diamonds Edward bought me. I rarely wear them.’
He laughed at that. ‘We are not so impoverished that we need to sell your jewellery. Neither do I want to touch your allowance, or oblige you to sell your house.’
She took his hands in hers, making them one. ‘We agreed to pool our resources and live in something that was ours alone. This house is convenient for your medical practice.’
‘I want to provide for you and my children myself.’
‘But three of the girls are not yours. Daisy is my sister, Goldie is a foundling I decided to keep, and Susannah is being fostered only until her mother is in a position to have her back.’ She deliberately pushed Bryn to the back of her mind.
‘You cared for Maryse and Pansy when I was away.’
Exactly how well she’d cared for Maryse, he’d never know. ‘That’s different. They’re grown up and we’re more like sisters. I don’t know what I would have done without their company.’
‘Which makes me feel old.’ He grinned. ‘Are you going to argue with me all day, woman?’
‘It’s you who is arguing with me.’ She brushed a kiss against his cheek. ‘I feel this house belongs to us, even though we haven’t seen it properly yet.’ She looked around them. ‘Where’s Bryn scuttled off to?’
Francis pulled her against him and gazed into her eyes. ‘Stop fussing. He’s all right, I can hear him chattering to himself.’ He ran a finger down her nose and gave a teasing grin. ‘Thank you for giving me my son, Siana. You told me you were expecting a daughter in your letter. What happened to the Welsh sight you inherited?’
His words brought to mind a thought of her great-aunt, Wynn Lewis. The Welsh woman had gazed at her with undisguised bitterness on the occasion of Siana’s necessary visit to Wales. Her nerve ends prickled at the sudden thought of her, for Siana was sensitive in ways that many others didn’t understand.
She wondered if the lie could be detected in her eyes when she answered; ‘It must have deserted me.’
‘All the same, I’m sorry I wasn’t here for Bryn’s birth.’
Siana wasn’t sorry. The future would have been very different for Bryn if Francis hadn’t been absent at the time. Guiltily, she murmured, ‘It wasn’t your fault you were detained in Van Diemen’s Land. One day, I’ll give you another son.’
Hugging her tight again, he whispered, ‘There was a time I thought I’d never see any of you again. I’m thankful for all of my children.’ He released her when a door slammed shut and a frantic banging noise came from behind the panels, and offered her a wryly amused grin. ‘For most of the time, anyway. It sounds as though Bryn has shut himself in. I’d better fetch him before he kicks up a fuss.’
Bryn emerged from behind a door, indignant, red-faced and on the verge of tears. He was covered in dust. Siana brushed the grime off him when he rushed into her arms to be comforted. Giving him a cuddle she handed him over to Francis to carry. The child fell asleep on his shoulder while they were inspecting the house.
‘At least Bryn will be rested when we visit Marcus,’ Francis said. ‘I’ll be interested to find out how he’s getting on with the village.’
Siana loved every inch of Rivervale House, which had a fine view over the wetlands of the Frome river valley and the misty hills beyond. The landscape was dotted with sheep, their eyes framed by curled horns.
Her eyes alight with the pleasure she felt, Siana turned to him, her enthusiasm all too apparent. ‘This is exactly what we need. Please can we buy it?’
Francis sounded doubtful. ‘I shall have to think about it.’
A couple of miles away, Marcus Ibsen was looking over plans for the new village of Cheverton Chase.
The work had already started. The village would be situated a mile from the present workers’ accommodations and the best of the old cottages would be repaired and retained. They would house the itinerant workers, who were hired every year to help bring in the harvest.
‘Cob cottages need a good bonnet and boots,’ the builder had told him. ‘If the walls get too boggy they’ll become straw and mud again, and if they’re allowed to dry out, they’ll crack. A good coat of lime will keep them sound. I allus burn my own limestone for mortar, so it be constant in quality.’
The cottages were to be semi-detached, two storeys high and thatched with longstraw, which had been specially cut from the previous year’s corn harvest. The cottages would share an oven, have two rooms up and down, and flag-stone floors rather than packed dirt. Extra space would be provided under the roof.
Marcus wanted to have a model village. Built on a gradual slope, the twenty cottages would have a generous allotment apiece for growing vegetables, a sty for a pig, and a privy for each family. A water pump was to be situated at the top end of the village, well away from the privies so the water couldn’t become contaminated by seepage and cause diseases such as dysentery or typhoid.
Building the village had proved to be a costly exercise. Marcus had tried to take that into account when bidding for Cheverton Estate, but without much success. A grin lifted his finely boned face and his coal-dark eyes sparkled with amusement. Siana Matheson had seen right through his ruse.
Leaving the plans, he strolled over to the window, gazing over his rustic domain with pride in his eyes. Marcus was content, but slightly bored with life, even though he’d acquired a fine library with the manor. It was about time he found a wife and bred some children from her, he thought. But was the girl he had in mind ready to partner him in such a responsibility?
When the Matheson carriage came up the carriageway his heart gave a leap. But the exquisite, dark-haired woman with the pine-green eyes on whom his glance fell, was not Maryse. It was her stepmother, Siana, and Maryse’s father, Dr Francis Matheson. His spirits lifted at the sight of Siana. He admired the woman greatly for her beauty and compassion, but mostly because they were kindred spirits.
He greeted his visitors himself, his long legs carrying him down the staircase and out through the door before the ca
rriage came to a halt. Risking a frown from Francis, he kissed Siana’s cheek as he helped her down, his hands supporting her elbows. Her taffeta skirt was of the palest lilac and rustled over her many petticoats as he set her down on dainty slippers. A faint scent of bergamot lingered about her. He spotted a sprig of heliotrope in her bonnet, a darker purple amongst the lilac ribbons.
He turned to greet her husband, a smile on his face. ‘I’m pleased to see you, Francis. How is my godson?’
‘Quiet at the moment, he’s just woken up.’
Marcus took the boy from his father’s arms and kissed his cheek, which was round and flushed from sleep. Before he handed Bryn to his mother, his glance clung to Siana’s over the child’s head for a poignant moment.
Both of them recalled a hill in Wales, where they’d buried the body of her stillborn daughter, and remembered a moment when he’d placed this ill-gotten boy against her breast. Bryn had tasted of her milk and claimed her as his own. She’d been helpless against the attraction of that suckling mouth, as Marcus had known she’d be, for the mothering instinct was strong in her.
Leaving the horse and carriage with the groom they strolled together into the dim, quiet space of Cheverton Manor hall.
‘It’s a fine day, we’ll take tea on the terrace,’ Marcus said to a hovering servant. He turned, smiling widely as he ushered them through to the back of the house. ‘Bryn will be able to stretch his legs there without getting into too much mischief, while you tell me how you liked Rivervale House.’
‘I adored it.’ Gazing at her husband, Siana’s smile had a melting quality to it, but her eyes were slightly anxious. ‘Francis hasn’t decided yet, have you Francis?’
Francis Matheson, a sensible, professional man of middle years, grinned like a youth under the onslaught of her smile. ‘I’ve decided to find some way of buying it for us,’ he said, a pronouncement which earned him a hug. ‘If need be, I can raise a loan from the bank.’
Marcus said, ‘It’s been on the market for some time. I’ve heard that the owner is desperate to make a sale and will seriously consider any offer.’
