by Janet Woods
He stood aside, smiling a little at her lilting Welsh accent as he gazed at her over his glasses. ‘That’s not necessary. But the food you see on the table is all I have at the moment. My housekeeper has recently retired after looking after me for many years, and I find myself unprepared for domestic matters. The bread is three days old, but I’d be happy to share it with you.’
The woman dumped the bundle she was carrying onto the floor and gazed critically around her, her sinewy hands planted on her hips. ‘It’s a new housekeeper you’ll be needing then, is it?’
The reverend shrugged. He did, but wondered if it would be wise to hire this stranger. But the kitchen stove had gone out, and although someone came in to dust occasionally the house had taken on a neglected air. ‘Are you looking for work?’
‘The Lord must have guided my feet to this very spot. I’m not too proud to earn my bread cleaning up after others. Neither am I too old to manage the vegetable garden, even though the good Lord has seen fit to fill yours full of weeds. I can read and write and do sums, too, so can keep household accounts. I’m used to economizing, too, mind you, for I’ve had to all my life, though I’ll want to be paid a proper wage.’ She gazed wistfully around her. This house would suit me just fine because the Lord dwells within its walls.’ That said, she folded her hands into her sleeves and stood there, gazing at him.
‘Have you references, Mrs . . . um?’
‘No, sir, I do not, for I’ve spent most of my life looking after my mother, who has recently died. But I’m honest and God-fearing, and would be willing to work for a week to see if we suit each other. Would chicken be to your liking for dinner?’
Her sudden change of direction confused him. ‘Chicken . . . I um . . . I’m not sure if we have one?’
In a way that reminded him forcibly of his childhood governess, she replied, ‘There are several fussing around in the vegetable garden, and a scrawny bunch they are, too. Have the eggs been collected lately?’
‘I couldn’t right say, Miss . . . um?’
‘Then I’ll find some coal, light the stove and collect some, and I’ll fry that stale old bread on a skillet if you have some drippings in the larder, to go with the eggs. After we’ve eaten I’ll go through the larder and make a list of what’s needed. Will that be all right with you, Reverend?’
‘Perfectly, Widow . . . um?’ Richard said faintly, hoping the Lord had sent this woman to him, not the devil. For despite her travel tiredness, she was crackling with energy.
‘Wynn Lewis, lately of Wales,’ she threw firmly over her shoulder as she headed out of the door. ‘Indeed to goodness, what made you think I was a widow? I’ve never been married, nor am I likely to be, now. I’m here to seek out some kin of mine.’
Lewis? Richard shook his head when she stomped off. Now, where had he heard that name before? It was a while before he remembered. That had been Siana’s maiden name when she’d lived and worked at the rectory before her first marriage. He’d taught the girl to read. Unease filled him then. There had been enough trouble in Siana Matheson’s life. He would watch and wait, discover what the Welsh woman wanted with her.
Later that night, Wynn knelt by the side of her narrow bed and thanked the Lord for his goodness.
‘Thank you for sending me to this door. The reverend is an honest man, indeed, Lord, though in sore need of being looked after. Didn’t he take me in on trust and give me the food meant for his own stomach? And if you could take some of the whip from my tongue when I talk to him, I’d be much obliged, for I like the peace of this place and feel the destiny Grandmother Lewis spoke of pulling at me.’
When an unexpected chill ran through her, Wynn shivered. ‘Mind you, not that I believed her, for she was misguided in her wicked, pagan ways. Since I am a true believer, no doubt a more fitting destiny awaits me.’ About to open her eyes, she added. ‘God bless your servant, Reverend Richard White.’
A faint breeze came through the open window, bringing goosebumps rippling along her arms. Rising, Wynn snuffed the candle and climbed into the bed, where she pulled the blue and white quilt over her body and sighed with pleasure at the comfort of a mattress under her body, the pillow for her head and a purpose in her life.
Somewhere, an owl hooted. Wynn smiled before she drifted into sleep. She was not to know her presence was to be the catalyst for disaster.
Maryse had expanded to a greater size than she’d expected and couldn’t get comfortable.
Now, three weeks after the cottage fire, she woke in the early hours of the morning, feeling extremely uncomfortable. Moreover, the bed was soaked through.
For a moment she lay there in the dim glow of the guttering night light, watching the shadows leap and dance on the wall behind it and listening to the silent, dark spaces of the house.
This was a house with a secretive atmosphere. She’d always liked, and felt comforted living here. Something creaked above her, a mouse scratched in the wall. Her spaniels, curled cozily on their cushions, whimpered and sighed in their sleep.
An ache started in her back, gathering in strength as it broadened to clutch at her distended stomach. It ebbed away, receding like the tide and leaving her face covered in perspiration.
It had started – the long, painful process of labour to bring Marcus’s infant into the world. She should be ringing the little bell on her bedside table so her maid could alert Marcus. She didn’t. It was too early and she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Besides, he had come home late from his meeting and his breath had smelled a little of brandy when he’d said goodnight. He needed his sleep.
The little gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed two o’clock. She rose from the bed, her nightgown clinging and sodden against her legs. Another pain and more water gushed in a warm stream, leaving a series of little puddles across the floor as she went to gaze out of the window.
Moonlight laid a haunting luminosity across the landscape. She couldn’t remember ever having been up at this time before and revelled in the solitariness of it. The lake gleamed like polished pewter in the moonlight. The lawn was covered in dew, which would rise in the dawn as mist. She would probably be a mother then, for she’d heard that second children birthed in a faster time.
Somewhere, a door began to rattle. Odd, when there was no wind. She suddenly remembered the time when she’d become a mother before – in Wales. Her infant had died. She didn’t even know whether the child had been a boy or a girl. Even with Siana by her side, she’d denied the child’s birth. She hadn’t cried out and hadn’t cared. It was unnatural for a mother not to care about her child, she thought, not to want to see it, or love it.
But Siana wasn’t with her now, and her stepmother wouldn’t be so understanding with regard to this child, who’d been conceived and born in wedlock. She must learn to lie, to pretend she loved it when it arrived.
Maryse pushed restlessly at her stomach. How big and how ugly it was. She didn’t want this infant. It would remind her of the other one, the one she tried to deny. Giving a small cry of distress she rode out the next pain, which was stronger, like a fire burning at her insides. When it was over, she angrily dashed the tears from her eyes. She would be strong and bear this child in silence, too. Then when the birthing was over, nobody would know how weak and shameful she was.
The spaniels were awake now, sniffing around her legs, whining, their tails stirring the air for attention. ‘Go back to bed,’ she ordered, and off they went, their eyes gleaming as they watched her move towards the table.
That rattling attic door would soon wake everyone in the house. Lighting a candle from the night light, she made her way through the corridors and up the staircases, stopping every now and then to ride out the pains, which came more often now, so it was hard not to cry out.
The attic door vibrated under her hand as she pushed it open. Moonlight streamed through the window onto a portrait on an easel opposite of a woman in a green gown. Dripping molten wax on the table beside the portrait, Maryse st
uck the candle to it. She gazed at the portrait again. Breathtakingly beautiful with her dark hair and pale green eyes, the woman reminded Maryse of Siana. Though Siana had eyes as dark as pine and had a warmer look to her. Both of the women had been wife to Edward Forbes, whose family had once owned this estate. Both of them had lost the child they’d borne him.
The door creaked shut behind her, the latch clicked. She hardly heard it as she sank to her knees with the strength of the next pain. The mouth of the woman had a cruel twist to it, her eyes glittered in the candlelight.
Maryse felt as if she was being split in half by the pressure on her pelvis. Something slipped from inside her. It made a mewing sound and brought no relief. A few moments later the pressure inside her became unbearable and the pain went on and on. The woman in the portrait stared down at her, smiling. Then Maryse’s foot caught against the easel and it began to topple. The candle flickered in a draught and extinguished. The smell of hot wax filled the air as the portrait fell upon her, heavy and suffocating, the frame trapping her across the chest.
Although she tried to push against it, she couldn’t quite shift it.
The pain of labour went on and on unceasingly. Maryse, hardly able to breath for the crushing weight upon her chest, took shallow breaths and began to moan. Then as her son relentlessly began to push his way into the world, she gave a prolonged and agonized scream.
Downstairs, the spaniels came alert and began to bark frenziedly.
His heart pounding, Marcus sat up in bed. The dawn was a crack of pale yellow across the window. His instinct for danger was screaming. Pulling on some trousers and a shirt, he flung his dressing robe over the top and headed through to Maryse’s room. The bed, bloodstained, empty and rumpled, told its own story.
He headed into the corridor outside, the spaniels yapping at his heels, and was about to dash downstairs when he saw a blob of candle wax on the stair leading into the upper reaches. He moved on up, here and there coming across a small stain, then more wax.
The attic door was closed, but unbolted. The dogs flung themselves against it, scrabbling at the wood. Two scared-looking maids in their robes and nightcaps appeared, woken by the scream. He reached for the doorknob and, finding the door held fast, had to thump his shoulder against it to open it.
He saw his infant before he saw Maryse. The heavy frame had just missed her, but the tiny girl seemed to be dead. She’d obviously been too small to survive. Pulling the frame from his wife’s body he gazed anxiously at her. She was deadly pale, barely breathing. Blood ran from her and, as Marcus went to lift her, he saw the second child between her thighs.
Pinching the boy’s ear, he was rewarded with an indignant squawk.
‘Go and rouse the servants, and take those noisy damn dogs with you. Send a woman to me with all haste with some sheets to wrap my wife and the child in,’ he shouted at the maid who’d followed him up. ‘Tell the groom to fetch Noah Baines without delay. Have my wife’s bed made ready, then come back with something to wrap the dead infant in.
He covered the pair with his robe, and was about to moved his poor, unfortunate daughter when she made a tiny, mewing sound. His heart melted. She sounded as though she was begging him to rescue her. Wrapping her in his shirt he held her against his heart, waiting with some impatience for the maid to return.
As he stroked the soft, pale skin of his wife’s face, he wondered what she’d been doing up here. That damned portrait! He’d laughed when Siana had told him to get rid of it. He should have listened, burnt it along with the others. At the time, it had seemed a shame to spoil the exquisite beauty of Siana’s predecessor.
Now he gazed at it with hate in his eyes, thinking irrationally that the bitch had nearly killed his wife and daughter.
The woman gazed calmly back at him.
‘I’ll burn you,’ he whispered, ‘just as I did the other one.’
Beside him, his wife made a noise, a low, gurgling chuckle. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. It hadn’t sounded like Maryse.
6
‘I’m not going to visit Uncle Ryder and Aunt Prudence this summer,’ Pansy told her family at breakfast.
Speared through a morsel of bacon, Siana’s fork hovered midway between her plate and Bryn’s mouth, already open to receive the titbit, which was a reward for eating his oatmeal without complaint. The fork wandered temptingly back and forth, just out of his reach, his eyes following it like a dog’s begging for a snack. ‘What about your wedding? Won’t your aunt Prudence need you there to help?’
‘Since she’s inclined to argue over every little detail, I daresay she can manage quite well without me.’
Francis tucked the napkin back under Bryn’s chin and guided Siana’s hand until the boy was able to close his mouth around the morsel. ‘Don’t forget to chew it properly,’ he advised, and joined in the conversation. ‘Have you no desire to see him?’
Pansy gazed calmly at her father. ‘No doubt I shall see him every day when we’re wed. Maryse needs me now.’
When Francis sighed, Siana wondered why her husband couldn’t sense the reluctance in his daughter to marry Alder.
‘You could be just the tonic Maryse needs, I suppose. But your sister is married with her own household now. Wouldn’t it be better to wait for an invitation?’
‘Marcus has almost begged me to come. He’s at his wits’ end, for Maryse is suffering from the glooms. She just sits in her room, takes no interest in anything and mopes all day. I can’t think why. Her babies are so adorable I could munch their little fingers off. Marcus said she shows little interest in them. What’s wrong with her, Papa?’
‘Noah Baines takes care of Maryse. But since you’re showing concern, you should know that it’s a common occurrence for women to become a little melancholy after giving birth. Maryse will recover in time and will become her own dear self again.’
‘But Maryse hasn’t even shown any interest in naming the twins.’
‘Then I’m sure you’ll be of great help to her in making suggestions. Perhaps you could suggest that she names the girl after your mother.’ Francis rose and kissed his daughter on the forehead. ‘Make sure you don’t overstay your welcome. Your sister is a wife and mother now. She has responsibilities and pandering to her won’t help her realize them. Make sure you’re accompanied.’
‘Don’t worry, Francis,’ Siana interjected. ‘I’m going to visit Maryse, too. Josh has some business with Marcus and will drive us over and bring me back.’
He turned towards her, an enquiry in his eyes. ‘Josh seems to visit Marcus a lot of late.’
‘They’ve become firm friends. Marcus has taken an interest in him. He’s been teaching Josh the oriental art of personal defence. Apparently, you can learn to defend yourself without damage to your attacker. It’s a little like wrestling, Josh said, and he might set up his own school when he’s learned enough.’
Francis rolled his eyes. ‘Trust Josh to turn his knowledge into profit.’
Pansy grinned widely at them. ‘Josh said he has plans to buy a real school when the present owner retires next year. He said I can be the headmistress, if I want. I should very much like to do something like that.’
‘You’ll be married next year. I doubt very much if Alder would agree to you indulging in such an occupation.’
‘Alder?’ Pansy frowned. ‘He will not be allowed to dictate to me in any way, shape or form.’
‘My dear, Pansy, there are certain expectations within a marriage. One of them is that a wife’s duty is to defer to her husband’s wishes.’
‘Please do not remind me of such a distasteful notion, Papa. I’m not wed yet and, since I came of age nearly a month ago, I shall exercise my right to think for myself until I am.’
‘As if you ever did anything else. You’ve always been the more independently minded of my daughters,’ he said with a sigh, taking his watch from its pocket to gaze at it. ‘Now, I must make all haste, for it’s my turn to visit the infirmary. I’ll
check and see if any letters have arrived for us when I’m in Poole.’
‘We haven’t heard from Goldie for a month or so. I’m so worried, Francis.’ Siana murmured
‘No doubt she’s having a fine time. Her brother has wed since her last visit and she’ll have a new stepmother and stepsister to spoil her.’
Daisy, pretty in a pink, flower-patterned dress, and with her blond tresses in ringlets, said. ‘I miss Goldie when she’s gone, even though we argue. I hope she doesn’t decide to like her new stepsister better than me. I’ll hate it if she goes to live with them for ever. She can’t love them more than she loves us, since we took her in and saved her from death.’ Daisy conveniently overlooked the fact she had nothing to do with the rescue. ‘Until her brother appeared, she was quite happy with us.’
‘If she leaves us it won’t be until she’s much older. She’ll be welcome to stay here, but she must decide for herself where she’d prefer to live then.’ Francis’s glance swept around at them all, his smile taking on a new tenderness when it alighted on Bryn. Along with Susannah, Bryn was on his best behaviour. It was the one day of the week that the two younger children were allowed to join the family for breakfast without their governess, Miss Edgar, in attendance. ‘When Pansy weds, there will only be Daisy, Goldie and Bryn left in the house,’ he said.
‘You’ve forgotten Susannah,’ Siana told him.
‘Since Elizabeth Hawkins’s sentence is just about due to expire and she’s now married to Jed, no doubt she’ll want to reclaim her daughter as soon as possible. I’m expecting a letter to that effect, any day.’
Siana’s heart gave a little jolt of dismay as she gazed at the dainty little Susannah. The child seemed unaware that she wasn’t a permanent part of their family, even though Siana often spoke of Elizabeth to her. She’d be sorry to lose the child.
As if he’d read her mind, Francis gently squeezed her hand. ‘You’ve always known she’d leave us one day.’
‘It doesn’t make it any easier, Francis.’
