It Happened At Christmas (Anthology)

by Penny Jordan

  ‘Assist me to sleep—finish me, off you mean, with an unhealthy dose of laudanum.’ He moved on the bed and then blenched, and Marianne guessed that his wound was causing him more pain than he was ready to admit.

  ‘The bed will need to be changed when the nurse arrives, and that will, I’m afraid, cause you some discomfort,’ she told him tactfully. ‘I suggested to the doctor that maybe a medicinal tot of brandy would help. However, he said that it was unlikely that I would find any, so I have taken the liberty of ordering some from Mr Postlethwaite, to be brought up with some other necessary provisions.’

  He stared at her. ‘The devil you have! Well, Hollingshead was wrong! You’ll find a bottle in the library. Bottom cupboard on the left of the fireplace. Keys are in my coat pocket, and mind you bring them back. Oh, and when young Charlie gets here, tell him he’s to go to the mill and tell Archie Gledhill to get himself up here. I want to talk to him.’

  ‘You should be resting. The sickroom is not a place from which to conduct business,’ Marianne reproved him, earning herself another biting look of wonder.

  ‘For a charity case who only last night was begging at my door, you’re taking one hell of a lot of liberties.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And if you’re thinking to take advantage of a sick man, then let me tell you—’He winced and fell back against the pillows his face suddenly tense with pain. ‘Go and get that brandy.’

  ‘I really don’t think—’ Marianne began, but he didn’t let her continue, struggling to get up out of the bed instead.

  Worried that he might cause his wound to bleed again, Marianne told him hurriedly, ‘Very well—I will fetch it. But only if you promise me that you will lie still whilst I am gone.’

  ‘Take the keys,’ he told her, ‘and look sharp.’

  Marianne had to try two sets of doors before she found those that opened into the library—a dull, cold room that smelled of damp, with heavy velvet curtains at the window that shut out the light. There was a darker rectangle of wallpaper above the fireplace, as though a portrait had hung there at some time.

  She found the brandy where she had been told it would be. The bottle was unopened, suggesting that the Master of Bellfield was normally an abstemious man. Marianne knew that here in the mill valleys the Methodist religion, with its abhorrence of alcohol and the decadent ways of the rich, held sway.

  There were some dusty glasses in the cupboard with the brandy so she snatched one up to take back to the master bedroom with her.

  When she reached the landing she hesitated, suddenly unwilling to return to the master bedroom now that the master had come to himself, wishing heartily that the nurse might have arrived, and that she could leave the master in her hands.

  She heard a sudden sound from the room—a heavy thud followed by a ripe curse. Forgetting her qualms, she rushed to the room, staring in disbelief at the man now standing beside the bed, swaying as he clung to the bedstead, his face drained of colour and his muscles corded with pain.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she protested. ‘You should not have left the bed.’

  ‘I hate to offend your womanly sensibilities, but I’m afraid I had to answer a call of nature,’ he said, glancing towards a now half-open door Marianne had not seen before, which led, she realised, to a bathroom. ‘And now, since I am up, and you, it seems, are intent on usurping the role of my housekeeper, perhaps you would be kind enough to change the bedlinen?’

  He was far too weak to be standing up, and indeed looked as though he was about to collapse at any moment. On the other hand the bloodstained sheet did need to be removed.

  Marianne glanced around the room, and then ran to drag a chair over to him, urging him to sit on it.

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs Micklehead has neglected the care of the linen cupboard,’ she told him. ‘I have, however, put some fresh sheets to warm. I shall go down and get them.’ She looked at him and added, ‘Would you like me to pour you a measure of brandy?’

  ‘Measure?’ He gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Much good that will do. But, aye—go on, then.’

  Very carefully Marianne poured a small amount of the liquid into a glass, and then went over to him with it. When he tried to take it from her she shook her head firmly and told him strictly, ‘I shall hold it for you, sir. You have lost a great deal of blood and are likely to be weakened by it.’

  ‘Too weakened to hold a glass? Don’t think I haven’t guessed why you’re fussing around me,’ he warned her.

  Immediately Marianne stiffened. Was it possible that he had discerned her secret?

  ‘You think to make yourself indispensable to me so that I will keep you on,’ he continued.

  Relief leaked from her heart and into her veins.

  ‘That is not true,’ she told him, avoiding looking at him. ‘I am simply doing my Christian duty, that is all.’

  ‘Your Christian duty.’ His mouth twisted as though he had tasted something bitter. ‘Aye, well, I have had my craw stuffed full of that in my time. Cold charity that starves the flesh and the soul.’

  Marianne’s hand trembled as she held the glass to his lips. His words had touched a raw nerve within her. She too had experienced that same cold charity, and still bore in her heart its scars. It would be so easy now to open that heart to him, but she must not.

  So much that she had learned since coming to Bellfield was confusing and conflicting, and then there were her own unexpected and unwanted feelings. Feelings that a woman in her position, newly widowed and with a child had no right to have. She had felt them the first time he had looked at her.

  Like an echo she could hear inside her heart she heard her own voice asking, ‘But how does one know that it is love?’ and another voice, sweet and faint, answering her softly.

  Her body trembled. Her life had been filled with so much loss and pain that there had not been room for her to wonder about love.

  And she must not think about it now either. Not here, or with this man above all men.

  There was, after all, no need for her hands to tremble, she told herself sternly. What she was doing was no more than she had done for others many times over.

  But they had not been like this man, an inner voice told her.

  Engrossed in her thoughts, she gave a small gasp when suddenly his hand closed over hers, hard flesh, with calluses and strong fingers, tipping the glass so that he could drain its contents in one swallow.

  Marianne tried not to let her hand shake beneath his, nor wrench it away before he had released her.

  Already she could see a flush of colour seeping up along his jaw from the warmth of the brandy.

  ‘You must promise me that you will not move from here,’ she told him. ‘If you were to fall on that injury…’

  ‘Such concern for a stranger,’ he mocked her. ‘I do not trust you, Mrs Brown, and that is a fact. You are too good to be true.’

  Fresh colour stormed Marianne’s face. She did not dare risk saying anything. Instead, she headed for the door and the kitchen.

  The baby was sleeping peacefully. He would need feeding again soon. She might try him on a little oatmeal this time, now that his poor little stomach was no longer so shrunken.

  Taking the sheets from the maiden she had set up in front of the range, she set off back for the master bedroom, thinking as she did so that surely the nurse and Charlie Postlethwaite should both arrive soon.

  Marianne’s aunt had firmly believed that a mistress should know for herself the exact nature of any domestic task she asked of her servants, and had taught Marianne the same.

  Quickly she removed the bloodstained sheet, noting as she did so the untidy fashion in which the bed had been made, and wrinkling her small straight nose in disapproval of such sloppiness.

  Since the Master of Bellfield was now slumped in his chair with his eyes closed, it didn’t occur to her to look at him to see if he was watching her as she worked quickly and neatly to place a clean warmed sheet on the bed and tuck in the corners ‘hospital fashion’,
the way she had been taught.

  ‘For one so small and young you have a great deal of assurance as to domestic matters, Mrs Brown.’

  His words made her jump, but she still managed to reply. ‘It is the duty of a housekeeper to ensure that her employer’s house is maintained to the highest possible standard, sir.’ Then she added, ‘If you think you could bear it, it might be better if I were to bathe and bandage your leg whilst you are seated here, in order to spare the sheet and ensure that you can lie comfortably on clean sheets. I do not know if Mrs Micklehead used a laundry service, but I dare say there is an outhouse in the yard with a copper, where I can boil-wash—’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He cut her off sharply. ‘There is enough gossip about me as it is, without folk saying that the Master of Bellfield can’t afford to get his linen laundered and must have his housekeeper labour over a copper, when all the world knows that that is the work of a laundress. When Charlie Postlethwaite gets here you can tell him to ask that uncle of his who runs the laundry to send someone up to collect whatever it is that needs washing.’

  Marianne’s eyes widened. Did that mean that he intended to keep her on as his housekeeper? She didn’t dare ask, just in case her question provoked him to a denial of any such intention.

  Instead she picked up a clean bowl and poured some water into it, then went to kneel down at his side.

  Somehow her task felt much more intimate knowing that he was watching her. It was, of course, only because she was afraid of hurting him that her hands were trembling and she felt so breathless. Nothing more, she assured herself, as she dipped the cloth into the water and started to carefully wipe away the encrusted blood.

  He didn’t say a word, but she knew he must be in pain because she could feel his thigh muscles tightening under her hand. With the wound being on the inside of his thigh the intimacy of their position was unavoidable.

  ‘Your hand shakes like that of a green girl who has never touched a man before,’ he told her roughly. ‘And yet you have had a husband.’

  Marianne’s heart leapt and thudded into her ribs. ‘My hand shakes, sir, because I am afraid of starting the wound bleeding again.’

  Did she sound as breathless as she felt?

  Marianne could feel him looking at her, but she was too afraid to look back at him.

  ‘The child—is it a boy?’ The abrupt unexpectedness of his question caught her off guard, achieving what his earlier statement had not. Her hand stilled and she looked up at him, right into the smoke-grey eyes.

  ‘Yes…yes, he is.’

  ‘I had a son. Or I would have done if—’ His mouth compressed. ‘The child thrives?’

  ‘I…I think so.’

  She had cleansed the wound now, and the width and the depth of it shocked her. She tried to imagine pulling out the instrument that had caused it, and could not do so for the thought of the pain that would have had to be endured.

  ‘I have cleansed the wound now, sir. I will cover it until the nurse gets here.’

  ‘Pass me that brandy,’ he demanded.

  Thinking he intended to pour himself another drink, Marianne did as he had commanded, but instead he dashed the tawny liquid straight onto his flesh.

  Marianne winced for him as his free hand clutched at her arm and hard fingers dug into her flesh. She knew her discomfort was nothing compared to what his must be.

  ‘Your husband—how did he die?’

  Marianne stiffened.

  ‘He died of smallpox, sir.’

  ‘You were not with him?’

  ‘Yes, I…I was with him.’ She had nursed Milo through his final days and hours, and it was hard for her to speak of the suffering he had undergone.

  ‘But you did not take the disease yourself?’

  ‘I had the chicken pox as a child, and my late aunt was of the belief that those who have that are somehow protected from smallpox. I think it would be best if you were to lie down now, sir.’

  ‘Oh, you do, do you? Very well, then.’

  Automatically Marianne went to help him as he struggled to get up from the chair, doing her best to support him. He was obviously weaker than he himself had known, because he fell against her, causing her to hold him tightly.

  He smelled of male flesh and male sweat, and his thick dark hair was oddly soft against her face as his head fell onto her shoulder. The last time she had held a man like this he had been dying, and he had been her husband. Marianne closed her eyes, willing the tears burning the backs of her eyes not to fall.

  To her relief the master managed to gather enough strength to get himself onto the bed, where she was able to put a loose clean cover over his wound and a fresh sheet over him, followed by some blankets and an eiderdown. She noticed that he was shivering slightly, and resolved to make up a fire in the bedroom as well as heat some bricks for the bed.

  She had just finished straightening the linen, and was about to leave when, without opening his eyes, the master reached for the keys she had returned to him and spoke. ‘Here—you had better take these, since you have taken it upon yourself to announce to the world that you are my housekeeper.’

  Marianne stared at him, but he had turned his face away from her. Uncertainly, she picked up the keys. These were her official badge of office—one that everyone coming to the house would recognise and honour.

  Relief swelled her chest and caused her heart to beat unsteadily.

  To have accomplished so much and gone so far towards keeping her promise in such a short space of time was so much more than she had expected.

  From downstairs came the sound of someone knocking impatiently on the back door. The Master of Bellfield was lying still, his eyes closed, but she knew that he was not asleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘SORRY it’s tekken me so long to get here, missus,’ Charlie Postlethwaite apologised when Marianne opened the door to him. ‘Only it took me dad a while to get hold of old Harry to ask him about that honey you wanted.’

  ‘You got some?’ Marianne exclaimed, pleased.

  ‘Aye. He weren’t for giving it up at first, but when Dad said that it was for Mr Denshaw…’

  Marianne tried not to frown. Here was someone else telling her that the Master of Bellfield was a man well regarded by those around him. And yet there were others all too ready to tell a tale of cruelty and neglect towards those who had most deserved his care.

  ‘Mr Denshaw said to tell you that he wants to see a Mr Gledhill,’ she told him.

  ‘Aye, that’s t’manager of t’mill. It’s all round the town now, what’s happened, and there’s plenty saying that they’d never have thought of anything like that going wrong at Bellfield, on account of the way the master is always having his machines checked over and that. Them that work in t’other mills are always getting themselves injured, but not the people at Bellfield. My dad’s sent up a chicken, like you asked for—he said how you want to make up some soup with it. Got some turtle soup in the shop, we have, that would suit t’master a treat,’ he told her, repeating his father’s comment.

  ‘I’m sure it would,’ Marianne agreed diplomatically, ‘but chicken soup is best for invalids. Will you thank your father for me, Charlie? Oh, and Mr Denshaw said that I was to see if you could ask your uncle at the laundry to send someone up.’

  Nodding his head, Charlie headed for the door.

  Marianne had no sooner seen him cycle out of the yard and fed the baby then there was another knock on the door, this time heralding the arrival of the nurse.

  ‘I’ll show you up to Mr Denshaw,’ she told her, after she had let her in.

  ‘There’s no rush for that. He’s waited this long. He can wait a bit longer. A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss, mind.’ The nurse sniffed and wiped her hand across her nose. Her hand was grubby, and Marianne couldn’t help but notice the strong smell of drink on her breath.

  ‘You’ve come from Manchester, then, have you?’ she commented, settling herself in front of the range.


  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Marianne fibbed.

  ‘Bit young, ain’t yer, to be taking on a job like this?’

  Marianne said nothing, lifting the kettle from the fire instead, to make the tea the nurse had requested.

  ‘A nip of something in it would go down a treat,’ the nurse told her. ‘Just to warm me old bones.’

  ‘The doctor said that he would send a draught up with you for Mr Denshaw,’ Marianne told her, pretending she hadn’t heard.

  ‘Aye, a good dose of laudanum to keep him quiet, so as we can all get a decent night’s sleep. I can’t abide nursing anyone what don’t sleep. Heard about what happened to his wife, I expect, have you?’ she asked Marianne.

  ‘I heard that she died in childbirth,’ Marianne felt obliged to reply.

  ‘Aye, and some round here said they weren’t surprised, that they’d thought she were daft to marry him in the first place. Ten years older than him, she were, and a widow with a son what should have inherited this house and everything that went with it. Only she had her head turned by him coming along and making up to her, so she let him have what the wanted, like a fool. He married her out of vengeance, so they say. And to get his hands on the mill, of course. See, his pa and hers were in business together at one time. Only his pa decides to go and set up on his own, and then things went wrong for him, and he got himself into debt. Blew his brains out, he did, and him upstairs were taken into t’workhouse.’

  Marianne’s heart clenched with pity and fellow feeling.

  ‘Poor woman, she must have regretted the day she stood up in church alongside Heywood Denshaw. She’d be turning in her grave, she would, if she knew what he did after she’d gone. Drove her son, what was the rightful heir to Bellfield Mill, away. And Amelia, that niece of hers, as well—the master’s ward, what the young master were sweet on. Ran off together, they did. And there’s some folk that say as they’ll never come back, on account of a foul dark deed being done by a certain person, that they’re lying in their graves now…’

  Marianne’s hands shook, and seeing them the nurse said, ‘You do well to look fearful, lass. A terrible man the Master of Bellfield is. If I was you I’d get that babby swaddled nice and tight, so that it lies quiet instead of moving about like that.’ She changed the subject to look disapprovingly at the baby in the basket. ‘A bit of laudanum in its milk at night and you’ll not hear a sound from it. That’s what I tell all them I nurse, and I’ve never yet had a mother complain to me that she can’t get no sleep, nor a husband complain that he ain’t getting his nuptials neither.’