by Darcy Burke
“No, no. Nothing like that.” He realized this would be a reoccurring issue in his task.
John shot him a paradoxical look of grateful suspicion from across the table from him, eating an unappetizing scented stew of what appeared to mainly be potato.
“I’m checking that families are eligible for free education.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Cubert, who had continued agitating the washing pot on the stove filled with linens, scowled.
“If your income minus your rent is below a certain amount, you qualify for the children to have free schooling,” he explained. That wasn’t strictly true. It was calculated on income. But he needed to know about the rent and this sounded plausible.
“They already have free schooling.” Mrs. Cubert looked suspicious and agitated harder. “I don’t want it taken away.”
“This is just a routine check,” he assured her. “If you could just let me know what your approximate income is weekly, and the rental payment. Just to ensure the records are up to date.” Perhaps the stew wasn’t as unappetizing as he’d thought, watching John eat it. The smell might be mingling with the soap to make it seem inedible.
Mrs. Cubert stroked her earlobe and seemed about to make a protest.
“If we don’t keep the records correct, the free schooling will stop.”
“Between all of us,” she indicated herself and the children, “We earn about 18 shillings a week. We pay 15 shillings in rent.” She returned her attention to the washing and began to bang it with unnecessary force.
Alfred wrote the figures down, along with Mrs. Cubert’s name, address and John’s name, then closed his book. “Your rent seems quite high.”
“It didn’t used to be. It’s increased, year on year,” Mrs. Cubert replied to his verbal nudge. “One shilling, then two. It’s Sir Thomas.”
He had to stop his mouth falling open. Sir Thomas was to blame? Jolly Sir Thomas, who dipped into his own pocket to ensure there were hard-wearing coats for the Elmswell children in the winter?
“Mr. Johnson says it’s Sir Thomas who keeps getting greedy.” Mrs. Cubert’s eyes flashed with the injustice. “Just wrong, that’s what it is. That’s what Mr. Johnson says.”
“Really?” Alfred found that unlikely.
“He looks after us, does Mr. Johnson.” She looked from side to side, as if someone might overhear her in her own home. “Last month we were short. He allowed me to be short on the rent, without reporting it to Sir Thomas. For four weeks.”
Since she was looking to him for confirmation of Mr. Johnson’s benevolence, Alfred nodded obligingly. “That was kind of him.” Sort of.
“He says Sir Thomas would find someone else if I refused to pay what he wants. That he’ll evict me. Plenty more would happily pay the rent. And Mr. Johnson says if I leave or complain he has orders to ensure I can’t find anywhere else to live.”
She stopped beating the clothes in the pot and tugged at her earlobe again. “I’ll be destitute if they throw me out my home. And the children.” Her tone softened to a plea. “I must have education for them. They need something more than this.” She indicated the shabby house and herself. “I’m clinging on here.”
“I understand.” And he was beginning to understand. Mr. Johnson was a champion at manipulation. He was taking a slice of the rents, playing lord bountiful by occasionally allowing the tenants to not pay his exorbitant fee, all while dishonoring the name of his employer. But to prove it, he needed more evidence.
“Don’t worry, you’re still eligible for free education.” He smiled at her relief. “And John will do very well if he applies himself. He made an excellent attempt at a tricky sum this afternoon.” He gave John a meaningful look and gave Mrs. Cubert a reassuring nod. “Now, I must get on. Thank you for your time.”
He had a lot more houses to visit, and only one he was looking forward to.
Alfred found her looking out of the window in Annie’s bedroom. Elizabeth had answered the door in an apron, then retired back to the kitchen where she was making gruel. He’d managed seven visits to investigate rents before giving in and letting his feet take him to Mrs. Taylor’s house.
The grey sky cast Lydia into relief and barely lit the room behind her.
Annie was asleep, her breathing wheezy, but consistent. He went to her bedside and squeezed her hand. “Annie.”
Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.
“You missed learning about India today,” he said quietly. “I know geography is your favorite.”
There was no response from Annie. From the window Lydia turned to look at them, her mouth open in distress for a split second before she looked away to the window, head bowed.
“You’ll catch up,” he murmured. “I’ll bring the books for you to read once you’re well.”
Alfred gave Annie’s hand another squeeze, then moved to stand behind Lydia. He kept a respectful distance, not crowding her. Over her shoulder he followed her gaze to the garden below where the chickens were clucking and squawking. Then allowed his gaze to sweep to Lydia’s neck and jawline, and the little cup of her ear.
The cockerel took that moment to make himself heard. He threw back his head and let out a crow that rang through the garden, house, and probably half-way to the neighboring village.
“We call him The Male.” She smiled as if he was in on the joke.
“That’s nice.” He didn’t understand. It seemed like a rather prosaic name for a cockerel, like calling a dog, Dog.
Her face scrunched quizzically. “The Male Clutch,” she insisted.
“Mmm.” He nodded even though he had no idea what she was talking about. The cockerel was strutting around now.
“Because he’s so noisy,” Lydia explained. “Cockerels are notorious for their morning crows, but Male Coach is indiscriminate, crowing whenever he fancies.”
“Oh.” He digested this information. Did she say he was called Male Coach? Nope, it still made no sense whatsoever. “Noisy?”
“Yes, noisy. Haven’t you heard it?” She had turned to him, perseverance on her face.
This was uncomfortable. He was utterly confused and a bit worried she had cracked-up under the pressure of Annie being ill.
Suddenly, Lydia chuckled. “Living at the better end of the village, you’ve probably never been interrupted by the mail coach rumbling through the main street.” She shook her head. “It probably doesn’t go past you to get to the Post Office. But the mail coach must have broken springs as it rattles as it goes over the potholes.” She indicated the window opposite that overlooked the road at the front of the house.
“The mail coach,” he repeated. “As in, the coach with the letters in it.” Realization was dawning.
“Yes!” She giggled. “The noisy mail coach - we called him that because he’s so noisy and he’s always disturbed by the coach and crows at it.”
And then they were both laughing at the vision of a rickety coach carrying all the letters, a stroppy cockerel.
As her mirth tailed off, Lydia looked back to the window.
“I should collect the eggs.” Her voice tailed off. “Usually it’s Annie’s job.”
“A pleasant morning activity for her,” he said with more joviality than he felt.
Lydia raised a satirical eyebrow. “Chickens lay eggs during the day, not overnight.”
“I didn’t know that,” Alfred admitted. Why would he? He’d never had chickens. “I grew up in Ipswich, in new terrace houses, not in the countryside.”
“We’re in, and from, such different worlds,” she said ruefully.
He was about to contest that, but it was true. He lived in the affluent part of Elmswell and had grown up in a bustling town.
“Annie collects the eggs when she gets home from school,” Lydia continued. “Though I collect them intermittently through the day too, when I check on the chickens, feed them, fill up their water.” Her expression went grim. “I haven’t cleaned their house for a week. Poor things.”
“Well, no-one wants sad
chickens. Shall I do it for you?” He offered without thinking. Anything she needed, he would provide. He might be from a town, but he could do country tasks. Probably.
“Clean the chicken shed?” She put her hands on her hips and looked incredulous.
“Why not?” How difficult could it be?
“Because you’re my daughter’s teacher.” Her fingers tapped on her skirts.
He shrugged.
“Because you’d get your nice coat dirty.”
“I can take it off.” He suited his actions to his words, to show his sincerity. But it had a different effect as he slipped his shoulders free and tugged at his cuffs, easing the coat off.
Her eyes widened greedily. Her pupils dilated and her mouth fell open. She was staring at him. Well, his body. Her gaze was flitting from his neck, to his shoulders, then his waist, up his chest and circling again. He just stood there, coat hanging from his fingertips.
Her intense scrutiny was new to him. He felt it all the way down his spine, a shudder of awareness that tugged forward to his cock. She was regarding him like she hankered to touch him. As if she might grab him and stroke down his chest and over his arms.
His shirt felt too tight.
Oh no. No, his neck heated, and the warmth spread upwards in a ferocious blush.
Don’t notice, he urged her. Just keep staring at my chest and don’t see that your perusal makes my body embarrassed.
He saw the moment she noticed. The slight dreamy smile that had overtaken her face gave way to a pinch of dismay as she got to his neck. Then her gaze flicked up to his face and her expression developed to full blown horror at having been caught regarding him like he was a tasty morsel.
He opened his mouth to say something. Maybe something seductive, inviting, or reassuring. Words to make her look at him again and maybe draw her in to touch him. But his brain was as much use as a pork pie.
They stared into each-other’s eyes. Alfred felt sure she’d be able to see into his soul and spot his yearning. She was so beautiful, and this revelation of her carnal side lured him towards her even more.
She spun on her heel, pushed past him and went to the chair by Annie’s bed.
“Lydia, I—”
“Please don’t trouble yourself with the chicken house.” She stared fixedly at Annie’s sleeping face.
A sophisticated man, an army captain maybe, or a dashing rake, would use this revelation to his advantage. He would exploit her desire and ensure she understood it was reciprocated.
He had just stood there like a blushing fool. But any man who contemplated manipulating the emotions of a woman whose daughter was ill was not the kind of man he wanted to be.
After a glance at Lydia, he quit the room. There was work to do. Outside the back of the house, the chickens ran over to him. He rolled up his shirt sleeves to above the elbow and set to work.
She was an impulsive floozie and it would serve her right if Mr. Lowe stopped calling. But he was so delicious, for long moments she hadn’t been able to help herself. He’d taken off his coat and the sight had mesmerized her. Under the thin cotton of his shirt there were clear lines of muscle visible. He was lean but strong. Her mouth had been watering. Her hand had been half a second away from reaching out to touch him.
There was a cluck from outside.
Lydia checked Annie. Still asleep. Quietly she went to the window and peeped out. The chickens were demanding food while Mr. Lowe was cleaning out the chicken house.
This was removal of chicken excrement. There was nothing romantic or alluring about the scene. That was what she tried to tell herself as she looked at his strong forearms. Just chicken waste. Not romantic at all.
Chapter 7
A week had passed since Alfred’s first visit to Mrs. Taylor and notwithstanding the desolate reason for the visits, he was wishing half the day away in anticipation of seeing her. But he’d also managed visits to other Elmswell families and a pattern was emerging. Where there was a husband or older son, the rent was reasonable. Where there was no man, or in one instance where the husband was a simple drunkard, the rent was high.
He wasn’t sure how to present his discoveries yet, or who to show them to. But there was other progress: Annie was improving. When he’d gone to her bedroom and found Lydia and Elizabeth, Annie’s eyes had been open, and they’d conversed briefly before Elizabeth had insisted that was enough excitement and sent Lydia and him downstairs for tea.
Thus it was that he and Lydia were downstairs, still within hearing distance of the bedrooms. To be fair, the old wattle and daub walls, made from wood and mud, meant that everywhere in the house was within hearing of everywhere else. They were sat companionably across the kitchen table, creating the illusion of familiarity and homeliness. He’d brought pork pie this time, enough for Mrs. Taylor, Annie, and Elizabeth. A little extra, for him, meant he wouldn’t have to find something to eat from the kitchen when he arrived home later, after the cook had finished for the day. Lodging with the local priest meant having no say in household affairs.
“Thank you for the book,” Mrs. Taylor said, indicating the yellow-back book on the windowsill.
“Have you finished it?” He’d only given it to her a few days ago.
She let out a sheepish, embarrassed laugh. “Yes.”
“You’re a fast reader, then.” It hadn’t been long, and he knew she’d have been with Annie constantly.
“Mmm. I used to read lots of books. Years ago, before Annie was born. Before...” She cast her eyes down the table and pushed a bit of pie around her plate with her fork.
Before her marriage, she meant. “What did you read?” He used the question to cover the sting of jealousy. Her husband, that undoubtedly handsome and brave man who’d won her heart and her hand.
“Everything.” Her eyes lit up with the memory. “I loved to read everything. The dullest histories and the most romantic, exciting…” She looked a bit embarrassed. “Novels.”
“What were your favorites?” One could tell a lot about a person from the books they loved, as if books were paper companions.
“Ooo.” She bit her lip and nudged more pastry to and fro. “Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. And Aurora Floyd by Mary Elizabeth Braddon.”
“I’ll buy you copies.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Here was something he could fix, even on a village teacher’s limited salary. He’d buy well-bound editions with pretty embossed leather.
She laughed sadly. “I don’t think I’d enjoy them anymore.”
The joy from thinking of buying the books seeped out of him. “Why?”
Mrs. Taylor looked away. “You ask a lot of questions.”
He thought of all the excuses. He could say it was his job to understand his students. He could say he was curious, and he loved books too. And though both were true, there was only one honest reply. “I want to know about you.”
“Oh.” She flushed and her pale blue eyes were wide when she glanced back to him. “Well.”
“Little Women?” He prompted. “I’ve never read it.” He took a bite of pie. The pastry was buttery and crunchy.
“It’s about four girls during the American civil war. They have all the usual sisterly rivalries and problems.”
“Romantic rivalries?” She’d said she liked romance, after all.
“Yes.” Her slight smile of reminiscence soured then revived. “Amongst other things. One sister burns another’s hair.”
He chuckled. “Do you have any siblings?” Because he didn’t really care about Little Women. He cared about the woman before him.
“Yes. I have an elder sister. She’s... My sister... I haven’t seen her for five years.” She took a deep breath that shuddered in the middle.
He put down his fork and just caught himself in the act of reaching across the table for her hand, to console her. Instead he smoothed his palm across the waxed oak of the table. If he hadn’t seen his brother for half a decade, he’d lose part of himself. “Did you fall out?�
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“No.” She’d regained control of herself. “She just travels in different circles these days.”
Anger ignited in him like he was a combustible wheat field in August. “She’s ashamed of you.” He understood what she meant without her saying it explicitly.
“It’s not that,” she said defensively, then stopped herself. “It’s.” She sighed. “Complicated. She stays away to protect me, not herself. And she lives a long way away.”
The relief was a cooling rainstorm. But even so, there were crackles of bright questions. Why did Mrs. Taylor need protection? What threat was her sister to her? The thought of any peril to Mrs. Taylor, to Lydia, was a bolt through him. He’d wanted to know about her and had reminded her of her estranged sister and trouble.
“And the other book?” Surely this would be happier.
“Aurora Floyd?” Her expression darkened further. “It’s the ending. I used to think she got what she deserved in a compromise of a marriage. But now I wonder. Perhaps it’s a gloomy book.”
“In what way?” Why couldn’t he bring her happiness? Chocolates. He’d bring more chocolates. He’d only brought pie this time, that was the issue. Chocolates would make her hap—but no. Some things couldn’t be fixed with chocolates. Like unwell children. But surely chocolate improved everything?
“She spends so much time hiding.” The apples of Lydia’s cheeks flushed red. “There’s this secret and…” She tailed off.
“What’s Aurora’s secret?” He filled the gap in their conversation, covering over the difficult silence.
“You want me to tell you the secret?” She widened her eyes, in mock scandalized fashion. “You have to read the book!”
“My fault, I should have read it.” He held up his hands in admission. “But you must tell me, else how can we talk about it if you know the secret and I don’t?” Or more to the point, how could he distract her from her daughter and her sister? Seeing her so distressed made his heart flake away, one painful shard at a time.
“You’re sure you want to know?” She pursed her lips in faux disapproval.
