Читать книгу An Unusual Bequest - Mary Nichols - Страница 6

Charlotte was chasing children along the beach when Stacey first saw her, running round and round and being caught and then setting off again, her arms wide, her bonnet askew, while the children squealed their delight. He reined in his horse to watch. His father had told him of a school in Ipswich that might take Julia and he had decided to ride along the coastal path rather than take the stage. He didn’t know why, except that it might be quieter and more conducive to problem solving than being bumped about in a coach and having to listen to his fellow travellers trying to make conversation. And he could take his time. Why he wanted to delay, he did not know. He strongly suspected it was because he was not sure he was doing the right thing in trying to pack his daughter off to strangers. Wasn’t that abrogating his responsibility? In the meantime she was safe enough at Malcomby Hall; his father had promised to keep a closer eye on her.

He had been deep in thought, clopping slowly along the cliff-top path when the sound of childish laughter brought him up short. How happy they sounded. He had ridden to the edge of the cliff and sat looking down at the beach. How many children were there? Ten, a dozen? Surely they could not all belong to the woman? She was how old? It was difficult to tell at that distance, but surely not old enough to have borne so many? And they were all different: some were dark, others fair, some warmly clad, others dressed in little more than rags. All but the woman were barefoot and a row of little boots and shoes stood sentinel on the side of the steep path that led down from the cliff top to the beach. The woman herself was dressed in a simple black gown and cape. Mourning, perhaps? But should a woman in mourning be laughing so joyfully?

Charlotte stopped suddenly, too out of breath to continue, and the children crowded round her, chattering excitedly. It was then she looked up and saw him. He was astride a big white stallion, dressed in a serviceable riding coat and a big cape. He doffed his tall riding hat and bowed to her. Discomforted, she looked away and began urging the children to gather up the seaweed and shells they had collected, while retying her bonnet, which had slipped down her back on its ribbons. Then she led them up the path towards him. He had not moved. Her first thought had been that it was Cecil who had come to claim his inheritance, but, as she drew nearer, she realised it was not. This man was a stranger and a very handsome one at that. Again, he doffed his hat, his brown eyes alight with amusement. ‘Good day, ma’am.’

‘Good day, sir.’

‘You have a very large family, ma’am.’ She was extraordinarily beautiful, he realised, with a clear unblemished complexion and eyes that were neither green nor blue, but something in between, and they looked him straight in the eye.

She smiled. ‘Yes, haven’t I? But I cannot claim them all for myself. These two are mine…’ She drew Lizzie and Fanny to her. ‘The others are my pupils.’

‘Ah, you are a schoolteacher.’

She opened her mouth to correct him, then changed her mind. Today she was a schoolteacher and perhaps, if Cecil proved not to be amenable, that was all she ever would be. She would try out the role on a stranger.

She loved teaching the little ones of the village; they were so receptive and eager to learn. Their parents had been against the idea at first, demanding to know why they needed an education; they themselves had managed without one and so would their sons and daughters. Charlotte and the Reverend Fuller had persuaded them to agree to send the children to school, so long as they were not needed to help on the farms with which the countryside around was dotted. Picking stones off the fields, scaring crows, watching the sheep, and helping with the harvest would always take precedence, and some were expected to look after younger siblings, but as they were allowed to bring the little ones to the classes, they gathered each afternoon in an unused coach house at the Rectory, which had been converted into a classroom, and here they learned to read and count. The bright ones among them were learning to write and to compose little stories, with particular attention being paid to their spelling and grammar.

Nor was that all; she taught them a little history and geography and took them out in the lanes and on to the beach to study nature. Being country children, they knew as much of country lore on a practical level as she did, but they all enjoyed the outings. And that included Lizzie and Fanny, whom she took with her. Lord Hobart, before he became too ill to know what was going on around him, had remonstrated with her for allowing her daughters to associate with the lower orders, but she had persuaded him there was no harm in it and it might do the girls some good.

The other children had been wary of them to begin with; Lizzie and Fanny, clad in their warm clothes and stout shoes, were inclined to be a little haughty, aware of their superior status, but they had soon learned to unbend. It was surprising, or perhaps it was not, just how much they were able to teach the other children and how much they learned themselves. Not all of it desirable!

Today, with her mind full of the loss of her father-in-law and uncertainty about the future, she had been unable to concentrate on lessons and had decided to bring the children to the beach to study the life in the pools left behind by the tide. It was the first really mild day of the year; the turbulent winds and heavy rain that had drenched the countryside from the beginning of the year right up until the day of Lord Hobart’s funeral had gone and now the air was clear. Down on the beach, the sea rippled gently over the sand, leaving behind little rock pools, teaming with microscopic life. It was so pleasant there and the children so excited, they had ended up playing a game of tag. She had been as energetic as the children, behaving like a child herself. Her hat had come off and the pins had come out of her hair, which could not be described as fair, but was not dark enough to be called auburn. To her it was a nothing colour, but to the observer on the cliff top it was delightfully unusual.

To have her behaviour witnessed by this rather superior horseman, who obviously found her conduct amusing, was disconcerting, but it was too late to revert to being the lady of the manor. She smiled. ‘Yes, sir. Today we are having a little break from formal lessons to learn about the sea and the tides and the creatures who live in the rock pools.’

‘So, I see.’ Again that smile. ‘I would that my school days had been as instructive.’ He was bamming her, she knew.

‘You did not like school?’ The children had grouped themselves around her, staring up at the man in curiosity, almost as if protecting her. She turned to them. ‘Put your shoes on, children.’

He watched idly as they obeyed, the older ones helping the smaller ones. One or two, he noticed, had no footwear at all. They were village children, being taught at a dame school, he supposed, but an unusual one. Dame schools usually confined themselves to teaching children their letters, and not even that sometimes. The teachers were often nearly as ignorant as their pupils, but this one was not like that. She was neat and well spoken and elegant, even in her plain black gown. ‘I liked it well enough,’ he answered her. ‘A necessary evil.’

‘How can you call it an evil? You undoubtedly had a privileged education, which is more than these little ones will have.’ She did not know why she was being so defensive towards a stranger, but he had put her hackles up, sitting there on that very superior horse with his very superior air, criticising her. ‘I can teach them little enough, but I do not think they see it as an evil.’

‘No, I am sure they do not, considering they are allowed to disport themselves running about in bare feet and shouting at the top of their lungs. What is that teaching them?’

‘It is teaching them to be happy, that there is more to life than hard work. It is teaching them to deal well with each other…’

‘And you think such lessons are necessary?’

‘Indeed, I do.’

‘And what else do you teach them? When you are in the classroom, that is?’

Why was he quizzing her, why did he not simply ride away? she asked herself. What did he know of poverty? His clothes were plain, but they were made of good cloth and were well tailored. His riding cloak was warm and the horse he rode was a magnificent beast with powerful muscles and a proud head. Its glossy coat was almost pure white, except for a grey blaze on its nose. ‘I teach them to read, write and count and a little of the world beyond their narrow horizon.’

‘And polite behaviour?’ He really did not need to ask; the children were lined up in pairs, holding each other’s hands, waiting patiently to be told to move.

‘Of course. But if you are referring to the affectations which go by the name of politeness in society, I am afraid that passes them by. Now, if you will excuse me, the wind is becoming a little chill and, unlike you, they do not have warm cloaks. Come, children.’

She picked up the smallest, a child of no more than two, and, taking another by the hand, led them away. The two girls she had claimed as her own were well clothed, but not extravagantly so. Did she have a husband? Or was the black dress a sign of widowhood? A gentlewoman come upon hard times, perhaps. She intrigued him.

He started his horse forward, moving slowly along the top of the cliff, thinking about schools and Julia and a handsome and intelligent woman who had managed to put him in his place. Out on the sea a few fishing boats rocked on the swell and ahead of him was a lighthouse, which reminded him of Gerry Topham. He supposed it was the kind of area he patrolled as an excise officer. He envied his friend his independence; not for him worries about a reprobate daughter and a father who insisted he ought to marry again. His experience of marriage did not incline him to repeat the experiment; as for children, they appeared to be more a bane than a blessing. But was that necessarily true? The schoolteacher seemed perfectly at ease with them and they had been quiet and obedient when she had brought an end to their game and led them up the path towards him. If only he could find someone like her to tame Julia. His aimless thoughts were brought to an abrupt end when his horse stumbled. He dismounted to see what the trouble was and realised Ivor had cast a shoe.

‘Damnation!’ he exclaimed and looked about him for signs of habitation where a blacksmith might be found. There was nothing ahead of him, but, looking back, he could see a stand of pine trees and a curl of smoke that could only be the village to which the woman and the children were returning. Smiling a little, he turned the stallion and led him back to the spot where he had met them and from there followed a well-defined path that cut through the pines. He wondered if he might catch them up, but he did not do so before he found himself in the middle of the main street of the village.

There was a huddle of cottages, a church, an inn, some farm buildings and a smithy, to which he directed his steps. There were a few women on the street, who watched his progress with curiosity, but no sign of the schoolteacher and her charges. He surprised himself by feeling a little disappointed.

He found the blacksmith in his heavy leather apron hard at work beating a horseshoe into shape on his anvil, the ringing tones of his hammer and the flying sparks filling the air with a kind of eternal rhythm, at one with the days of the week and the recurring seasons. Beside him stood a sturdy Suffolk Punch, patiently waiting to receive the new shoe. Stacey stood and watched, knowing it would not do to interrupt in the middle of the task, but when it was done, the old blacksmith looked up. ‘Yer need my services, stranger?’

‘I do indeed. My horse has cast a shoe. Can you fix it for me?’

The old man followed him outside to where he had left the stallion with its reins thrown loosely over the hitching rail. After a cursory inspection all round the animal, he said, ‘’ Tis a mighty fine animal yer have here.’

‘Yes. His name’s Ivor. I bought him off a Russian Count in Austria. He’s seen me through many a battle.’

‘Ridden him all the way from Austria, have yer?’ It was said with a chuckle.

Stacey laughed. ‘No, just from the other side of Norwich. Why do you ask?’

‘All his shoes are worn. It i’n’t no good replacing the one.’

‘No, I realise that.’

‘I’ve to take the horse back to the farm.’ He nodded his head in the direction of the Suffolk Punch. ‘It’ll take me an hour or so.’

‘It’ll be growing dusk by then, too late to carry on tonight. Is there an inn where I can rack up?’

‘There’s the Dog and Fox. They’ll give yer a bed. I’ll have the horse ready by the time yer’ve had yar breakfast.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ he said, and wondered why he said it. He turned to take his bag from the saddle. ‘By the way, what is this village?’

‘Parson’s End, sir.’

Parson’s End. What a strange name for a village. He had heard it before, he realised. And then he remembered Lord Hobart. Wasn’t that his destination? What quirk of fate had brought him here? He could, he supposed, go the Manor and remind Hobart of his invitation, but then he remembered how unlikeable the man was and decided the Dog and Fox would suit him very well.

Charlotte was in the garden the following morning when a footman came to tell her she had visitors. Gardening was one of her special pleasures and she would spend hours tending her flowers and consulting Harman, the head gardener, on which plants to place where and how to propagate and care for them. Clad in an old fustian coat, a floppy felt hat tied under her chin with a piece of ribbon and a pair of stout canvas gloves, she would dig and weed and clip to her heart’s content. She had certainly not expected visitors today.

‘Who is it, Foster?’

‘Not one of your usual callers, my lady. Pushed past me and strode into the drawing room as if he owned the place…’

‘Perhaps he does,’ she murmured under her breath.

He looked startled, but went on as if he had not heard. ‘And him with two companions that I never would have admitted if I could have stopped them. I am sorry, my lady.’

‘Do not worry, Foster. I think I know who one of them is. Ask Cook to provide refreshment and tell them I will join them shortly.’

He left on his errand and she went in by a side door, along a narrow passage and up the back stairs to her room where she washed and changed hastily into a black silk mourning dress, a little more elegant than the one she had been wearing the day before, which had become stained with salt water, much to Joan Quinn’s disgust. She brushed her hair, coiling it back and fastening it with combs before topping it with a black lace cap, then she took a deep breath and went down the front stairs to the drawing room.

There were three men there, two of whom were already lounging on the green brocade sofas, looking about them as if assessing the worth of everything in the room, the furniture, pictures and the small figurines which her mother-in-law had loved to collect. The third man stood by the hearth with his foot on the fender. His attitude was proprietorial and she had no difficulty in recognising her brother-in-law, though the scar on his face had not been there when she last saw him, and the slimness of youth had been replaced by fat that strained at his coat and pantaloons.

‘Cecil?’ she said.

He made her a mock bow. ‘At your service, sister. May I present my good friends, Sir Roland Bentwater and Mr Augustus Spike?’

The two men, one tall and thin as a pole, the other thickset and swarthy, rose and sketched her a bow to which she replied with a slight movement of her head. ‘Gentlemen.’ Then, addressing Cecil, ‘I did not know you would be coming today. If you had let me know, I would have been better prepared to receive you…’

‘We don’t need receiving. This is my house, I come and go as I please.’

‘Of course. I am sorry you were not here in time to speak to your father before he died—’

‘Sorry? Was he sorry he banished me, was he anxious to make amends?’

‘I believe he was.’

‘That’s as may be, but I have not forgiven him, nor would I have, so perhaps it is as well we did not meet again.’

She decided to ignore that. ‘I have ordered refreshment. While you are having that, I will have your room prepared.’

‘My father’s room, I hope. The master bedroom.’

‘Why, no, I did not think you would want to use that until it had been refurbished. But, of course, you may have things ordered as you wish.’

‘I wish to sleep in my father’s bed and I wish rooms prepared for my friends and our valets who will be arriving with our luggage before the day is out.’

‘Very well. If you excuse me, I will see to it. Foster will serve you while I am gone.’

‘Foster, who is he?’

‘The footman. He admitted you.’

‘Oh, him.’ His tone was disparaging. ‘What happened to Jenkins?’

‘He grew old and decided to retire. He lives in a cottage on the cliff top now.’

‘I think I had better interview all the staff, let them know who is master. I’d be obliged if you would gather them all together in the hall in an hour.’

She inclined her head to acknowledge the instruction and left the room in as dignified a manner as she could manage, but she was seething. The new Lord Hobart was treating her like a housekeeper, not a word of condolence or sorrow at the loss of his father, not a word of gratitude for what she had done to keep the place going, not a word of reassurance that she would be given a home. And if he did offer it, she was not at all sure she would accept—she had taken an instant aversion to him. She passed Foster bearing the tea tray, followed by one of the maids with cakes and sweetmeats, and instructed them to serve the refreshments before carrying on her way up the stairs to warn Miss Quinn to keep the girls to their own suite of rooms until she said they could come down.

Then she went back downstairs to the kitchen where the servants were gossiping and speculating about the new master. She brought them to order and gave instructions for her belongings to be moved out of the bedchamber she had used on the first floor. She had chosen it when the late Lord Hobart became ill so that she would be close at hand if he needed her, but if the new Lord Hobart meant to occupy his father’s room it was not appropriate nor desirable. ‘I’ll use the guest room on the top floor near the girls,’ she told the chambermaids. ‘One of his lordship’s guests can have my room and prepare another along the same corridor for the other. And rooms for the valets who are on their way, I believe.’

‘And his lordship?’ Betsy asked, longing to make some comment about her ladyship having to give up her room for those dreadful men, but not daring to.

‘The old lord’s room. I’ll come and help you directly. When you have done, all the servants are to assemble in the hall to meet the new master.’

‘All of us?’ Cook asked.

‘Yes, all. Tom, go and tell the outside staff to come too. In…’ she consulted the clock that stood on the mantle ‘…three-quarters of an hour. Leave whatever you are doing and line up in the hall.’

There were not many servants for so large a house and Cecil, pacing up and down the row, a full wine glass in his hand, was obviously surprised. ‘Is this everyone?’ he demanded of Charlotte.

‘It is. When Lord Hobart became too ill to receive visitors, we shut up half the house and did not need a large staff.’

‘I want the rooms opened up again. I mean to entertain. As for staff, we shall see how these do before deciding on others.’ He waved his hand to dismiss them all. ‘Go back to your work. We will dine at five.’

They scuttled off and he turned to Charlotte ‘Are you sure I have seen everyone? I recollect you have two daughters…’

‘They are not servants, my lord, to be paraded before you.’

‘But they do live here? They are not away at school?’

‘They are too young to go away. I look after them myself with the help of Miss Quinn, their governess.’

‘Who pays her wages?’

‘Lord Hobart did.’

‘Hmm. I am not sure that I wish to continue that arrangement. After all, your offspring have no claim on the estate, have they? I would rather employ a decent butler.’

‘But they are your nieces, my lord, all the kin you have now.’

‘I intend to marry, then I shall have kin of my own.’

‘I see.’

‘I am sure you do,’ he said, smiling silkily.

She did not answer. Her head was whirling with the knowledge that her brother-in-law was not going to be bountiful, that if she stayed, she would stay under sufferance and be an unpaid housekeeper, that Miss Quinn would probably be dismissed and her girls would be faced with a life very different from the one they had known. And when the horrible man married, what would happen to them then?

‘Food for thought, eh?’ he queried.

‘It is your business,’ she said. ‘May I ask when you are to be married?’

He laughed. ‘When I have found a suitable bride, one who will acknowledge who is master in his own house and will do as she is told.’ He looked up as his two companions sauntered down the stairs from an inspection of their rooms. ‘You need say nothing of this conversation to my friends,’ he murmured, then, turning to them, said jovially, ‘Have you been made comfortable? Is everything to your satisfaction?’

‘It’ll do for now,’ Sir Roland said, wafting his quizzing glass around. ‘But it’s devilish dull here, ain’t it?’

‘I warned you it would be, didn’t I? You can always return to the Smoke.’

‘Oh, I don’t think we want to do that just yet, do we, Gus?’

‘No, not yet,’ the other answered. ‘But I think you should put on some entertainment for us. Send for some company.’

Charlotte knew by the way they spoke that Cecil did not really want them there, that they had invited themselves and there must be a reason why he had not been able to refuse. It was a reason not difficult to guess. And did they also know the contents of Lord Hobart’s will? They were in for a shock if they did not.

‘All in good time, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Shall I show you over the house? You will find much to interest you, I am sure.’ Then, to Charlotte, ‘I shall expect you to dine with us. And bring your daughters.’

‘My lord, they do not usually dine with company.’

‘I am not company. As you so succinctly reminded me, I am their uncle and I wish to meet them.’

‘Very well. I will ask Miss Quinn to bring them down when the pudding is served.’

She turned and left him, passing the two gentlemen as she made for the stairs. She was aware that they were watching her go and she held her head high, but inside her heart felt as heavy as lead. The home she had known for the last twelve years was hers no longer; she was not even welcome in it. She made her way up the second flight of stairs to the schoolroom where her daughters worked under the tutelage of Miss Quinn.

All three turned towards her as she entered. ‘Mama, what has happened?’ Lizzie asked. ‘Who are those men?’

Charlotte looked at Miss Quinn, her eyebrow raised in a query.

‘They heard the door knocker, my lady,’ the governess said. ‘Such a noise it made, as if someone was determined to frighten us all out of our wits. The girls ran to look over the banister and saw them admitted.’

‘One of them is your Uncle Cecil,’ Charlotte told them. ‘The other two are his guests.’

‘The new Lord Hobart?’ queried Lizzie.

‘Yes.’

‘I knew I should not like him,’ Fanny put in. ‘And I do not. I wish they would all go away again.’

‘I am afraid that is unlikely,’ Charlotte said. ‘We must get along with your uncle as best we may. You never know, he might turn out quite charming.’ She did not believe what she was saying, but she must not allow her prejudices to influence them. ‘He has asked that you join us for pudding this evening, so I want you on your best behaviour. And, Fanny, please, please do not let your dislike show and speak only when you are spoken to.’

‘My lady,’ Miss Quinn gasped, ‘surely that is hardly appropriate. Those men…’

‘I know, Quinny, I know, but I shall be there, and I shall not allow the girls to stay more than a few minutes. Bring them when I send for them and stay close at hand to take them back.’

‘I don’t know what the world is coming to, that I don’t,’ Miss Quinn went on. ‘I’m with Fanny, I do not like those men. Lord Hobart is bad enough, but those two fops…They fill me with dread. I saw them poking in all the rooms, laughing and commenting on everything, saying there were some mighty fine pieces. I heard the thin one say, “We’ve fallen on our feet here, Gus, no doubt of it.” And then they both laughed. Horrible sound it was too, like hens cackling. How long are they proposing to stay?’

‘I don’t know,’ Charlotte answered with a sigh. She was too distressed to scold the governess for speaking her mind.

‘If it weren’t for my darlings needing me, I’d be gone this very night—’ She stopped suddenly when she realised Lizzie was looking at her in great distress and Fanny had begun to sob. ‘Oh, my little loves,’ she said, gathering them into her arms. ‘Quinny didn’t mean that. She would never leave you, never, never.’

Dinner was a nightmare. Charlotte tried to keep up a normal polite conversation, but it was impossible. Everything she said, they seemed to twist, and they asked such impertinent questions that she refused to answer, which made Cecil laugh, though his laughter was hollow. How long had the Hobarts occupied Easterley Manor, they wanted to know, and did she know the value of everything in it? And when she said she did not know and it was the province of his lordship’s man of business to provide him with an inventory, they had laughed loud and long. ‘I expect him tomorrow,’ Cecil said. ‘Then we shall see.’

Worse was to come when he insisted she send for her daughters. ‘I wish to make their acquaintance,’ he said. ‘After all, they are part of the job lot, aren’t they? Kith and kin I must include in my reckoning.’

‘You are mistaken there, my lord,’ she said, reluctantly nodding to Foster to fetch Miss Quinn and the girls. ‘They are my responsibility.’

‘But only this morning you were reminding me of my duty towards them.’

‘I did not mean you should tot them up on your inventory.’

‘You mean I am not to be responsible for their keep? How glad I am of that. Food, clothes, wages for that Miss…What’s her name?’

‘Miss Quinn.’

‘Miss Quinn. From now on you pay her yourself.’

Charlotte did not protest. She would not throw herself on his mercy, though how she was going to manage she did not know. She looked up as the door opened and Miss Quinn ushered her charges into the room. They looked very fetching in white muslin dresses, with deep satin sashes and their hair brushed until it gleamed and tied back with matching ribbons. Lizzie’s was blue and Fanny’s pink. Quinn gave them a little poke in the back and they both executed a neat curtsy.

‘Very pretty,’ Augustus chortled, surveying them through his quizzing glass. ‘What say you, Roly, ain’t they pretty?’

‘Yes, remarkably handsome. Cecil, old man, I think you should be more generous with your dead brother’s children. Put them on the inventory.’

Cecil pretended to laugh. ‘Come, girls, come to me and let me see you properly. Don’t be afraid. No one will hurt you. I am your Uncle Cecil, home from abroad to take care of you.’

They approached the table to join their mother, reluctant to go to him. ‘They are shy,’ Charlotte said. ‘Not used to strangers.’

‘I am not a stranger!’ he shouted, banging his fist on the table, making the crockery rattle. ‘I am Lord of the Manor, Squire of Parson’s End. Home from abroad. Home, do you hear me?’

‘My lord, please do not shout. You are frightening them.’

His voice softened, but was no less menacing. ‘Then remember not to behave as if I were an uninvited guest you cannot wait to get rid of. It is you who are the guests, you and your daughters, and that one…’ He nodded towards Miss Quinn hovering in the doorway. To the children he said, ‘Would you like to sit with us and have some apple pie?’

Both girls, too frightened to speak, shook their heads. He beckoned to Miss Quinn. ‘Take them away, they are not as amusing as I thought they might be.’

Quinn disappeared with her charges and a few moments later Charlotte made her excuses and left the men to their port and cigars and went up to her room to sit in a chair by the window, gazing out with unseeing eyes. Her head was reeling. How could she endure living under the same roof as her brother-in-law, she asked herself, supposing he did not decide to throw her out? Even so soon after meeting him, she knew him to be self-serving and pitiless. And she did not like the manner of his two companions who ogled her, almost undressing her with their eyes. And the way they had looked at Lizzie and Fanny made her shudder with apprehension. She would have to watch them and, if they stayed beyond a week or two, she would have to think of moving out—not only moving out, but finding an occupation.

It was at such a time she missed not having a husband. She had loved Grenville dearly and mourned him for a long time and because she lived comfortably under his father’s roof, loved and cared for, she had never given a thought to marrying again. ‘I am content as I am,’ she had told Quinny. But now, now where was contentment? Where was security? Where, oh, where was love? Why did she suddenly feel so bereft, so lonely and not a little frightened? That was silly, she told herself, she feared no one. But how long dare she remain under her brother-in-law’s roof while she found a way of earning a living that would have to include a roof over her head, not only for herself but her children?

Something must be done and done quickly. She sat at her little escritoire and took from it a small velvet bag. It contained a few guineas—not enough to keep the four of them for more than a day or two, for she must include Miss Quinn, certainly not enough to pay coach fares and at least two nights’ accommodation for them to go to her great-uncle. She could write and ask him to send the fare, but her stubborn pride would not let her do it. He might refuse to have anything to do with her and that would be too humiliating to be borne.

Besides, she had made her home here, at Parson’s End. She had grown to love the area, the cliffs, and the sea in all its moods, calm as a pond one day, raging and pounding over the shore almost to the base of the cliffs the next. She loved the pine woods carpeted with needles that crunched under your feet as you walked, and she liked the people, farming people and fishing folk, hardworking, dour and courageous. And as for their children, they were what made her life worthwhile, watching them grow, being able to help them to better themselves with a little education. It was an ongoing, self-imposed task and she did not want it to end, which it surely must if she did not have the means to continue it.

She remembered the stranger on the cliff with a wry smile. He had taken her for a schoolteacher and she remembered thinking that was what it might come to. A school was the answer, one that took boarders, young ladies from wealthy homes whose parents were prepared to pay to have their daughters educated and given some polish before being brought out. If she did that, the village children could still have their school. The wealthy could subsidise the poor. But did she have the right qualifications to attract the wealthy? She would need teachers beside herself and premises and connections. She weighed the coins in her hand and laughed at her foolishness.

She went up to say goodnight to the girls and quietly told Miss Quinn to make sure their doors were locked, though the poor lady did not need to be told; she was already in fear of her life. ‘Tomorrow we will make plans,’ Charlotte told her before returning to her own room and making sure that that door was locked.

She could hear the three men downstairs, laughing drunkenly. They had called for wine and a new pack of cards which was evidence enough that Cecil had not changed his gambling ways. She did not sleep until long after she heard them stumbling up to bed in the early hours and the house had gone quiet.

The next morning, she and the children slipped out of the side door to go to the village. She noticed a carriage arriving at the front as she passed the corner of the house, but, guessing it was John Hardacre, the family lawyer, she decided not to stay to receive him. Foster would alert the still-slumbering Cecil that he had arrived.

They crossed the stable yard to a path that led into the kitchen garden and from there through a side gate of the estate wall on to the road into the village. The damp hedgerows dripped onto the newly thrusting primroses at their base and the burgeoning trees in the meadows on either side moved softly in the breeze and sheltered the new lambs. It should have been a joyful time, this time of new life, but for once it did not raise her spirits. She had too much on her mind.

‘My lady,’ the Reverend greeted her. ‘I did not expect you so early, you do not usually come until after noon.’

‘No, but I need to speak to you, Reverend.’

‘Then come into the church, I was on my way there.’

She sent the children to the classroom and followed him into the church. ‘Reverend, I hardly know how to begin,’ she said, after they had genuflected to the altar and seated themselves in one of the pews. There was a chill in there that matched the chill in her heart. ‘My life has taken a dramatic turn…’

‘I had heard the new Lord Hobart had arrived.’

‘My goodness, news travels fast. Yes, he came yesterday morning and he is not prepared to go on as his father did and that means—’

‘You will no longer be able to teach, is that it? We shall all be very sorry.’

‘No, Reverend, it means that I must teach. And I must be paid for doing it.’

‘You know the village children cannot pay.’

‘Yes, I know that. But I must find pupils that can. And premises. The village children could be included later, when everything is up and running—’ She stopped, daunted by the task ahead of her.

‘I see.’

She knew he did see and was glad that she did not have to explain. ‘What I need to ask you is whether you know where I might find a house…?’

‘For a school?’

‘Yes, but also living quarters for me and my children and their governess.’

‘You surely have not been asked to leave Easterley Manor?’

‘No, but I do not wish to stay. Lord Hobart is a bachelor. It would not be fitting.’

‘No, I see it would not. But what about the uncle you spoke of? Would he not give you a home?’

‘I do not know. I have never even met him and how do I know I won’t be jumping from the frying pan into the fire? Besides, I love living at Parson’s End, my children were born here and they love it too. I do not want to leave the area.’

‘Then, my lady, you really do have a dilemma.’ He smiled suddenly and patted her hand. ‘You are welcome to stay at the Rectory until you have found somewhere. I am sure Mrs Fuller will raise no objections. But as for premises, we will have to put our thinking caps on because I do not want to lose you from the district and I am sure I am not alone in that sentiment.’

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

He rose and she knelt for his blessing. As they left the church she could hear the children arriving for their afternoon lessons. ‘Will you take your class today?’ he asked her.

‘Yes, of course. The children expect it and I want everything as normal as possible for Lizzie and Fanny.’

‘Then while you are with your pupils, I shall go up to the hall and pay my respects to his lordship.’

Charlotte managed a smile as she passed him to go into the schoolroom, wondering, as she did so, what kind of reception he would get.

The children were noisily chasing each other round the room, but quietened when they saw her. ‘Back to your seats, children,’ she said. ‘And out with your slates. Lizzie, you can help Josh with his sums and Fanny can amuse the little ones. I will hear your reading one by one.’

The quiet industry of the classroom soothed her a little, but the worry at the back of her mind would not go away. She could not take advantage of the Rector’s generosity; it would not be fair to him and his elderly wife. And though she had no qualms about being able to run a school, the problem was financing it and finding pupils. She would have to try and borrow the money against future income. If Mr Hardacre was still at the hall when she returned, she would try to see him privately and broach the matter with him. Not for the first time she wondered how he was faring with Lord Hobart.

‘Miss.’ She felt someone tug at her skirts and looked down to see Danny White looking up at her, anxiety writ large on his face. ‘Meg wants to go home. She’s got the bellyache.’

She looked at the lad’s tiny sister, only a toddler, certainly not old enough for school, but if she had not been allowed to come neither would Danny and he was a bright child and deserved whatever education she could give him. Soon he would be able to join the select few who took more advanced lessons from the Rector himself. Meg was holding her stomach and crying. Charlotte scooped her up in her arms to comfort her. Her forehead was hot and she was obviously in some pain. What should she do? She could not let the child go home alone, not even if she sent Danny with her, and she was reluctant to leave her class when the Reverend was absent.

There was nothing for it but to take them all. ‘Enough of lessons,’ she said, suddenly making up her mind. ‘We’ll all take Meg home, shall we?’

The idea was greeted with enthusiasm and, having left a message with the Reverend Fuller’s wife, they set off, headed by Charlotte carrying Meg, Danny beside her and Lizzie and Fanny following with the others in a double file.

The strange crocodile was greeted by smiles from the village women they met, all of whom knew the good work Charlotte did, not only for the children, but the old and infirm. She brought food and clothes, but, more than that, she brought hope. ‘Mornin’, me lady,’ they called. Charlotte returned their greeting and went on her way, with the children singing ‘One man went to mow’ behind her.

The children waited outside while she took Meg into Dr Cartwright’s to ask him to check on her, fully accepting that the account for his services would be remitted to her, for the poor child’s parents could not pay. He felt all over her stomach. ‘What have you been eating?’ he asked her.

‘Nuffin’.’

‘Yes, you have. You’ve been stuffing yourself with something bad, haven’t you?’

‘It were beans,’ Danny put in. Charlotte had not realised he had followed them in. ‘I told her she shouldn’t have.’

‘Beans, what beans?’

‘In the bag in Farmer Brown’s barn.’

‘Seeds,’ the doctor said. ‘Not meant to be eaten. They are for setting in the ground. You’re old enough to know that, Danny, aren’t you?’

‘Course I am. Weren’t my fault. She’d downed a handful afore I saw what her were adoin’.’

‘I thought you were supposed to be looking out for her?’ the doctor demanded waspishly.

Danny looked as though he were about to burst into tears.

‘Don’t blame him, Doctor,’ Charlotte said. ‘You can’t watch children every minute of the day and he’s only a babe himself. Tell me, how serious is it?’

‘Not serious. I’ll give her a dose to help it on its way. She’ll be as right as rain tomorrow.’

Relieved, Charlotte watched while he held the child’s nose and forced a spoonful of foul-tasting medicine down her throat, then they rejoined the other children and were soon at the door of the cottage where Danny and Meg lived. It was no more than a hovel; the pigs up at the hall lived in better conditions, and they even smelled sweeter, but Charlotte pretended not to notice as she explained to Mrs White why she had brought her children home.

‘I’m sorry you’ve been troubled,’ the woman said, taking the child from Charlotte’s arms. Then, to Danny, ‘See what you’ve done, you great lump. That’s what all that book learnin’ does for ye, makes ye forget what ye’re supposed to be adoin’. Yar pa will dust yar breeks when he come home.’

Charlotte was forced to be mediator; she didn’t want Danny forbidden to come to lessons again. Having soothed ruffled feelings, she returned to the remainder of her flock. It was then she saw the stranger again, standing outside the smithy, watching her with the same look of amusement that had so disconcerted her two days before.