Читать книгу Orphans from the Storm - Пенни Джордан, Penny Jordan - Страница 13

‘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.’

Her words caused Marianne to go over to the baby and place a protective hand over him. She had seen babies in the workhouse tightly swaddled and fed laudanum to keep them quiet, their little bodies so still that it had been hard sometimes to tell whether they lived or died. She would never allow little Miles to be treated like that.

‘Some say that his sister should have given him a home, but I can’t see that there’s any sense in going blaming a Christian woman like Mrs Knowles for not wanting to take on a bad lot like him. Always in trouble, he was. Ran away from the poor house once and had to be brought back. Anyways, Mrs Knowles and her husband was living away then, on account of Mr Knowles’ health. Always delicate, he were, and it’s no wonder he went and left her a widow. Luckily for her she’s got a good son to do his duty by her. Like I said, she’s a true Christian woman is Mrs Knowles. Recommends me to all her friends, she does, when they want any nursing done.’

Marianne tried not to show her astonishment. From what little she had seen of the nurse, she was not only a gossip and partial to a drink, she was also dirty—and, Marianne suspected, all too likely to neglect her patients.

‘Does Mrs Knowles live locally? I am sure she would wish to be informed of her brother’s accident. It may be that she will also wish to oversee his convalescence,’ Marianne suggested.

‘Well, as to that, after the way he treated her the last time she tried to help ’im, I’d be surprised if she wanted to set foot inside this house again, brother or no brother. Told ’er he put the blame for his wife dying and taking the babby with her on her shoulders, when everyone knew that it were ’is fault. Even came over herself when she’d heard his missus had gone into labour, and sent for Dr Hollingshead as well. See, her and the missus were close friends, and she told her that she blamed herself for introducing her to ’er brother. No, there’s no call to go sending any message to Mount Vernon to tell Mrs Knowles what’s happened. ’Cos even if she was to be Christian enough to come and see him, she ain’t there. She spends the winters down in Torquay, on account of her Jeffrey’s chest. Won’t be back until the spring starts, and by that time…Well, owt could happen.’

It was plain to Marianne what the nurse would like to see happen, and it shocked her that someone who was supposed to care for the sick should show such relish at the prospect of death.

Marianne could see the nurse surreptitiously removing a flask from her pocket and tipping some of its contents into her tea, and her concern deepened.

By the time Marianne was opening the back door to the tall, thin man who introduced himself as, ‘Archie Gledhill, t’mill manager,’ the nurse was asleep and snoring, and smelling strongly of drink.

‘Yes, do come in Mr Gledhill.’ Marianne smiled politely at him. ‘I am Mr Denshaw’s new housekeeper, Mrs Brown.’

‘Yes, I ’eard as to how you was ’ere. And lucky for t’master that you are an’ all,’ he told her, glancing approvingly round the pin-neat kitchen. His approval turned to a frown, though, when he saw the nurse. ‘You’ll not be letting ’er anywhere near t’master?’ he asked Marianne sharply.

‘Dr Hollingshead sent her up,’ Marianne told him.

‘T’master won’t want her ’ere. Not after what happened to his missus and babby. If you’ll take my advice you’ll send her about her business.’

‘If you think I should.’

‘I do,’ he assured her grimly.

Marianne nodded her head. His words had only confirmed her own fears about the nurse’s suitability for her work.

‘I’ll go and inform Mr Denshaw that you’re here. If you would like a cup of tea…?’

‘That’s right kind of you, missus, but I’d best see the master first.’

‘If you would like to wait here, I’ll go up and tell him now,’ Marianne told him.

She had closed the door to the master bedroom when she had last left it, but now it was slightly ajar. She rapped briefly on it, and when there was no reply she opened it.

A tumble of clothes lay on the floor: the shirt the Master of Bellfield had been wearing, along with some undergarments. The room smelled of carbolic soap, and there were splashes of water leading from the bathroom.

It amazed Marianne that a man in as much pain as Mr Denshaw had felt it necessary to get out of bed, remove his clothes and wash himself. And whilst ordinarily she would have admired a person’s desire for cleanliness, on this occasion she was more concerned about the effect his actions might have had on his wound.

Without stopping to think, she bustled over to the bed, scolding him worriedly. ‘You should have called for me if you wanted to get out of bed.’

Immediately a naked hair-roughened male arm shot out from beneath the covers and a hard male hand grasped her arm.

‘And you would have washed me like a baby? I’m a man, Mrs Brown, and that ring on your finger and the marriage lines you claim go with it don’t entitle you to make free with my body as though it were a child’s.’

Marianne could feel her face burning with embarrassment.

‘Mr Gledhill is here,’ she told him in a stilted voice. ‘Shall I bring him up?’

‘Aye.’

‘I have spoken with Charlie Postlethwaite about the laundry. I have not had time to check the linen closet properly as yet, but I shall do my best to ensure that your nightshirts are…’

To her dismay it was a struggle for her not to look at his naked torso as she spoke of the item of clothing he should surely have been wearing.

‘Nightshirts?’ He laughed and told her mockingly, ‘I am a mill master, Mrs Brown, not a gentleman, and I sleep in the garment that nature provided me with—my own skin. That is the best covering within the marital bed, for both a man and a woman.’

Marianne whisked herself out of the room, not trusting herself to make any reply.

For a man who had injured himself as badly as he had, the Master of Bellfield had a far too virile air about him. Her heart was beating far too fast. She had never before seen such muscles in a man’s arms, nor such breadth to a man’s chest, and as for that arrowing of dark hair…Marianne almost missed her step on the stairs, and her face was still glowing a bright pink when she hurried into the kitchen to find Mr Gledhill rocking the baby’s basket and the chair beside the fire empty.

‘T’babby woke up and started mithering.’

‘I expect he’s hungry,’ Marianne told him.

‘Aye, he is an all, by the looks of it. Got a little ’un of me own—a grand lad, he is,’ he told her proudly. ‘I’ve sent t’nurse packing for you, an’ all. Aye, and I’ve put the bolt across t’back door in case she were thinking of coming back and filling her pockets. A bad lot, she is. There’s more than one family round here ’as lost someone on account of her. After what happened to the master’s missus, me wife said as how she’d rather t’shepherd from t’farm deliver our wean than Dr Hollingshead.’

‘I’ll take you up to Mr Denshaw now, if you’d like to come this way?’

This time when she knocked on the bedroom door and then opened it Marianne purposefully did not look in the direction of the bed, but instead kept her face averted when she announced the mill manager, and then stepped smartly out of the room.

It was some time before the mill manager returned to the kitchen, and when he did he was frowning, as though his thoughts burdened him.

‘T’master has told me to tell you that for so long as he is laid up you can apply to me for whatever you may need in your role as housekeeper. He said that you’re to supply me with a list of everything that needs replacin’—by way of sheeting and that. I’m to have a word with the tradesmen and tell them to send their bills to me until t’master is well enough to deal wi’ them himself. There are accounts at most of the shops.’

He reached into his pocket and withdrew some bright shiny coins, which he placed on the table.

‘He said to give you this. There’s two guineas there in shillings. You’re to keep a record of what you spend for t’master to check. If there is anything else I can ’elp you with…’

‘There is one thing,’ Marianne told him. ‘The house is cold and damp, and I should like to have a fire lit in the master’s bedroom. There is a coal store, but there does not seem to be anyone to maintain it, nor to provide the household with kindling and the like.’

The mill manager nodded his head. ‘T’master said himself that he wanted me to sort out a lad to take the place of old Bert, who used to do the outside work. Should have been replaced years ago, he should, but t’master said as ’ow he’d worked ’ere all his life, and that it weren’t right to turn him out. Not that ’e’d been doing much work this last year. ‘The mill manager shook his head. ‘Too soft-’earted t’master is sometimes.’

Marianne couldn’t help but look surprised. Soft-hearted wasn’t how she would have described the Master of Bellfield.

‘I’ll send a lad up first thing in the morning. I know the very one. Good hard worker, he’ll be, and knows what he’s about. Master said that you’ll be needing a girl to do the rough work as well.’

Marianne nodded her head.

For a man who less than a handful of hours ago had barely been conscious, her new employer seemed to have made a remarkable recovery.

‘And perhaps if Mr Denshaw could have a manservant, especially whilst he is so…so awkwardly placed with his wound?’ Marianne suggested delicately.

The mill manager scratched his head. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I don’t think he’d care for that. He doesn’t like all them fancy ways. Mind, I could send up a couple of lads, if you were to send word, to give you a hand if it were a matter of lifting him or owt like that?’

‘Yes…thank you.’

He meant well, Marianne knew, but that wasn’t what she’d had in mind at all. With the nurse dismissed, she was now going to have to nurse her employer, and if what she had experienced earlier was anything to go by, the Master of Bellfield was not going to change his ways to accommodate her female sensibilities.

‘T’master also said to tell you that you can have the use of the housekeeper’s rooms, fifteen guineas wages a year and a scuttle full of coal every day, all found.’

Fifteen guineas! And all found! Marianne nodded her head. Those were generous terms indeed.