Orphans from the Storm. Penny Jordan
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‘You’ve never brought a babby with you, have you?’ he exclaimed. ‘Hates them, t’master does, on account of him losing his own—and his wife and all. Went into labour early, she did, when t’master were away, and died. Oh, and my cousin Jem said to tell you that if you was wantin’ someone to do a bit of outdoor work, he’d be willin’.’
Marianne had never known a boy so loquacious, nor so full of information. Just listening to him was making her feel slightly breathless. The cat, having finished its business outside, ran back across the yard, pausing to stand in front of her, very much in the manner of a small guard.
‘Here, that’s one of Miss Amelia’s fancy cat’s kittens, ain’t it?’ the boy exclaimed in some astonishment as he stared at the cat. ‘I’d heard how t’master had given orders that they was all to be drowned. Took it real bad, he did, when she left. There was some that said he’d brought her home from that posh school of hers so as he could make her his wife, and that it were on account of that she upped and ran off. Took her cat with her and all, she did, and when it come back, months after she’d gone, t’master had it killed. Some round these parts said that the cat weren’t the only thing he’d done away with, and that he’d killed Miss Amelia an all. Aye—and her cousin, that were t’master’s stepson.’
Such a garbled and gothic tale was bound to be overexaggerated, Marianne knew. Nevertheless she found that she was shivering, and that her stomach was cramping hollowly as small tendrils of fear uncurled inside it to grip hold of her.
‘Thank you, Charlie.’ She stemmed the tide of information, determinedly starting to turn away, hoping that the boy would take the hint.
‘Aye, you’d better go and get some of that bacon on. He’s got a mean temper on him, t’master has, and he won’t be too pleased if he comes back to find his breakfast ain’t ready for him.’
‘You’re right. I shall go inside and cook it now,’ Marianne told him swiftly, exhaling with relief when this time the boy finally swung his leg up and over his bicycle.
‘So,’ she told the cat sitting watchfully at her feet a few minutes later, as she nursed the baby now sucking eagerly at his milky bread, ‘We have two good reasons why Mr Denshaw won’t want to keep me on. The baby, and you.’
She gave a small sigh. If the Master of Bellfield did but know it, she was as reluctant to be here as he was to have her here. But she had given her promise—a deathbed promise that could not be broken.
The baby had finished his milk. Marianne lifted him to her shoulder and rubbed his back to bring up his wind.
Within half an hour of Charlie Postlethwaite leaving, the baby had been fed and changed, and was back in his makeshift crib, now returned to the floor, whilst Marianne was carefully turning the bacon she was frying ready for the master’s return. All the while she kept a cautious eye on the cat, who had forsaken the hearth to go and sit beside the basket, where it was watching the sleeping infant.
‘Don’t you dare get in that basket,’ she warned it.
The cat gave her an obliquely haughty look, that immediately changed to a wary twitch of its ears as it stared at the door, as though it had heard something that Marianne could not.
Sure enough, within seconds, just after the cat had retreated to its hiding place beneath the settle, Marianne could hear the sound of men’s voices in the yard.
Hurrying to the window, she saw a group of men surrounding and supporting the Master of Bellfield. His arms were about their shoulders and a bloodstained bandage was wrapped around his thigh.
Marianne rushed to the door and opened it.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked the nearest man.
‘It’s t’master,’ one of them told her unnecessarily. ‘There were an accident at t’mill with one of t’machines.’
‘Told us to get him back here he did,’ another man supplied.
As the two men now supporting their employer struggled to get him through the doorway they accidentally banged his injured leg, causing him to let out a small moan through clenched teeth.
His face was pale, waxen with sweat, and his eyes were half closed, as though he was not really fully conscious. Marianne could see the bloodstain on the makeshift bandage spreading as she watched.
‘He needs to see a doctor,’ she told the men worriedly.
‘Aye, the foreman told him that. But he weren’t having none of it. Threatened to turn him off if he dared to send for him. Said as how it were just a bit of a scratch, even though them of us who’d seen what happened saw the pin go deep into his leg. Sheered off, it did, looked like someone had cut right through it to me…’
Marianne saw the way the other man kicked the one who was speaking, and muttered something to him too low for her to hear before raising his voice to ask her a question.
‘What do you want us to do with him now that we’ve brought him back? Only he’ll dock us wages, for sure, if we don’t get back t’mill.’
Marianne tried not to panic. They were treating her as though she really were the housekeeper, when of course she was no such thing.
‘Perhaps you should consult your master—’ she began, and then realised the uselessness of her suggestion even before one of the men holding him spoke to her bluntly.
‘Out for the count t’master is, missus, and in a bad way an all, I reckon. Mind you, there’s plenty living round here that wouldn’t mind seein’ him go into his coffin, and that’s no lie.’
Instinctively Marianne recoiled from his words, even though she could well understand how a hard and cruel employer could drive those dependent on him to wish him dead. It was no wonder that some workforces went on strike against their employers.
‘You’d better take him upstairs,’ she told the waiting men. ‘And one of you needs to run and summon the doctor.’
‘You’d best do that, Jim,’ the oldest of the men announced, ‘seein’ as you’re the fastest on your legs. We’ll take him up then shall we, missus?’ he asked Marianne.
Nodding her head, Marianne hurried to open the door into the hall, trying to look as though she were as familiar with the layout of the house as a true housekeeper would have been, although in reality all she knew of it was its kitchen.
She had time to recognise how badly served both the house and its master had been by Mrs Micklehead as she saw the neglect and the dull bloom on the mahogany doors which should have been gleaming with polish. The hallway was square, with imposing doors which she assumed belonged to the main entrance, whilst the stairs curved upwards to a galleried landing, the balustrade wonderfully carved with fruit and flowers whilst the banister rail itself felt smooth beneath her hand.
Two corridors ran off the handsome landing and Marianne hesitated, not knowing which might lead to the master bedroom, but to her relief the Master of Bellfield had regained consciousness, and was trying to take a step towards the right-hand corridor.
Trying to assume a confidence she did not feel, Marianne hurried ahead of the men, who were now almost dragging the weight of their master. Halfway along the corridor a pair of doors stood slightly open. Taking a chance, Marianne pushed them back further, exhaling shakily as she saw from the unmade-up state of the bed that this must indeed be the master bedroom.
‘We can’t lay him down in that, lass,’ one of the men supporting the master told her, nodding in the direction of the large bed. He added trenchantly, ‘That looks like best quality sheeting, that does, and I reckon with the way he’s bleedin’ it’ll be ruined if we lie him on it.’
He was right, of course, but since she had no idea where the linen cupboards were Marianne shook her head and said firmly, ‘Then they will just have to be ruined. How long do you think it will be before the doctor gets here?’
‘Depends