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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 (#ulink_6451c41d-b931-56cc-b15f-2feff2be3c6d)
‘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.’
