is she? Can I do more to help? Tell me if there is any small task that might be done.’
‘She is gravely ill,’ Dawn murmured through lips that quivered. ‘Thank you for your offer to help. The doctor asked if you would search for the vicar and make him come home. But there is something else you could do first, if you don’t mind.’ Dawn concentrated on practicalities to prevent herself howling. ‘Would you fetch some buckets of water in from outside?’ Having received his immediate nod she carried on quickly towards the kitchen, knowing he would follow. When there, she busied herself checking the heat of the range. She threw a log into the fire to stoke it up. But her shoulders had started to shake, betraying her silent sobs.
Jack drew her into his arms. ‘I’ll assist you with anything at all...but you mustn’t give up hope, not yet.’
He also knew, then. Dawn nodded fiercely, knuckling wetness from her eyes. She broke free of his embrace though it had felt wonderfully warm and tender.
They both worked silently, he bringing the buckets and she decanting the water into pots to heat up. When he had brought her a dozen filled pails she murmured her thanks and told him that she had enough for now and he must go quickly to find the vicar.
As she’d continued to toil at the stove he had put his hands on her shoulders, moving them in a caress of encouragement before leaving. How she had longed to lean into him for his strength and comfort. But she hadn’t turned around, even when she heard the back door click shut. She had remained dry-eyed and concentrated on her task. With a steaming jug in either hand she had made the trip upstairs half-a-dozen times, knocking, then leaving the water outside the closed door. Finally crushed by it all, Dawn had sunk to the floor and stuffed her fists to her lips to silence her own scream. She’d known Eleanor was fighting for her life now it was too late to save her child. Then when it had become quiet she’d sprung up, berating herself for her weakness. She’d stumbled again down the stairs to renew her efforts with kettle and pan.
* * *
The commotion at the back door as Mansfield finally burst in wasn’t enough to stop her furious industry. She carried on, not trusting herself to look at him. But she said stiltedly, ‘The doctor is upstairs with Eleanor. He said you should go to her immediately.’
‘How dare you go against my wishes?’ Peter snapped. His face was livid with indignation and he jerked on Dawn’s arm to turn her about.
‘Go to your wife, sir, without further delay.’ Jack had entered the kitchen behind the vicar and in a single stride had soon positioned himself between Dawn and her enraged stepson-in-law.
‘My thanks for bringing me here, sir, but I don’t believe I invited you into my house,’ Peter spat. ‘The name Jack Valance means nothing to me. Now what in damnation is going on? What havoc has been wreaked in my absence, Mrs Fenton?’
Jack uttered in a voice that dripped ice, ‘Not that it matters much, but I am your new neighbour. What does matter is that you should go to your wife, sir, before it is too late.’
‘It is too late...if you wish to see her, or your son alive.’ Dr Wilson had entered the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked exhausted and immensely sorrowful. ‘I did all I could for her...but I was summoned here far too late.’
Peter Mansfield gawped at the doctor, oblivious to Dawn sinking slowly to her haunches, covering her face with her hands, her whole body shaking with silent sobs.
‘What? What are you saying?’ Peter roared. ‘Never tell me that I had a son at last and you’ve let him die, sirrah.’
‘No... I have not done that. The child has been dead for some time. And your wife has perished because of carrying his corpse within her for too long. You have let your wife die, sir. Had I been summoned at the first sign of her fever Mrs Mansfield might have been saved.’ The doctor was a-quiver with suppressed fury.
Dawn was aware of a heated conversation going on between the vicar and the doctor, but she understood none of it. Part of her wanted to spring up and dash up the stairs and see for herself that the awful news was true, but she felt enervated by grief, unable to move a muscle.
She felt a pair of gentle hands lifting her up, taking her away from the arguing men and into the living room. Jack eased her into a chair. A moment later she had risen, determined to tend to Eleanor in some small way. Jack urged her to sit, then squatted down close to her.
‘I know you want to go to her. But first you must take a few sips of this to steady yourself.’ He held out a brandy flask, got from his coat. When she simply stared at it, he held it to her lips. Like a child she drank, wincing as the liquor burned her throat. She allowed him to make her swallow another mouthful before she shook her head, declining to have any more. She wiped the back of an unsteady hand over her burning lips.
Jack straightened up, allowing her to rise from the chair before enclosing her in an embrace.
‘I thank God that her little daughter is asleep and knows nothing of what’s gone on,’ Dawn finally said hoarsely, burrowing against his shoulder.
‘Amen to that,’ Jack murmured. ‘Would you like me to stay? I’ll remain just outside on the lane. It would be as well to leave the house. The vicar is distraught and better not to provoke him with my unwanted presence.’
Dawn blinked up at him with bloodshot eyes.
‘I’ll always be close by, Mrs Fenton, if you need me. Remember that.’ Jack brought her fingers to his lips. ‘Remember that,’ he repeated in a velvety voice before letting her go.
The bishop had come from Colchester to conduct the service, allowing the newly widowed vicar to join the mourners on the dull March day that Eleanor Mansfield, aged twenty-one, was interred in the Wivenhoe churchyard with her infant son resting in her everlasting embrace.
The funeral had been speedily arranged on the wishes of her husband, then carried out a few days after Eleanor died. Though the time elapsed was short, by then Dawn was able to contain her grief for Lily’s sake. For the same reason the fury and disgust she felt for the Reverend Peter Mansfield also went undisplayed, yet simmered, unabated, within. He had taken no responsibility for the tragedy, maintaining that he had bowed to his wife’s wishes in not summoning the doctor to fuss over her. When Dr Wilson had returned the following day to record the death, he had quizzed Peter over the marks on his wife’s arms. Those had been explained away as injuries received at times when Eleanor had collapsed. Florid in the face, Peter had made it clear that he deeply resented the implications being made. A distraught Mrs Grove had confirmed that indeed her mistress had keeled over on occasions and she had been the one to find Mrs Mansfield on the floor.
The only person who knew the truth could no longer tell it. So Dawn had no option but to give the vicar the benefit of the doubt. The physician’s face had betrayed his scepticism over what he’d heard. The only meagre comfort Dawn had was from knowing she would never again think of, or refer to, Peter Mansfield as her family. He was nobody to her. Yet she must continue to tolerate him because she couldn’t bear to lose touch with her beloved granddaughter.
She glanced at Lily, playing with her toys on the parlour rug, quite oblivious to the fact her mother was gone for ever. Of course the child had asked for her, but had seemed satisfied to know that her mama was with the angels in heaven. Yet every time
