face, full red lips and several patches. She wore a pink satin open gown whose laces strained across her bosom, and a petticoat of red silk, beneath which Margaret could see white stockings and red high-heeled shoes. She stared at Margaret. ‘Well, you’re a little out of the ordinary, I must say.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Different, I mean. You look as if you couldn’t say boo to a goose.’
‘Then my looks belie me,’ Margaret retorted, putting her chin in the air. Who did the hussy think she was? ‘Is Master Capitain at home? I wish to speak to him.’
‘Henry!’ the girl yelled over her shoulder. ‘Come on out here and see what’s turned up.’
There was a shuffling noise behind her and a man pushed past her to stare at Margaret with myopic eyes. He wore white small-clothes which were stained with wine or tea, or something of the sort, and a shirt which was opened almost to the waist, revealing an expanse of flabby white flesh. His legs were clad in dirty white stockings but he wore no shoes. He had discarded his wig and his thin white hair stood up at all angles round his head. He had about six chins which wobbled down into a thick neck. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘Did I ask you to come?’
‘No, but I wrote to you. Did you not receive my letter? I am Margaret Donnington.’
‘Margaret who?’
She countered with a question of her own. ‘Are you Master Capitain?’
‘Yes, of course I am. Who else would I be? And I don’t remember any letter.’
‘I am your great-niece. I am Felicity’s daughter.’
‘Great Jehosophat! I thought she was dead.’
Margaret gulped hard to take control of herself, though she felt like fleeing back down the road. ‘She is dead. She died two weeks ago.’ She paused, but he seemed unable to take in what she was saying. ‘Before she died, she told me to come to you.’
‘Why, for God’s sake? We ain’t seen each other in…’ He racked his brain to remember. ‘It must be nigh on thirty years. I did hear she had married. What did you say your name was?’
‘Margaret Donnington.’
‘How did you arrive here?’
‘I came by stage to Ely and then a gentleman going to Winterford Manor brought me on.’
‘Pargeter!’ There was no attempt to disguise the contempt in his voice.
‘No, it was one of his guests.’ She paused, waiting, then added. ‘Are you not going to invite me in?’
‘The house is all in a muddle,’ he said. ‘Not fit to be seen. This slut——’ he indicated the girl at his side, who had continued to stare at Margaret with unveiled amusement ‘—Nellie, here, don’t go much on keeping house.’
‘’Tain’t what I came for,’ the girl retorted. ‘I’m not a servant. If you don’t like it you know what you can do.’
Margaret was wondering if she was ever going to be allowed over the threshold, and he was looking at her with bright little eyes, almost buried in the flesh of his cheeks, as if he wished her anywhere but on his doorstep. It was a wish she shared. At last he said, ‘Better come in, though this ain’t the place for a well-brought-up young lady.’
The girl he had referred to as Nellie laughed as she led the way through a dusty hall to an even dustier drawing-room with heavy old-fashioned furniture and faded velvet curtains. ‘That’s a fact and no argument,’ she said, with a chuckle that hinted at something Margaret was not sure she wanted to know.
‘Get us all a drink,’ Henry ordered the girl, then, turning to Margaret, indicated the settle. ‘Sit down. Tell me what happened.’
The telling did not take long, and he was silent at the end of it, his many chins resting on his chest and his eyes glazed. The glass in his hand was empty and so was the girl’s, but Margaret had not touched her wine.
‘My, that’s a turn up for the books,’ Nellie said. ‘What are you going to do now?’
Margaret looked from her to her uncle, who did not deign to answer for several seconds.
‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t know. Ain’t you got anyone else you can go to?’
‘No, or I would, believe me.’
‘Where’s your father?’
‘He died in India. I was born out there in 1727, but the climate did not suit my mother and, when my father died, she brought me back to England. I was only a baby then; I do not remember him.’
‘Nineteen years old,’ he murmured. ‘Felicity took her time about producing, considering she left here in ’15.’
‘My parents were married two years before I was born, no more.’
‘Hmm,’ he mused. ‘Fancy that little chit managing on her own all that time. What did she do? For a living, I mean.’
‘She was a mantua-maker, and a very good one.’
‘Is that so? Hardly the occupation of a lady of breeding.’
‘Perhaps she had little choice,’ Margaret snapped in defence of her beloved mother, though she had no idea what had happened in the past. If Great-Uncle Henry was a sample of her family, then she did not blame her mother for never mentioning them.
‘And you expect me to welcome you with open arms?’ her uncle asked.
Nellie giggled. ‘Why not? You do everyone else…’
‘Shut up, you witless cow,’ he said to her, then to Margaret, ‘You’d do better turning right round and going back where you came from.’
‘I can’t. I’ve no money.’
‘Neither have I and that’s a fact.’ He sighed. ‘You’d better stay, I suppose. Just until we can think of something else. Nellie, my dear, show her where she can sleep and tell Mistress Clark there’ll be one more for dinner.’
The house, neglected as it was now, had once been very fine, Margaret decided as she followed Nellie up the carved oak staircase and along a wide landing. The people who had built it must have been quite wealthy and had some standing in the community; the building materials would have had to be transported some distance because, apart from willows and a few aspen, there were no trees locally. The proportions of the house were on a grand scale too; lofty ceilings and long windows with leaded panes. Some of the doors along the landing were standing open and revealed large rooms full of worn furniture which had once been good.
One room was obviously in use. It was even more untidy than the rest of the house—the bed was unmade and garments were scattered all over the bed and the floor. Margaret could not help noticing that there was a man’s night shirt and hose as well as women’s clothes. She averted her gaze hurriedly; so Nellie was her great-uncle’s wife! She was younger than Margaret herself and she was certainly not a lady of breeding. But who was she to criticise?
