occupants remained fast asleep when the Master of Bellfield entered the room, the third having padded silently over to the settle against the wall and crawled out of sight beneath it.
The first thing the master noticed was the young woman, lying in front of the fire. The second was the unfamiliar clean smell. His eyes narrowed as he strode against the scrubbed stone floor. The woman was lying on her side, one frail wrist sticking out from the thin shawl she had pulled about herself. He frowned as he looked down at her. He had not expected for one minute that she would be able to make good her claim to clean the kitchen. He had no doubt that she must have worked virtually throughout the night in order to do so. Why? Because she hoped to prevail on him to let her stay?
His mouth compressed as he looked at the basket on the table. If that was the case she was soon going to realise her mistake. Soon, but not now. It was half past five. Time for him to leave if he wanted to be at the mill for six, which he most assuredly did. Those who worked at Bellfield knew better than to try to sneak in later when its master was there to watch them clock in.
No foreman could instil the respect in his workforce that a watchful mill master could, nor ensure that the cloth woven in his mills was of such excellent quality that it was highly sought after. Let the other masters and their wives give themselves what airs and graces they pleased. It was Bellfield wool that was the true aristocrat of the northern valleys.
He made to step past the sleeping woman, but then turned to go back to the hall. He opened one of several pairs of heavy double mahogany doors that lined it and strode into the room beyond to remove from a fading red-velvet-covered sofa a dark-coloured square of cleanly woven wool.
Returning to the kitchen, he dropped the wool over her, and then headed for the back door. Other mill owners might choose to ride, or be driven in a carriage down to their mills. He preferred to walk. His head bare, ignoring the cold wind and the fraying cuffs of his shirt and jacket, he strode out across the yard, whilst behind him in the kitchen Marianne opened her eyes, wondering for a few seconds where she was, whilst the cat emerged from its hiding place to rub itself around her feet and mew demandingly.
Ignoring it Marianne fingered the fine wool cover that was now warming her. Someone had put it there, and there was only one person who could have done that. A faint blush of pink colour washed up over her skin.
An act of kindness from the Master of Bellfield? She shook her head in disbelief.
UNEXPECTEDLY—at least so far as Marianne was concerned—after the biting sleet-laden wind of the previous day, the morning had brought a sky washed clear of clouds and sharp cold sunlight, making her grimace as it revealed the grimy state of the kitchen windows.
A commanding cry from the cat had her obediently opening the kitchen door for it. The yard looked a bit more hospitable this morning, and there were even a few hens scratching around it. As she studied them, wondering if and where they might be laying, an errand boy riding a bicycle that looked too big for him came cycling into the yard, grinning cheerfully at her as he brought his bike to a halt and slid off it.
‘Charlie Postlethwaite of Postlethwaite’s Provisions,’ he introduced himself, whilst pointing to the lettering on the bicycle. ‘That’s me dad,’ he told her proudly, ‘and he told me to get myself up here,’ he announced, opening the basket on the back of the bicycle. ‘He said how he’d heard about that old besom that called herself an ’ousekeeper had done a flit, and that like as not she’d have emptied the larder afore she went. He said that he’d heard that the t’master had taken on someone new and all.’
Having removed a small flitch of bacon from his basket, he was eyeing Marianne speculatively.
‘Going’ to be stayin’, are you?’
‘That depends on Mr Denshaw,’ Marianne told him circumspectly folding her hands in front of her and trying to look like a proper housekeeper.
‘Ooh, Mr Denshaw, is it? We call him t’master round here, we do, ’cos that’s what he is. Down at t’mill he’ll be now, aye, and ready for his breakfast when he gets back. Me dad said to say how he’ll be happy to sort out an order for you if you were wishing to send one back with me.’
‘Mr Denshaw hasn’t had time to acquaint me with the names of the tradespeople he favours as yet,’ Marianne responded repressively, but her attempt at formality was rather spoilt when the baby gave a shrill wail and the boy looked past her into the kitchen and gave a low whistle.
‘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
