now,’ demanded Edward once the laughter had died down. ‘Alex says you know lots of funny stories.’
‘Well,’ said Thomas, as they gathered round. ‘I could tell you the story of old Dawdley Dan, the peg-leg man.’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ The children flopped eagerly to the floor beside the fire, while Thomas stood on one leg and began hopping about.
‘I need a crutch,’ he said, looking around.
‘Will this do?’ cried Melissa, leaping up to get the hobby horse which was propped in a corner.
‘Just the job!’ said Thomas, propping the head of the horse under his armpit. ‘Now then see you here, old Dawdley Dan,’ began Thomas in his broadest Gloucestershire, “im was called Dawdley ’cos ’e did dawdle, see? Not surprising what with ‘is wooden leg an’ all that . . . An’ ’im did like ‘is rum, yer see . . . and I tell you, a man with a wooden leg wot can’t hold ‘is liquor is quite somethin’ to behold.’ Thomas went reeling round the room, while Edward and Alice shrieked with laughter, and Thomas glimpsed Melissa out of the corner of his eye losing all her shyness. She threw back her auburn hair and chuckled like a baby, while Isobel gazed encouragingly at him with the same dark eyes as her brother.
‘An’ then one day old Dawdley Dan, after ‘e’d ‘ad quite a lot to drink, ’e says, “When I was a lad an’ ‘ad two legs, I dived from the bridge an’ swam all the way across to Over.”
‘“You never did,” challenged one of ’is equally drunk mates.
‘“I could do it now,” retorts Dawdley Dan. “I’ll show yer-”
‘“Not now, you couldn’t, Dawdley,” says ‘is mate, “not with that peg leg of yours an’ all that.”
‘“No? I’ll show yer!” roared Dawdley. “Goddamn your eyes, I’ll show yer. Come on, let’s go to the bridge . . . and then . . . ”’
Thomas by this time had hauled himself up on to the table, pretending it was the bridge, and was reeling around, almost falling off.
‘ ’E slung first his good leg over the side, then ‘is peg leg – an’ there ’e was, sittin’ on the bridge, starin’ down into the dark swirlin’ waters . . . and-’
‘What in heaven’s name is going on here?’ Mrs Milcote stood in the doorway. Her body was rigid with indignation.
The laughing stopped instantly. Five startled faces turned.
Melissa, who had been laughing the loudest, stopped dead at the sight of her mother and thrust her hand to her mouth to stifle the sound. She pulled her gown round her tightly and stared speechlessly.
Isobel recovered enough to say, ‘Oh, Mrs Milcote! Do watch Thomas telling his story about-’
‘Miss Ashbrook,’ Miss Milcote spoke, her words freezing like icicles as they left her pursed lips, ‘I hardly think it is fit for young ladies to be seen in their night-time attire before gentlemen – least of all a . . . ’ For a moment, Thomas wondered whether she would say it: ‘a common working fellow’. But she paused and completed her sentence: ‘least of all a vis-it-or.’ She stretched out the last word meaningfully. ‘I think, sir,’ she looked hard at Alexander, ‘you’d better accompany your young friend back to his chamber now. It is rather late.’
Alexander raised an eyebrow as if he was going to refuse to be told what to do by a governess, even if she was a distant relative, but Melissa had gone to her mother’s side and was looking so humiliated that, for her sake, he swallowed his anger. Instead, he hugged the little ones, Edward and Alice. ‘We’ll hear the rest of the story in the morning,’ he reassured them. ‘Now, goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Alex,’ they chorused bleakly. Isobel ran forward and embraced her brother fiercely. ‘It’s so good to have you home, Alex! So very good.’ Then she turned and bobbed to Thomas. ‘Goodnight, Thomas. I do hope your chamber is to your liking. We want you to enjoy your stay at Ashbrook.’
Thomas gave a short bow, ‘Thank you, Miss Isobel,’ and he followed Alexander out of the room.
Mrs Lynch patrolled the corridors of Ashbrook. Her last duties were to ensure that there were sufficient candles burning outside the bedchambers to get through the night. As she passed the quarters of Mrs Milcote and her daughter, she heard raised voices and paused to listen.
‘How could you speak to us like that in front of Alexander and Thomas!’ protested Melissa. ‘I felt so humiliated.’
‘Dear girl . . . ’ Mrs Milcote’s voice was so low that Mrs Lynch had to press her ear to the door to hear her. It was clear that Mrs Milcote had ambitions for her daughter. Marriage, perhaps? Mrs Lynch had noticed how Mrs Milcote had been grooming Melissa, paying extra attention to her education and, in particular, her music. Was this to make her eligible – for Alexander? Mrs Lynch smiled to herself as she heard Mrs Milcote chastising her daughter for her lack of decorum. She was as sure as she could be that Sir William would not consider a penniless, minor relative to be a suitable match for Alexander, his elder son and heir, no matter how pretty and talented she was.
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