A Season of Secrets
Read A Season of Secrets Online
Authors: Margaret Pemberton
For my niece, Gemma Steele
Chapter One
AUGUST 1915
It was early morning and eight-year-old Carrie Thornton sat on a sheep-studded hillside, her arms hugging her knees, her face wet with tears. Below her, in one of the loveliest
valleys North Yorkshire possessed, a river curved. On its far bank, beyond an ancient three-arched stone bridge, lay a Georgian mansion sheltered by trees.
With blurred vision and deeply apprehensive, Carrie stared down at it. Gorton Hall was the home of the Fenton family. Carrie was familiar with stories about the Fentons, for when Viscount Fenton
had been a child, her granny had been his nanny. Not only that, but when her widowed father had marched off to war, a little over a year ago, his company commander had been Lord Fenton, and Lord
Fenton had still been his senior commanding officer when, three short weeks ago at the battle of Hooge, German shellfire had ended his life.
The tears Carrie was now shedding were for the father who had been loving and kind and had always had time for her. The apprehension she felt was because of the letter Lord Fenton had written to
his wife, suggesting it might help the granddaughter of his old nanny get over her grief if, for the remainder of the summer, she were to spend a little time each day at Gorton with their
daughters, two of whom were close to Carrie in age.
Ever since her mother had died of diphtheria her granny had said that when she was old enough – twelve or thirteen – there could be no better training for her than to be taken on as
a tweeny at Gorton, and when the news of Lord Fenton’s suggestion had been broken to her, Carrie had said, not understanding, ‘But I’m too young to be a tweeny, Granny.’
Her granny had hugged her close to her ample bosom. ‘You’re not going there to work, silly-billy – and won’t be doing so for a long time yet. You’re going there to
be company for Miss Thea and Miss Olivia.’
Carrie had frowned, still deeply puzzled. She had known Thea and Olivia ever since she could remember, for whenever the family were at Gorton, and not at their London town house, Lady Fenton
would call on her husband’s nanny for a cosy chat, a cup of tea and a slice of home-made ginger cake. When she did so she nearly always brought Thea and Olivia, and sometimes their younger
sister, Violet, with her. Not only that, but the Fentons’ current nanny often walked Thea and Olivia into the village so that they could spend their pocket-money on butterscotch at the
village shop.
‘But why do I have to be company for them at the big house?’ she’d asked, not liking the way it would set her apart from her friends. ‘Why can’t they come down to
Outhwaite to play?’
‘Because that wouldn’t be at all proper,’ her granny had said briskly. ‘Now stop asking questions and just think what a lucky little girl you are, being invited to play
in such a wonderful house.’
Not feeling at all lucky, Carrie wiped the last of her tears away, pushed wheat-coloured plaits back over her shoulders and rose glumly to her feet. Until now, she had never set foot inside the
house and had never expected to until the day when, if she fulfilled her granny’s plans for her, she would begin working there.
Hal was a year older than Carrie, and his father was one of Lord Fenton’s tenant farmers. Hal had told her quite bluntly what he thought of her being invited to Gorton to be a playmate for
Thea and Olivia. ‘It’s going to muck things up,’ he’d said grimly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of a shabby jacket. ‘How can you spend time wi’ them and still
spend time wi’ me? You can’t. You’re not going to be able to do any bilberry-picking, and you’re not going to be able to watch the vole pups take to the water – and
seein’ as how it’s August, it’ll be the last litter this year.’
‘Perhaps Miss Thea and Miss Olivia will want to bilberry-pick and see the vole pups as well,’ she’d said.
Hal had laughed so much he’d had to hug his tummy. ‘Not in a million years, daft idiot!’ Suddenly he’d straightened up. Pushing a tumble of coal-black curls away from his
forehead, he’d said fiercely, ‘And if you’re playmates, don’t call them
Miss
Thea and
Miss
Olivia. Not unless they call you
Miss
Caroline.’ And at
this unlikelihood he’d begun laughing again, this time so hard that Carrie had thought he was going to be sick.
‘Hello, Carrie,’ Blanche Fenton’s voice was low-pitched and full of reassurance as, still holding her granny’s hand, Carrie faced her in the
intimidating surroundings of a room stuffed with gilt-framed paintings, silver-framed photographs and small tables crammed with ornaments. ‘Thea and Olivia are very much looking forward to
you spending time with them.’
Despite her nervousness, Carrie was glad to discover that Lady Fenton was just as nice and approachable within the walls of her home as she had always seemed to be outside it.
She had a cloud of dark hair that she wore caught in a loose knot on the top of her head and, wherever she went, she carried the faint scent of roses with her. Though she seemed old to Carrie, her
granny had told her that Lady Fenton was only twenty-nine, which, she had said, wasn’t old at all.
‘And Gilbert is only thirty,’ she had added, forgetting her rule always to refer to her former charge as either ‘Lord Fenton’ or ‘his lordship’. ‘They
were scarcely old enough to be out in society when they married, and neither of them has any side whatsoever.’
Carrie had been mystified by the word ‘side’ until her granny had explained it meant that Lord and Lady Fenton weren’t pretentious. ‘Which means they behave in exactly
the same way to absolutely everyone, no matter who they are,’ she had added when Carrie had continued to look bewildered.
‘Please don’t worry about anything, Nanny Thornton,’ Blanche Fenton said now. ‘I’m sure this arrangement is going to work beautifully.’ She took hold of
Carrie’s free hand. ‘Jim Crosby will collect Carrie every morning in the pony-trap and bring her home in it every teatime.’
Carrie felt a flash of alarm. As well as being the general handyman at Gorton Hall, Jim Crosby was Hal’s uncle, and Carrie didn’t think he’d take kindly to ferrying her back
and forth every day. He’d think she was getting ideas far above her station in life – as would her friends in the village when they got to hear about it.
Foreseeing all kinds of difficulties ahead, she said a reluctant goodbye to her granny and allowed herself to be led from the room.
‘Thea and Olivia are in the playroom,’ Blanche said encouragingly. ‘Violet doesn’t visit it much, as she is still in the nursery and spends most of her time with Nanny
Eskdale.’
They were walking down a royal-blue carpeted corridor lined with marble busts set on fluted pedestals. Through an open doorway Carrie saw a maid busily dusting. The room looked to be a smaller
version of the room they had just left and she wondered how many other such rooms there were, and how the Fentons decided which room it was they wanted to spend time in.
Another maid, a smart black dress skimming neat buttoned boots and wearing a snowy lace apron and cap, walked down the corridor towards them. She stood to one side as they passed, giving Blanche
a respectful little bob and shooting Carrie a look of curiosity.
Together, Blanche and Carrie turned a corner and began climbing a balustraded staircase carpeted in the same dazzling blue. At the top, on a spacious landing, it divided into two.
‘This is the main staircase of the house,’ Blanche said. ‘I’m taking you this way so that we can look at a few family portraits together.’
The portrait looking down on them as they approached the landing was of a robust-looking gentleman with a shock of silver hair.
‘This portrait is of Samuel George Fenton, Lord Fenton’s grandfather,’ Blanche said as they came to a halt in front of it. ‘He was a Yorkshire wool baron, a Member of
Parliament and the first Viscount Fenton.’
They turned and began to mount the left-hand flight of stairs.
‘This portrait,’ she said, referring to the first painting they came to, ‘is of his wife, Isabella May.’
Isabella May’s stout figure was encased in purple silk. She was heavy-featured and stern-faced, her thin lips set in a line as tight as a trap. Carrie didn’t like the look of her,
but knew it would be bad manners to say so.
There were several more portraits. One was of the present viscount’s late father who, Blanche told her, had spent his early years in India, an officer in the British Army. Carrie liked the
dashing red of his uniform and the wonderful sword at his side.
By the time they reached the next landing, where the royal-blue carpet gave way to carpeting a lot less dazzling, Carrie knew that, where Lady Fenton was concerned, she had never met any adult
she thought more wonderful.
‘The playroom is up here on the third floor, so that noisy games can be played without the rest of the house being disturbed,’ Blanche said. ‘The schoolroom is on the second
floor of the east wing and easier to get to.’
‘The schoolroom?’ Carrie had never before given any thought as to how Thea and Olivia were educated. All she knew was that they certainly didn’t go to Outhwaite elementary
school where, clutching slates and chalk, everyone sat in rows on uncomfortable benches and only their teacher, Miss Calvert, had a desk.