Forever Yours (21 page)

No one believed the premature baby story. Rebecca had been a plump and bonny seven-pounder, nothing like the scrawny little scrap Andrew’s Toby had been when he’d been born six weeks early. No, everyone had known but of course they’d all assumed the baby was his, that they’d jumped the wedding night a mite early as more than one engaged couple did. Nothing had been said directly to him or Tilly, but he could imagine the conversations that had gone on behind closed doors. ‘They’re not the first and they won’t be the last.’ ‘Well, what can you expect when the sap’s running high and they know they’re going to be wed shortly?’ ‘At least he did the decent thing and married the lass, but then who wouldn’t jump at the chance of marrying a bonny lass like he’s got?’ And so on and so forth.

Oh aye, he’d walked round for weeks after Rebecca’s birth knowing what folk were thinking and hearing the edge to their words of congratulation. And Tilly, no matter how he’d ranted and raved in that first couple of days after she’d told him she was expecting, she’d looked him straight in the face, her eyes never flinching from his, and maintained the baby was his. She’d even had the gall to say the ‘premature’ birth was a result of the mental suffering he’d inflicted on her since the wedding night. He hadn’t touched her since that night and nor would he. She had his name but he was damn sure she wouldn’t have any other part of him. Just to look at her now made him sick.

Many was the time he’d wonder what his brothers would say if he told them he’d only had her the once. But they wouldn’t believe him. No one would believe him. Why would any man be such a fool as to work and provide for a bairn that wasn’t his and a wife that was little better than a whore, just to save face? They’d say he was barmy, a candidate for the asylum, and they’d be right. But although his guts writhed every time he walked into the house, he’d rather be sliced open and have them spill out on the ground than anyone suspect the truth.

He heaved himself off the wall and began walking slowly back towards his mother’s backyard. Who was this bloke who’d had Constance so scared she’d taken off and left everything and everyone dear to her? And Mabel, she’d worshipped the ground the lass walked on. Why hadn’t she made a stand rather than lose her? It didn’t make sense, but then women’s logic was beyond him at the best of times. How had Tilly thought she had a chance of fooling him that he was the first and the father of Rebecca? But perhaps she hadn’t cared, once the ring was on her finger. He had been the simpleton she’d fastened on when she’d decided she wanted a meal-ticket for life, and in truth she’d known him better than he’d known himself. She’d banked on the fact that he’d keep quiet rather than be known as the buffoon who’d let himself be duped. Aye, she’d had his measure, all right.

‘Da, I’ve been waiting for you.’

Rebecca came running towards him when he was halfway down the lane, and when she nearly went headlong on a piece of ice he caught hold of her arm, his voice harsh when he said, ‘What’s your mam doing, letting you out here without your hat and coat? You’ll freeze to death or break your neck.’

Subdued now, the child answered, ‘I slipped out to wait for you without Mam knowing. If I’d got my coat she’d have twigged.’

As Matt looked down at the small head he sighed inwardly. Rebecca was a miniature replica of her mother, and if Tilly loved anyone she loved her daughter. He, on the other hand, had never made any secret of the fact he had little time for Rebecca, but such are the quirks of nature that the child adored him and would escape her mother’s presence whenever she could. More gently now, he said, ‘Look, it’s beginning to snow and here’s you in your clean Saturday pinny with your hair in a ribbon and you’re going to get wet. Come on out of it.’

When a small hand crept into his as they walked along he didn’t remove it but it held no joy for him. If Tilly hadn’t fallen for a bairn he doubted she would have gone through with marrying him; they’d had one row after another in the weeks leading up to the wedding day – most of which, he had to admit, had been down to him. Looking back, he could see she had known he didn’t love her, even before he’d fully realised it himself, but she’d stuck with him because she’d needed a patsy to pin the label of da on for her child.

Times he’d searched Rebecca’s face for a clue as to who had fathered her, but she was Tilly to a T, it was as simple as that. Outwardly, that was. In nature she had none of her mother’s brashness. Although she was as bright as a button the child was shy, reflective even. His mam always described her as having an old head on young shoulders and she was right.

When they reached the backyard Matt braced himself for entering the house. The family get-togethers he had once loved he now loathed and avoided whenever he could; they brought the strain of living a lie to the fore, and oft-times he sensed his family’s sympathies were all with Tilly. She was bonny and amiable and kept the house clean and himself and the child well fed; his own mother had said that to him a few months ago when she’d asked him what was wrong between his wife and himself. Whereas he was seen as a morose individual who didn’t know on which side his bread was buttered; his mother had said that an’ all when he’d told her to mind her own business.

‘I’ve done a picture for you on my slate.’

Rebecca brought him back to himself and he looked down at her as he opened the back door and they stepped into the scullery. ‘Oh aye?’ he said without any real interest.

‘It’s of a bird flying in the sky, flying high above the rooftops and all the people far below.’ Her fingers were still resting in his and her small face was solemn. ‘And there’s another bird, a little one, with it. They – they’re together.’

For a moment, a brief moment, the gnawing loneliness that was always with him these days lifted. His fingers closing more tightly round Rebecca’s, he said softly, ‘Come and show me, hinny.’ And he opened the kitchen door.

In the five years that had passed since Constance had been promoted to under-nanny her life had changed beyond recognition. Sir Henry and Lady Isabella had been as good as their word and she had travelled with the family to Italy each summer to stay at Lady Isabella’s father’s country estate on the eastern shore of Lake Garda. The Morosini family also had magnificent townhouses in Florence and Rome, but Lady Isabella preferred the beauty and tranquillity of the Garda estate where the children could run wild in a way they were never allowed to do in England, and where each day she seemed to increase in strength and vitality.

On Constance’s first trip, the vibrant colours of Italy had dazzled her: the azure sky, cobalt sea, golden sunshine day after magical day, silver olive trees and green vines, and white marble. The villa itself was a splendid sixteenth-century fairytale castle of a place, built in pinkish terracotta bricks with turrets and spires which perfectly complemented the richness of its interior decoration. The villa was shaded by huge chestnut trees, and a terrace which ran the length of the three-storey building overlooked the lake and a shallow harbour for fishing boats.

All the children’s meals were eaten al fresco on the terrace, and over the summer Gwendoline and Edmond turned nut brown, although Charlotte, already beginning to think like a little lady, wore a big straw hat to shade her complexion and carried a parasol when she was outside.

For the rest of her life Constance was to look back at those wonderful summers as an awakening of a part of her she hadn’t been aware existed but which changed her irrevocably. Sir Henry and Lady Isabella liked to expose the children to culture and history, so although a great deal of the time was spent swimming and fishing in the lake and sailing in the company of Roberto, the Morosinis’ boatman, other days were devoted to visiting churches and cathedrals, art galleries, and ancient buildings and amphitheatres. One evening Edmond was left in the care of the Morosini bevy of servants and Constance accompanied Charlotte and Gwendoline and Nanny Price, along with members of the family, to Verona for a performance of
Romeo and Juliet
. Constance had had no idea what to expect, but when they reached the Piazza dei Signori and the production began, she was entranced. Italy itself entranced her. Each time they had to leave to return to England she felt like crying along with the children.

Her new life hadn’t been all plain sailing at first though. Sir Henry had made her position as one of the upper servants very clear to Mr Howard and Mrs Craggs, but that didn’t mean they had to like the fact that a mere kitchenmaid was now one of their elite circle. Surprisingly it was Nanny Price – with whom Constance had expected to be at odds – who proved to be her greatest ally, along with Florence, who bathed in the reflected glow of Constance’s act of heroism, being ‘family’. The fact that Constance had, in one fell swoop, taken Edmond off the nanny’s hands, was the main cause of her favour with Enid Price at first, but then due to Constance’s willingness to learn and her unassuming manner, the older woman began to treat her kindly for herself. Eventually Estelle Upton, Lady Isabella’s personal maid, and Sidney Black, the valet, included Constance in their conversation at mealtimes in Mr Howard’s room, but the house steward, along with Mrs Craggs and Mr Rowan, stubbornly refused to do more than acknowledge her presence. She hadn’t come up the hard way, Mr Howard was heard to mutter to Mrs Craggs and the butler. She hadn’t earned her stripes, and he, for one, didn’t agree with elevating a mere slip of a girl to such dizzy heights.

Constance knew exactly how the three felt. She could hardly fail to notice their disapproval, but with Enid and Florence backing her and Estelle and Sidney on her side she ceased to worry about it after a while. The master and mistress were for her. She knew it and the rest of the household servants knew it, and in the long run that was all that mattered. Master Edmond could be a bit of a handful at times and she longed to see more of her grandma – Ivy had brought her a few times since Constance had been promoted but it was never enough – but on the whole she was happier than she had ever expected to be away from the village and Matt. Indeed, that life – and even Matt too – had faded into little more than a pleasant memory. The girl who had fallen so hopelessly in love was a different being from the woman she was now. Grange Hall was real. Travelling to Italy and Bath and Scotland with the family was real. Sitting in with Mr Wynford, the young tutor who was employed to prepare Edmond for preparatory school when he was a little older, was real. Already she knew a smattering of Latin and French, and she had been able to converse sufficiently well in Italian to make herself understood since her second visit there. Mr Wynford had informed her that she had a natural aptitude for languages. Some people had it and some didn’t, he’d told her, and she definitely had a propensity that way.

She glanced at him now as she listened to Edmond stumbling through his French verbs. He was a nice young man, good-looking in a slightly foppish sort of way, but when he had asked her to call him Nicholas when it was just the two of them and Edmond in the room, she’d known she had to make it clear she wasn’t interested in him in ‘that’ sort of way. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him or find him interesting, she could listen to him for hours when he was talking about literature and the Classics, but there was no spark. Nothing that made her heart beat faster.

She glanced out of the schoolroom window. The day was hot, the odd fluffy white cloud sailing in the blue sky. Green velvet lawns, bathed in sunshine, stretched away into the distance, neatly manicured flowerbeds and sculpted trees adding to the charm of the grounds. Through the open window the sweet heavy scent of full-blown roses drifted into the room now and again on the warm breeze, The outer walls of Grange Hall were covered with the carefully cultivated flowers, along with rare honeysuckles and other creepers in bloom.

Constance stretched surreptitiously. They had only recently returned from Italy after their two months at the Morosini villa, and it wasn’t only the children who found it hard to adapt to being home, especially when the weather seemed determined to remind them of long hot days watching the wild birds on Lake Garda and eating fish drawn straight out of the water and cooked to perfection by the Morosinis’ excellent chef.

Not that she was complaining, she told herself in the next moment. Not a bit of it. She was only too aware that the kitchen staff would be toiling away in the bowels of the house with barely a shaft of sunlight falling on them, whereas shortly she and Edmond would be free to take a walk in the grounds until teatime.

When the schoolroom door opened and Estelle beckoned her, Constance made her apologies to Mr Wynford, told Edmond to be a good boy until she returned and then followed Estelle into the narrow corridor. ‘Lady Isabella wants to see you in the drawing room,’ Estelle said quickly, ‘and Connie, your aunty is with Cook in the kitchen. I think it might be bad news from home.’

Constance didn’t wait to hear any more, fairly flying down the corridor and on to the landing. There she remembered herself and forced her feet to walk down the winding staircase when she really wanted to run, but none of the senior staff would behave in such an undignified way. When she tapped on the door and entered the drawing room, Lady Isabella was standing in front of the fireplace and Constance saw immediately that she was troubled.

‘Come in, Shelton, and sit down.’ Lady Isabella sat down herself as she spoke, indicating a chair opposite hers with a wave of her hand. ‘Has Upton told you your aunt has arrived unexpectedly?’ And without waiting for an answer: ‘Yes, yes, of course she would have done. I’m afraid your aunt’s the bearer of grave news. It appears your grandmother is seriously ill.’

Constance’s body slumped for a moment before she pulled herself straight. Seriously ill. That meant she was still alive. For a moment she had thought the worst.

‘Your aunt is prepared to escort you home at once. I understand she is partaking of some refreshment but then she will be ready to leave. And you must stay as long as you are needed, my dear. I know that is what Sir Henry will say when he returns from Town. I’m sure seeing you will do your grandmother good.’