Supervising Sally

Non-fiction by Marina Oliver

Writing Historical Fiction

Writing Romantic Fiction

The Beginner's Guide to Writing a Novel

Starting to Write
by Marina and Deborah Oliver

A Century Of Achievement

History of Queen Mary's High School, Walsall

Castles and Corvedale

Local guide to accompany new circular walk

 

Fiction by Marina Oliver

A Civil Conflict
Campaign for a Bride
Cavalier Courtship
Charms of a Witch
Courtesan of the Saints
Gavotte
Highland Destiny
Highwayman's Hazard
Lord Hugo's Wedding
Lord Hugo's Bride
Masquerade for the King
Player's Wench
Rebel Heart
Restoration Affair
Runaway Hill
Sibylla & The Privateer
Strife Beyond Tamar
The Maple Leaf Trail
The Baron's Bride
Wild Heather
The Cobweb Cage
The Glowing Hours
The Golden Road

Veiled Destiny

A Cut Above The Rest
At the Earl's Command
Courting Lord Dorney
The Accidental Marriage
A Disgraceful Affair

 

As Sally James

A Clandestine Affair
Fortune at Stake
Heir to Rowanlea
Lord Fordington's Offer
Mask of Fortune
Miranda of the Island
Otherwise Engaged
Petronella's Waterloo
The Golden Gypsy

 

As Bridget Thorn

A Question of Love
Fires in the Forest
Hospital Heartbreaker
Island Quest
Theft of Love

 

As Vesta Hathaway

Honor and Passion
Cupid's Shot

 

As Livvy West

Royal Courtship
Her Captive Cavalier

 

As Donna Hunt

Forbidden Love

 

As Laura Hart

Manhattan Magic

© Marina Oliver 2009 First published in Great Britain 2009

 

ISBN 978-0-7090-8832-5

 

Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT

 

www.halebooks.com

 

The right of Marina Oliver to be identified as author
of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

 

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Typeset in 11/14.5pt New Century Schoolbook
Printed in the UK by the MPG Books Group

P
HOEBE KINGSTON LOOKED across the bed at her sister with a mixture of amusement and irritation. It was just like Jane to arrive and start issuing orders. She had always been like that, but since her marriage had become even more autocratic.

Jane Bradshaw was tall and had been stately as a girl. Now, approaching her thirty-fourth birthday, she had grown stout and regal. She favoured highly embellished gowns in dark colours, puce, pewter and chocolate being her favourites. The stoutness could be ascribed to her presenting her husband with six pledges of her affection within little more than twelve years, but Phoebe thought it might also have something to do with the large meals her husband Reginald, a Yorkshire mill owner, demanded.

Phoebe herself was tall, but slender. The sisters both had dark hair which refused to curl. How their fair-haired, diminutive, delicate mother and red-haired father had produced two such tall dark daughters was a mystery. Both, they were told, took after Dr Kingston's father.

Mrs Kingston, lying in the bed, was so tiny she barely raised the blankets. She spoke now, in a hoarse whisper. ‘I knew you would help us, Jane.'

‘Well, of course. Reginald and I always meant to help you after Papa died, but you wanted to be independent. I would have come earlier but for my lying-in. I came as soon as I could safely leave little Hubert with his wet-nurse. Reginald's sisters are quite capable of dealing with the servants, though they are not as strict as I am. However, as soon as you are well enough for the journey, I will take you to Yorkshire. We have an excellent doctor and I will hire a competent nurse.'

Phoebe pressed her lips together tightly. She would not rise to Jane's provocation. Did she think they had no good doctors here in Buxton? And as for a nurse, none could have cared for her mother with the same devotion she had used during the past two months.

Mrs Kingston had contracted a chill in September, which had turned to an inflammation of the lungs, and was only just recovering. Dr Watkins had praised Phoebe for her dedication, and said that without her Mrs Kingston would not be alive today. The medicines she had needed, and the invalid food, had eaten into their tiny income, however, and it had been to save her mother fretting about how they would manage that Phoebe had written to Jane to ask if she would invite Mrs Kingston to stay with her for a few months.

She had not, however, anticipated Jane's response that they must both come and make their home with the Bradshaws.

‘You are living here in two rooms, since you had to give up Papa's house. How can you entertain your friends properly in such inferior lodgings? And look at your clothes – they are not at all fashionable.'

Since Jane's clothes were anything but fashionable, according to what Phoebe had seen in even last year's copies of
La Belle Assemblée
, given them by a friend, she ignored this slur. Jane automatically disapproved of everything Phoebe did, ignoring their straitened circumstances.

‘All our friends are here in Buxton,' she protested. ‘We could never entertain them at your home. The rooms may be small, but we are content.'

‘You will soon make new acquaintances. We have a wide circle amongst the Yorkshire gentry and mill owners, and we entertain regularly, for Reginald's commercial interests, you know. As for being content, how can you be without some of the refinements of life? You cannot even afford to pay for the subscription library, or attend the theatre or concerts.'

‘We could before Mama was ill and needed so many medicines. '

Jane snorted. There really was no other word to describe it, Phoebe thought, suppressing her sudden desire to laugh. Jane was eleven years older and had dominated the nursery and schoolroom. When she married, ten-year-old Phoebe had celebrated by making a bonfire of every possession Jane had left behind her. Clothes, books, sketch books and painting materials had all been heaped on the smouldering embers of the gardener's bonfire, and it had been stirred to glorious life. Phoebe had been discovered capering round it, chanting what she fondly imagined were magic incantations against Jane's ever returning, and tossing the leaves of Jane's diaries on to the flames.

Her punishment had been severe. Papa had never previously thrashed her, and the longest she had ever been confined to her room on bread and water had been a day. The week of solitary confinement during which she had nursed her bruises had, she defiantly maintained, been worth every minute.

Jane, when told of the wickedness, had claimed to forgive her, but in the thirteen years since had rarely let any meeting pass without some reference to it. If she had not teasingly thanked Phoebe for destroying her diary's youthful
indiscretions, it had been a laughing reminder that Reginald had been forced to buy new clothes for her on their return from their wedding journey.

‘When will Mama be fit to travel?' Jane now asked Phoebe, when they left their mother to sleep and had retreated to the drawing-room. ‘I do not wish to leave Reginald and the children for long. And it would be better if you could be settled before the Christmas festivities.'

‘Dr Watkins says she must not travel for at least another two weeks.'

‘I cannot remain here for so long a time. If the weather is clement I will send the carriage for you in two weeks, with a maid I can trust to help you if I have not by then hired a nurse. Fortunately it is only forty or so miles, and if you start early you can do it in a day, while taking it easy for Mama's sake. But my coachman can be trusted to take good care of you.'

‘Thank you, we are grateful,' Phoebe said. She had to be. There was no alternative, and if her mother wished to remain in Yorkshire it would certainly ease their dire financial situation. Until her illness they had, with care, managed on the tiny income her father had left them. Perhaps her mother would not find it as irksome as she would to be forever grateful to Jane and Reginald, and expressing this gratitude in suitable terms every day.

‘It is my duty,' Jane said. ‘As for you, Phoebe, you can help me by teaching the children. Their governess has given notice, the ungrateful wretch. Just because I asked her to teach Mary, when she said she had only been hired to teach Reggie and Anne. As though a three-year-old made any difference! And the older boys are at school during term time, but she objects to looking after them during the holidays.'

Phoebe gulped. She had always hated the idea of being a
governess, but to be such to Jane's children, spoilt brats as they were, would be intolerable. ‘What salary are you offering?' she asked.

‘Salary? Don't be ridiculous. How can I pay a salary to my own sister? When I offer you and Mama a home the least you can do to repay me is help with the children.'

Relishing her Lady Bountiful role, Jane sent Phoebe shopping the following day, instructing her to purchase the items on the list she had written, and nothing else.

‘The money should be sufficient, if you are careful not to be cheated. Keep a record of what you spend on each item.'

Phoebe seethed with annoyance. As if she had not been doing the marketing for the past four years, since her father had died so unexpectedly after a fall from a horse. If anyone knew how to stretch the pennies she did. Donning her old pelisse, which Jane had sneered at, and her much-darned gloves, she managed to leave the house without replying. An argument would upset her mother, who had been allowed to get up and sit beside the fire in the drawing-room.

Could she endure to live with Jane? After only one day she was feeling hurt, angry and resentful of her sister. She had no desire to teach young children, and from what she knew of Jane's brood, they were sly, whining creatures. She was not surprised their governess had left.

What alternative did she have? Becoming a governess in some other household would be preferable, and at least she would be paid for her efforts. Or she might become a companion to an elderly lady. There were plenty of these living in Buxton, or who visited to drink the waters. Perhaps she should visit one of the registries and enquire about
openings. She knew she was temperamentally unfit for either position, but she could, she decided rather bleakly, curb her natural high spirits and behave with decorum. That was something she could not do in Jane's household. Her sister managed to annoy her with almost every word.

Mama would be hurt, and would not understand. Since Papa's death she had clung to Phoebe, and become withdrawn. She still met her oldest friends occasionally, but she was no longer lively, keenly appreciating the ridiculous, laughing with Phoebe at the exaggerated dress some of the dandies wore.

Phoebe sighed. Would it be better to find herself a position now, rather than come to blows with Jane, something she knew would be inevitable if they lived together, and leave then? At least if she left now, they could remain on good terms, she hoped. Jane would be offended initially that Phoebe had rejected her children, but that would soon pass.

She was deep in these thoughts when a lady passing by touched her arm. She was in her thirties, a small, slightly plump woman with short, curly brown hair and sparkling hazel eyes. Elegantly dressed in a dark-blue fur-trimmed pelisse, close-fitting dark-blue hat, and carrying a sable muff, she looked warm and comfortable, unaffected by the sharp wind which was blowing Phoebe's thin pelisse around.

‘Phoebe, my dear.'

‘Lady Drayton! I didn't know you were back in Buxton.'

Beatrice, Lady Drayton was an old friend of her mother's who lived near Jane in Yorkshire. Her husband was elderly and had rarely left his home in the past few years.

‘We arrived at our town house two days ago. Lord Drayton needs to consult Dr Watkins, and I need some new gowns, since we are having a large house party for Christmas, and my wardrobe is sadly out of date. I intended to call on your mother, but I heard she was ill. Not serious, I trust?'

‘She is recovering. She was very ill for some weeks, but Dr Watkins has been very good.'

Lady Drayton nodded. ‘He is one of the best doctors here, but nothing like your dear father. He was the only one who could cure Lord Drayton when he had that persistent ulcer. Is your mother well enough to receive visitors?'

‘I'm sure she would love to see you, Lady Drayton. You were such a good friend when Papa died, helping us to find accommodation. But we will be going to Yorkshire in two weeks, if Mama is well enough to travel.'

‘Yorkshire?' Lady Drayton looked concerned. ‘It's not a good time of year to travel over the Peak if your mother is at all frail.'

‘I know, but Mama wants to go, and Jane will send her carriage. We will be quite comfortable.'

‘So you are going to stay with Jane for a while. I heard she had another son. This is the fourth, is it not?'

‘It is. Reginald will have plenty of heirs for his mills. But we are going to live with them.'

Lady Drayton raised her carefully plucked eyebrows. ‘Live with Jane and her family? Forgive me, child, but will you enjoy that?'

Phoebe laughed ruefully. ‘No, I will not, especially as she intends me to take the place of her children's governess, who has just given notice.'

‘I cannot see you as a governess, my dear,' Lady Drayton said, and Phoebe's determination to avoid such a fate strengthened.

‘Well, I have to become that, or a companion. I would rather work for someone who will pay me, however.'

‘You mean Jane will not give you a salary?'

‘She believes giving us a home is sufficiently generous.'

Phoebe paused. Here was an opportunity that might not come again. Lady Drayton knew lots of people, was well connected, part of a large family. She might be able to help.

‘Lady Drayton, do you know of anyone who needs a companion? I think I would prefer that to teaching children.'

‘I will think about it. I will come and see your mother in a few days. Do give her my best wishes for a full recovery.'