Hello! Welcome back! You might notice the sudden introduction of setting in this chapter. That's coz all this talk of Perthshire reminded me that I had chosen Berwickshire for its cliff-edge sea side location and then totally forgotten to make the most of it. I'll have to go back and re-write some setting into my previous chapters but here we go, welcome to Berwickshire!
Hope you enjoy this chapter - love to hear what you all think so make sure you let me know and please try to keep your S3 comments nice and vague coz I have at least one reader who hasn't gotten into S3 yet - but for those of you who are up-to-date EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK for Tuesday night! :D
Jemma emerged at last from the cottage and stepped bleary-eyed into what should have been the ruckus of the seven eldest Nash boys scampering about the garden in the late-afternoon light. She could hear the sound of waves crashing against the nearby cliffs, but no other signs of life. The garden was deserted.
"Miss Simmons!"
Jemma looked about her as best she could, but she could see no one.
"Miss Simmons!"
In confusion, she looked up. Dangling from the lower boughs of the great oak above her were seven pairs of bare feet in varying states of grubbiness.
"Has Father done somethin' terribly bad?" one of the bigger boys whispered loudly, clambering down a branch or two to make himself heard over the sound of the ocean.
Jemma did her best to mentally re-trace her steps back to her arrival at the cottage the previous evening. "Not anything that I'm aware of," she whispered back. "Why do you ask?"
"There's a soldier watchin' the house," another boy replied. "He keeps comin' and goin'. We've been spyin' on him all day."
"Wha' was it that he called Robbie?" the bigger boy asked.
"Interferin'" the second boy whispered from higher up in the tree.
"And he called me Ignant," cried a smaller boy. "When everyone knows' m' name's Charlie!"
"No' Ignant," the bigger boy laughed. "He was tellin' you tha' you're ignorant. Tha' just means you're stupid."
"Oi!" the little one shouted. "I'm tellin' Mam you said I was stupid!"
"I didn' say it," his brother chortled. "That snoopin' soldier said it! I'm jus' repeatin' wha' I heard him say!"
"Now, now, gentlemen," Jemma interjected. "None of you are to go and bother your mother. She needs to rest, you understand?"
"Yeah," replied the little one, letting himself fall backward so that he just held purchase of the branch with the backs of his knees. "We know all abou' it, Miss. Don' go near Mam. No' unless you wan' a fierce scoldin'."
"Look," hissed the elder boy, scrambling higher up into the tree. "The soldier's back!"
Jemma looked down the cliff road with interest.
"Nah," another boy argued. "Tha's no' the soldier. The soldier has a red coat and rides ever so slow. This one's in a blue coat and drivin' his horse like a madman."
They watched with interest as this new blue-clad rider charged up the hill and streaked past the cottage gate.
The one driving his horse like a madman was unmistakeably Mr Fitz, his head down and his body low to the animal, galloping swiftly in the direction of Manderston. Jemma was so taken-aback that she almost cried out to him. But before she'd had time to process the appearance of her friend, before the thunder of Franklin's hooves had died down, the boys were once more chirping away in their perch above her.
"Here he comes!" the littlest was shouting. "Ever so slow, like Jeremiah said."
"And if this one's coat hadn' been red," added Charlie, "how would we have even known he was a soldier?"
The logic was hard to argue with but the sight was no less unwelcome. Up the hill, just nudging his horse into a gentle canter, rode Mr Sitwell. There could only have been one reason why this soldier had spent the day haunting the Nash property and trading insults with the Nash children. He was anticipating the emergence of the Nash midwife.
Without the independence her horse provided her, Jemma steeled herself for the long and weary walk home along the cliffs with her unwelcome companion.
"Miss Simmons!" Sitwell called, feigning surprise. "What a coincidence!"
A sudden shower of small boys thudded out of the oak and surrounded her like a phalanx of warriors. If only they could have raised her aloft and borne her home on their bony shoulders.
Sitwell fixed the squalid rabble with a menacing glare before alighting from his horse. "Will you allow me the honour of accompanying you home, Miss Simmons?" he enquired politely, but whatever sheen might have remained on his chivalry was all the more diminished by the fact that Jemma could see no possible way to refuse him.
"Certainly, Mr Sitwell," she sighed, resigning herself to her fate. Two miles worth of tedious conversation when they'd already canvassed the traditional subjects for small talk – if only she had forgotten herself, hitched up her skirts and run to the road to hail Mr Fitz.
When all of the health of all of her family members he'd never heard of or met had been positively ascertained and while Jemma inwardly cursed him for leading his horse as he dawdled along beside her instead of letting her leap into the saddle and gallop off into the sunset, Mr Sitwell gradually unfolded his true purpose.
"It is extremely fortuitous that I should happen upon you this afternoon, Miss Simmons," Sitwell began, and Jemma had to turn her face towards the ocean so that he might not see her maddened expression. "For I have long desired to raise with you a topic of no small importance to myself or to you."
Jemma trudged along silently, her eyes on the white gulls as they whirled above the slate grey sea.
"I know, Miss Simmons, that you live with a humble and unpretentious vision of what your future might hold, and that you restrict your vision prudently, in order to protect yourself against yearning for things that your circumstances will prevent you from seizing hold of."
Intrigued by this description of a woman who sounded so utterly unlike herself, Miss Simmons turned to meet his eye.
"I am not sure that I follow, Mr Sitwell," she replied.
He chuckled to himself. "Come now, Miss Simmons," said he, shaking his head. "Let us not dissemble. You and I have already broached the subject of your tragic resignation to your fate – childless and alone."
"I must beg your pardon, sir," cried Jemma. "But you are putting words into my mouth!"
He nodded condescendingly. "Of course, Miss Simmons. You would never describe your plight in a way that maligned the façade of independence you seek to project. It is a professional necessity, I have no doubt. But I see your heart, Miss Simmons. And I know with certainty that, just like every other specimen of your sex, you long for more than to simply usher other women's children into the world. No, you must be a wife and a mother yourself!"
Jemma was deeply angered by his impertinence but she held her tongue. Mr Sitwell interpreted her silence as a swelling of emotion at being so intimately understood.
"You can lay your secret fears to rest, Miss Simmons," he urged her. "You are trapped atop a tower of self-imposed yet tragic celibacy, but I shall be your knight in shining armour! I shall be your prince, who slays the dragon and comes to claim you for himself! You shall be my wife, Miss Simmons! And I shall be the one to give you the gift of children of your own."
The lady forced herself to take several deep breaths before composing herself to reply. "Mr Sitwell, doesn't tradition insist upon a proposal of marriage taking the form of a question rather than a declaration?"
"We need not stand upon ceremony, you and I, Miss Simmons," he whispered.
"No sir," she replied stiffly. "I think we must. In fact, I quite insist."
"Very well," he laughed. "But, my dear, you'll forgive me for not lowering myself onto one knee. The recent rain would quite ruin my breeches."
She nodded her agreement.
"Miss Simmons," said he, with the smile of a man who knew the answer before he asked the question. "Would you do me the honour of agreeing to become my wife and allowing me to bestow upon you the wifely and motherly duties that will ensure your happiness for the rest of your days?"
Struggling as she was to even begin to fathom the depths of Sitwell's tediousness, somehow she managed to formulate a civil response. "Sir, please do accept my thanks for the compliment you pay me. I am very sensible to the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do other than decline them."
Sitwell's grin grew broader still. "You are very wise, Miss Simmons," he replied with a bow. "For what sort of a courtship do we undertake if you do not at first refuse me? Certainly not the courtship of the women of fashion you no doubt aspire to move among."
"Sir, you quite misunderstand me."
"No, no, Miss Simmons, I understand you perfectly," the gentleman replied with a wave of his hand. "I flatter myself in believing that I accurately drew your character on the occasion of our very first meeting. So, my dear, save yourself the energy of refusing me a second time and instead, direct me to the most appropriate man to whom I can apply for permission for your hand."
"You had better ascertain my permission first, Mr Sitwell," she said firmly. "I think you'd best prepare yourself to receive quite a shock."
"Go ahead, Miss Simmons," he laughed. "I am ready for anything."
She took in as deep a breath as her constitution would allow. "I have not, Mr Sitwell, nor will I ever aspire to move amongst women of fashion. I regard my self-imposed celibacy not, in the way you do, as tragic, but rather as blessed freedom in which I might live and serve as I choose. I need no dragons slayed, nor do I require the services of any knights or princes, regardless of the state of their armour. The sheer number of things you do not know about me, sir, stack themselves up in contradiction of your confidence in a tower that may well reach itself quite sacrilegiously to the heavens and, as evidence of that, Mr Sitwell, I take exception to your description of my vision for the future as humble and restricted. To my mind, sir, my vision of the future quite encapsulates the entire world!"
Mr Sitwell stood opening and closing his mouth, but no sound issued forth.
"In short," the lady continued, "I thank you again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. I could not make you happy and I am convinced that you are the last man in the world who would make me so."
The gentleman huffed a moment, pacing back and forth to the increasing confusion of his steed. He went again to speak but seemed still unable to produce sound. His face grew increasingly red, his manner more agitated until, at last, in utter denial of the chivalric code that had first rendered him incapable of leaving a lady to walk unaccompanied, Sitwell leapt into his saddle and, with a look of burning hatred in place of speech, galloped back along the cliffs in the direction whence he had come.
…
Fitz could not remember a time he had felt more relieved to guide his horse onto the broad drive that led toward Manderston House. Though frantic to see his poor sister, he was thankful to be returning at least a little before Mack. He was quite afraid of the scolding the big man would give him if he saw the state of poor Franklin's hooves after two days of hard riding. However, in this instance, he at least had hope that the squire's long-established affection for Daisy would enable him to overlook Fitz's neglect of his animal. At his call, the reticent stable-boy, Lincoln, appeared from the shadows of the barn and readily enough agreed to look after Franklin. Fitz just had to hope his work would be up to Mack's high standards.
"Mrs Hartley!" he called running through the house and, poking his head into each of the rooms in which she could possibly be found.
"Mr Fitz?" The reply echoed down the hallway from the kitchens. "Is that you home already?" She appeared in the hall with a bustle of skirts, her eyes wide. "We had no idea of expecting you, sir!"
"I know, Mrs Hartley, and I'm terribly sorry, only I rode faster from Triplett's than any messenger could have done." He stopped a moment to catch his breath.
"What on earth is the matter, sir?" Mrs Hartley asked, drawing near in concern. "Can I fetch you a cup of tea?"
Practically hallucinating a teapot and a plate of scones, Fitz managed to focus on the essential business first.
"I'm afraid it's Daisy, Mrs Hartley." Unable to divulge to her all of his fears and concerns, he simply told her the little he knew. "She has had to leave London at quite short notice and makes her way to Manderston even now. I expect her arrival at any moment. I know this is terribly inconsiderate of us but, Mrs Hartley, do you think you could give orders for our chambers to be prepared? I expect we shall be home for some weeks at least."
Half-expecting a scolding, Fitz was startled to see Mrs Hartley smile. "At once, sir," she replied warmly. "It'll be lovely to have some family in the house. We have all been quite lonely without you."
The unmistakeable sound of carriage wheels crunching on the pebble drive heralded Daisy's arrival. Mrs Hartley bustled off to attend to her expanded responsibilities and Fitz jogged through the house and down the front steps to greet his sister.
He nodded to Mack who sat on the perch of the carriage gently tugging the horses to a standstill, and ran forward to open the carriage door for Daisy.
The first thing that caught his eye was his sister's tear-stained cheeks, the second, the fact that she was unmistakeably and, by the looks of things, imminently expecting a child.
"Leo!" she cried, holding out her arms to him. He clambered into the carriage and sat himself beside her on the bench seat, gathering his sister into an embrace.
"My poor Daisy," he whispered. "What on earth has happened?"
"I am so sorry, Leo," she sobbed into his shoulder. "I should have told you everything when I was last home."
"Why did you not?" he asked, still trying to comprehend the enormity of her plight. "Did you think I would have been anything other than sympathetic?"
But Daisy was too overwrought to reply with anything but tears.
"Come inside," Fitz urged her. "I'm only just home myself and we've thrown Mrs Hartley into a frenzy so I cannot guarantee you buttered muffins by the fire."
"The companionship of my brother is all the comfort I need for the moment," she replied, bravely dashing away the fresh tears that fell.
"And you shall have it exclusively," he declared. "In fact, I predict that before the day is out you shall be quite sick of the sight of me."
Daisy shook her head. "That could never be."
"We shall see," Fitz shrugged, smiling sadly. "But I suppose Mack will tire of us quite quickly if we attempt to set up camp here in the carriage." He clambered down and then turned and held out his hand to assist her. It was a shock to see her so altered. Her movements, usually so elegant and graceful, were significantly hampered by her new-found girth and her face, still stained with tears, appeared gaunt and haggard in the fading light. Within him a knot of rage began to form. How could Ward betray them so entirely? It was one thing for the man to turn his back on his bookish brother-in-law once his desired prize had been won, hurtful though it had been. It was another thing entirely to desert Daisy, his affectionate wife, who had wanted nothing more than to be by his side and to love him.
Daisy's grip on his arm as he escorted her into the house was firm and her step was steady. Without particularly thinking, he walked his well-trod path through the house until brother and sister found themselves in the library. Mrs Hartley had obviously anticipated the movements of the pair she'd known since their infancy as two scullery maids scuttled passed them having hastily removed the furniture covers, thrown open the curtains and expertly laid a fire that already roared merrily in the grate.
Before the cushions of their favourite fire-side armchairs had fully taken their weight, Mrs Hartley herself appeared with a well-laden tea tray. Fitz pondered, not for the first time, whether the housekeeper might have descended from a long and noble lineage of fairy godmothers.
Though an expert at keeping her opinions well concealed, Mrs Hartley could not hide her shocked reaction to Daisy's obviously altered state.
"Daisy!" she cried, then slapped her hand over her mouth. "I am very sorry, Mrs Ward," she said hurriedly, the minute she'd gathered her wits. "Please forgive my impertinence."
Daisy eased herself out of her chair and in two strides crossed the floor and threw her arms around the waist of the woman who had, in many ways, raised both her and her brother. "Mrs Hartley!" said she, her tears falling afresh. "There is no impertinence to forgive! I have never wanted to be Mrs Ward to you. I have always been and shall always want you to think of me as Daisy!" She drew back to look into the older woman's face. "Though is it terrible that here am I, about to have a child of my own, and all I want is to return to the freedom and simplicity of childhood myself?" The thought brought on a new rush of emotion and Daisy buried her face in the housekeeper's shoulder. Mrs Hartley hesitated a moment, her hands fluttering at Daisy's shoulders, but then she abandoned her sense of propriety and embraced the younger woman fully.
"Shhh, Daisy," Mrs Hartley soothed. "There's a good girl. We'll have some tea and a little talk and you can tell Leo and I all about it. Pour the tea won't you, Leo my lad?"
Fitz couldn't help but smile to himself. There was something comforting about being mothered by someone who actually seemed to have a portion of natural maternal instinct.
When Daisy had unfolded the sorry tale of Ward's neglect and the hidden vices that seemed to be well ingrained before the couple had even met, the three of them sat nursing their teacups in sober silence.
"Does Ward know about the child?" Fitz asked at last.
Daisy nodded. "I know now that Grantham married me for my fortune and my fortune alone. All his loyalty, all his devotion is to that wicked Garrett. He seemed interested enough in me for the first few months of our marriage," she wryly indicated her swollen belly. "But when I refused to write to Father and ask for more money, he ceased all pretence. Gambling away every last stick of furniture was, I suppose, his way of intimidating me into relenting, and eventually I shall have to acquiesce. He must imagine that the anticipation of a child will force me to call upon Father at last. It's not unreasonable for me to require at least a bed to sleep in. But how shall I explain…" Poor Daisy, collapsed again into tears and Fitz crossed the room to kneel at her feet, grasping both her hands in his.
"You shall not bear the burden of explaining anything, dear sister," he declared. "You are utterly without fault in this terrible set of circumstances."
"Of course I am at fault, Leo," Daisy sighed. "I agreed to marry the man!"
"And you did so with all of our blessing!" Fitz replied angrily. "We who should have protected you from predators like Ward. We were all charmed by him, Daisy. We were all fools!"
Somehow, Daisy seemed to find comfort in this thought. She took up the teapot with a determined attitude and poured fresh tea for the three of them, then sat back in her chair with her dainty cup and saucer. "Let us speak no more of Grantham Ward," she said firmly. "He left me alone in our house in London and when he returns he shall find it empty. I cannot imagine it will take him long to seek me out here, but, until he does, I resolve to be free of him. Leo, you and I shall play house here with Mrs Hartley and I shall, for the first time in months, sleep soundly, eat well and look forward to the birth of my own sweet babe. If my husband refuses to provide for me, I shall have to make do for myself."
Mrs Hartley, quite moved by Daisy's speech, held up her teacup as if in a toast to her once young charge. Fitz followed her example and the three of them fell back into companionable silence, partaking of the excellent muffins.
"Oh, Mrs Hartley," Daisy said at last. "Do you recall that cake I asked Cook to make for me ever so long ago?"
"I think so," replied the housekeeper in vague recollection. "You were hoping to entertain a local lady friend, is that correct?"
Fitz looked over at his sister in some puzzlement.
"That's right, Mrs Hartley," Daisy nodded. "Please ask Cook to make it again. I shall re-issue my invitation as soon as possible."
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