Cherry Tree Lane (8 page)

‘That’s good. But you look exhausted. Did you get any sleep at all?’

He shrugged. ‘I can manage without. I’ve done it before.’

She looked at the little fob watch pinned to her prim grey jacket. ‘I can give you a break for a couple of hours. Go and lie down. I’ll wake you when it’s time for me to leave.’

He hesitated.

‘Do as I say!’

She went into the kitchen and tidied it up, because she wasn’t too proud to do her own housework if necessary, or help her neighbours. She kept an ear open for the stranger, and when the two hours were nearly up, went and washed her. The woman’s breathing might have improved slightly, but it was still rasping in her chest, and it was still touch-and-go whether she’d recover.

Such a pity if she didn’t. She had a pretty face and couldn’t have been more than thirty.

On the Wednesday morning Jacob sent both children to school, repeating his warning to tell no one about their guest. He was feeling
deep-down
tired for lack of sleep, so took his cup of tea into the front room and sat with it by the fire, watching her. He’d done that a lot over the past few days. She’d been quite slender to start with, but flesh had been stripped off her, leaving a frail, ethereal-looking creature. He’d seen that word in books and looked it up in his dictionary, but had never been able to use it before. Now he knew exactly what it meant.

He wondered what she was really like. She had hard-working hands, reddened, marked with needle pricks from sewing. His wife’s hands had been like that.

As if she could feel him staring at her, the stranger began to stir. Her head moved from side to side, then her eyes slowly opened. She closed them again, blinked, then opened them fully. Once again, he was struck by how blue they were, like the periwinkles that grew down one end of his garden. He’d always liked those flowers and spared a clump or two when weeding, for the pleasure they gave him.

This time, she was aware of her surrounding and gasped in fear at the sight of Jacob, her eyes darting to and fro as she tried to work out where she was. He sat perfectly still and asked calmly, ‘How are you feeling now?’

She tried to speak, but her voice came out as a croak.

‘You’re probably thirsty,’ he said. ‘Shall I get you a drink? My son brought in some fresh water from the well before he went to school.’

‘I remember … a child. A girl?’

‘Yes. My daughter Sarah. She’s been helping me look after you. My son found you lying unconscious in the lane during the storm.’

‘Storm?’ She repeated the word, with a dubious glance towards the sun streaming in through the window.

‘A really bad one, too. Trees uprooted, roofs damaged, and some of my seedlings battered into the ground.’ He brought the water and helped her drink, then asked, ‘Would you like a cup of chicken soup? Miss Newington brought some yesterday. I can soon warm it up. They say it’s very nourishing and you’ve been quite ill.’ She still was, but he didn’t say that, wanted her to think she was recovering.

She nodded.

It didn’t take long to warm up a cupful. When he brought it back, he thought for a minute she was asleep, but she opened her eyes again, looking at him warily. He felt as if he was dealing with a wild bird that would rather fly away than stay – and for some strange reason he didn’t want her to leave. He set the mug on the hearth. ‘We’ll have to leave that to cool for a minute or two, else you’ll burn your tongue.’

She tried to sit up, but couldn’t. ‘I feel … so weak.’

‘You’ve had pneumonia.’

She began to cough, fighting for breath until the spasm passed.

‘Let me help you sit a bit higher.’

She flinched back.

He stilled. ‘I won’t hurt you! What sort of fellow do you think I am?’

She took a deep, shuddering breath and this time allowed him to slip an arm round her shoulders and ease her into an even more upright position, propped against the pillows. When he held the mug to her lips, she drank eagerly.

Once she’d emptied it, he stepped back, not wanting to loom over her. ‘From what you said when you were delirious, it was obvious you’re running away from someone. I don’t know who it is, but you’re quite safe here with us, I promise you.’

The flush had faded from her face now, in spite of the warmth of the room, and she was looking chilled again, her cheeks devoid of colour. Even her lips seemed bloodless.

‘My name’s Jacob – Jacob Kemble,’ he said by way of encouragement.

‘Oh. Yes. My name’s Mattie …’ She broke off, not giving him her surname.

‘Mattie, short for Matilda?’

She nodded.

‘I had an aunt called Matilda. Auntie Tilda, we called her. Have you any family we should tell? Someone who’ll be worrying about you?’

She shook her head. ‘No. There’s no one left.’ Her eyes filled with tears and she swallowed convulsively.

‘Then you’d better stay here with us till you’re better, hadn’t you?’

She regarded him even more warily.

He smiled. ‘I dare do nothing else but keep you. My Sarah’s decided to adopt you, like she does injured birds and other little creatures. She’ll be fussing over you the minute she gets back from school.’

‘I can’t impose.’

She began coughing again and he gave her a clean handkerchief, holding her as the spasms racked her. ‘You don’t really have a choice. You can’t even sit up on your own.’

She stopped coughing and he waited. When her breathing became deeper and she said nothing, he realised she’d fallen asleep, cradled against him. He looked down at her pale face and that pretty marigold-coloured hair, and felt tenderness suffuse him. ‘I wonder who’s hurt you so badly and where your family are,’ he murmured. Perhaps they were all dead. She’d had a grieving look on her face when she said there was no one left now.

After he’d propped her against the pillows again, the impulse to stroke her cheek was irresistible, and the skin was indeed as soft as it looked. Then he drew the blanket up carefully and tiptoed out into the kitchen, with a feeling of certainty that she wasn’t going to die. He was surprised at how pleased he felt about that.

A few hours later, Mattie woke again, to find the little girl sitting beside her.

The child’s face brightened and she leant forward. ‘Are you really awake?’

Mattie moistened her lips. ‘Yes. Is there … ? I’m very thirsty.’

A small hand patted her shoulder and as the father had said, the child seemed to regard her as a pet. ‘I’ve got a glass of water here. Dad said not to fill it too full. Shall I help you drink?’ Tongue sticking out of one corner of her mouth, so deep was her concentration, she did so, then set the nearly empty glass down.

Mattie felt like smiling at her young helper’s earnestness, but didn’t because it wouldn’t be polite.

‘Dad said I should warm up some porridge because you need something to eat. It won’t take me long. We made extra this morning. I can put honey on it, if you like.’

‘That’d be nice.’

‘My name’s Sarah.’

‘And mine’s Mattie.’

‘Dad told us, but you didn’t tell him your other name, an’ me and Luke can’t call you Mattie, can we?’

‘Why not?’

The child’s grey eyes widened in surprise. ‘You’re a grown-up! We have to call grown-ups Mrs or Miss something. It’s not polite to call a grown-up by her first name.’

‘Well, I don’t mind. Just call me Mattie.’

A man’s voice interrupted. ‘Sarah, love, don’t pester our visitor. It’s not good manners.’

‘But I was only—’

‘Leave it, Sarah!’

‘She wants something to eat.’

‘Go and warm her porridge, then.’

Lips pressed together in a stubborn line, resentment of unjust treatment showing in every line of her body, Sarah marched out of the room.

Jacob came to stand in front of the fire, warming his hands, bringing a breath of cool, fresh air and a smell of the outdoors to the room. He must have left his boots at the door but hadn’t waited to find his slippers. ‘You look a bit better than you did this morning.’

Mattie nodded. ‘Still weak, though.’

‘Miss Newington will be here in a minute or two to help you have a wash. I saw her walking down the lane from the big house.’

‘Miss Newington?’

‘She lives in the big house, owns half the village.’

Shortly afterwards there was a knock on the back door and it opened almost immediately. Brisk footsteps came towards them. A thin older lady entered, clad in muddy-coloured tweeds that flapped around scrawny ankles poking out of sensible boots. A shapeless felt hat was pulled down over her grey hair, which was dragged back into a tight bun.

She studied Mattie. ‘You’re awake and have come to your sense. Good.’ Then she took over.

Half an hour later, after she’d helped Mattie to use the commode and washed her as if she was a baby, she hesitated, then said, ‘Just so that you don’t say anything that upsets him: Jacob’s wife died over a year ago. There are only him and the children living here now. He’s a good man, won’t hurt you.’ She called him back in and sat down on one of the armchairs. ‘Now, my dear, tell us what brought you here.’

Mattie looked from one to the other, feeling trapped and helpless. She didn’t want to tell anyone about the past, because it’d bring back memories of her sisters. She didn’t even know where they were now, or if they were still safe, and wouldn’t for a long time, if ever. Best if she made a new life for herself and kept her thoughts away from the past, surely?

‘We can’t help you if we don’t know who you’re running from,’ Miss Newington prompted.

‘Perhaps we should give her time to get to know and trust us,’ Jacob said.

And it was that understanding and kindness in his face that made Mattie change her mind. She managed to explain exactly why she was there and what had happened to her sisters, by which time she felt exhausted and could hardly keep her eyes open.

‘Let her sleep now,’ Jacob said.

What a lovely man he was, Mattie thought. She smiled at him and let herself slide into sleep. Miss Newington led the way into the kitchen. ‘She’s had a bad time with that stepfather if what she’s telling us is true.’

‘I’m sure it is. She hasn’t got a liar’s face.’

‘I agree with you. Rather a nice-looking young woman, actually, even now, when she’s not well. Not a beauty. Comely is the word I’d use to describe her. The pretty ones fade by her age, but comely stays with a woman.’

Jacob didn’t comment on his guest’s looks. He thought she was very pretty, with those lovely blue eyes. ‘That stepfather sounds a nasty sort.’ He waited for Miss Newington to reply, but she didn’t and when he looked at her, she was staring blankly ahead, her expression bleak.

‘Some fathers are like that, think they own their children, make their lives a misery,’ she murmured.

He was suddenly sure that, lady or not, she’d had a domineering father, but he didn’t say so, of course.

She shook her head quickly, like a dog shaking off raindrops. ‘I’d like to go on helping her. It’s not fitting for you to nurse her, a man on your own.’

‘We can hardly move her to the big house. She needs to be kept quiet and warm until her congestion eases.’

‘Yes. I’d send young Lyddie down to help you, but I need to keep the girl with me in case we get more intruders. She’s the only one nimble enough to run for help if necessary.’ She looked round. ‘You definitely need a woman’s touch in this house.’

‘We manage all right.’

She speared him with a glance. ‘Not really, Mr Kemble. This room could do with a good bottoming. Mrs Grey hasn’t been doing a very good job. And I daresay the rest of the house is as bad. Your clothes may be clean but they’re torn and haven’t been ironed.’

He couldn’t help scowling. ‘It’s a small village. There isn’t anyone I could hire to do my mending who wouldn’t take advantage. Mrs Henty said I should marry Essie Jupe.’

‘Good heavens! No man in his senses would marry that slovenly fool.’

‘Exactly.’

‘If you’re to help me as I wish, I believe I must first help you sort out your life. I shall look for a wife for you, one who will be a helpmeet and a credit to you.’

Before he could refuse this offer she stood up and made for the door.

After it had closed behind her, he came back to sit in front of the kitchen range and have a think. The way Miss Newington had spoken made him feel uneasy, because he had a suspicion she was planning something. He didn’t want to marry again, well, not unless he met someone he could love and respect. He had his children and that was enough for the moment.

But if he had the new job, he could perhaps afford to hire Lyddie’s sister to be his housekeeper instead of marrying someone he didn’t particularly like. Yes, that might be the thing to do. Surely Miss Newington would understand that? He’d put it to her next time he saw her.

That night intruders once again tried to attack Newington House, three of them this time. Horace greeted them with a blast of his shotgun from the room above the stables.

The shot and their howls of fury woke Emily and she picked up her own weapon and crept down to a bedroom overlooking the backyard, whose window she’d left open deliberately.

They were trying to batter the outer door of the stables now, so she let them have it from behind. Shot pattered against walls and doors, but some of it must have found its mark because there were yelps of pain and they cursed before limping off into the darkness.

One stopped to yell, ‘We’ll be back.’

Would they really keep coming back? she wondered. Perhaps. Or perhaps something else would happen. Her cousin had made no secret of his annoyance that she owned this place and his determination to get hold of it. She’d better get that new will made out and signed quickly. After the scornful way Arthur had spoken to her and these recent events, she was determined that, whatever happened to her, he would not benefit in any way from her inheritance.

She’d inform the police about this second attack on her way to the lawyer’s in Swindon, but had no faith in that young policeman. She must definitely find herself some protectors, perhaps men from the village. Arthur couldn’t start an all-out battle, after all.