Every Mother's Son (27 page)

‘With his mother, yes. But he’s known for years. She told him even before we were wed. But we don’t understand why she should tell your husband now. I suppose she has told him? She told Fletcher she was going to.’

Melissa sipped the tea that Harriet had placed on a small table beside her chair. ‘She sent a message by the bailiff that she needed to see Christopher about a personal matter.’ She took a deep shuddering breath. ‘He’s been so busy that he only went yesterday, and – and she confronted him.’ She lifted her head and looked at Harriet. ‘I’ve tried to be strong, but today – today I feel so weak and helpless. I – I persuaded Christopher to go back and see her. He was so shocked when he came home that it made him quite ill, but I said he must go back and ask just what Mrs Tuke wants from him. Your husband is not the kind of man who – who …’

‘Wants anything from your family,’ Harriet finished for her, and sat down opposite her. ‘No, he doesn’t. Never has done, and you needn’t worry that we’ll shout it from ’house tops. If we’d wanted to do that we’d have done it years ago.’ She considered for a moment, and then said, ‘But truth to tell, if Ellen thinks that she’s kept a great secret all these years, I think she’ll find that she hasn’t. Folks round about have always had suspicions that Nathaniel Tuke wasn’t Fletcher’s father.’

They both sat silently for a moment, then Harriet asked, ‘So when will Mr Hart visit her again?’

‘Oh, he’s gone this morning. That’s why I came. I couldn’t bear the waiting and I wanted to speak to you. I think it is up to us, the mothers of our children, my sons and your daughters, to make sure that they are safe and that they understand.’

‘I’ve explained to Maria already,’ Harriet said. ‘I was mostly concerned about her.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Your husband will be there now?’

Melissa nodded. ‘Yes. I said he should get it over with.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Harriet agreed. ‘That’s what I told Fletcher. He’ll be there too.’

Fletcher’s senses were in turmoil as he pulled the trap to a halt at the end of the lane, jumped down and tied the horse securely. He didn’t want to fall out with his mother, but neither did he want any more aggravation from her. All our lives, he thought, mine and Noah’s, we had to tread carefully so that we didn’t say or do anything to upset her or Da. At least, I did; I don’t think Noah was bothered and now we know why. Poor lad, he was unwanted right from ’off. Little wonder he turned out to be so belligerent.

There was a cool breeze down by the Haven and he shivered, though not so much because of the chill as because he was worried about the forthcoming battle of wills. He was almost at the cottage when he heard his name being called, and turned to see Christopher Hart walking towards him. Christopher lifted his hand and called in a croaky voice, ‘Wait, please!’

Fletcher walked slowly back to meet him. He was not confrontational and had no wish to get into an argument with the man his mother insisted was his father. He wondered if Hart already knew what she was claiming, or if this was his first visit since she had decided to break her long silence.

Christopher was breathing heavily and his face was grey.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Fletcher asked.

Christopher shook his head. ‘No,’ he panted, ‘not really. This – business with your mother has distressed me; I can’t believe – still, if she says it’s true, then …’ He took another breath. ‘Then I suppose it must be. Why would she lie? But on the other hand, why has she waited so long to speak of it? If I’d known before … then I would have supported her in her difficulty.’

I believe he would, Fletcher thought. He couldn’t have married her, but he might have provided for her and the child – me. But that wouldn’t have been enough for my mother; she would still have wanted him to acknowledge that I was his son, and would Nathaniel Tuke have married her if he’d known ’truth? No, he thought, remembering the ill-tempered man he had assumed was his father, he wouldn’t.

Christopher Hart gazed at him through bloodshot eyes. He looked drained, as if he hadn’t slept either. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘So very sorry.’

Fletcher put out his hand and patted Christopher’s arm. ‘It’s not ’end of ’world,’ he said mildly. ‘Life is a tangled web sometimes.’

Christopher nodded. ‘
O what a tangled web we weave …
’ he quoted, then sadly shook his head. ‘I never thought that it might apply to me.’

‘It doesn’t, sir,’ Fletcher assured him. ‘Not to you, if it’s true that you didn’t know or weren’t aware of it. But there could be implications for our children if we’re not careful.’

Christopher frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Now’s not the time. Let’s go together to see my mother and let her know that we have an understanding, and the understanding is that no matter what she says I expect nothing from you, no inheritance, no apology. My accidental birth has no bearing on the lives we lead now.’ Fletcher kept his hand on Hart’s arm as they walked towards the cottage; he seemed so shaky that Fletcher feared he might collapse. He’s not a young man, he thought. He’s as old as my mother and this has brought him to ’verge of collapse. I’ll have to keep ’peace between them. Like a dutiful son, he thought wryly. Just like I did when I was a lad living at Marsh Farm.

The first thing Fletcher noticed was that the cottage door was open and swinging gently on its hinges. He frowned; it wasn’t like his mother to keep the door open. He pushed it wider. ‘Ma?’ he said, and then saw her lying on the rug in front of a dead fire. He rushed inside and Christopher followed more slowly, not having seen Ellen lying on the floor until Fletcher bent over her.

‘Oh, great heavens,’ he said. ‘What’s happened? She’s not—’

‘She’s still breathing.’ Fletcher had his ear to his mother’s chest. ‘She’s soaked through and covered in mud; her skin is cold. Can you move ’blanket off ’bed and I’ll lift her on to it.’

Christopher did as he was bid. Fletcher picked Ellen up easily and thought how thin and bony she was. He put her on the bed, took off her boots and stockings and covered her with the blanket. He put his hands to his head. ‘I’ll have to fetch a doctor,’ he faltered. ‘Will you stop with her?’

‘I’ll go,’ Christopher said quickly. ‘My driver brought me; my wife insisted. The carriage is in the lane and our doctor lives in Brough. It will take no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Pray God he’s in.’

Fletcher nodded. ‘Please, if you will. Tell him to hurry. I’ll get ’fire going – it’s cold in here and we’ll need hot water.’ He had in mind to fill the stone water bottle that his mother always used to warm her bed. But Christopher was already on his way out of the door, galvanized into action whereas previously he had seemed weak and vulnerable.

There was kindling in the hearth and Fletcher placed it on top of the ash and looked on the mantelpiece for matches. He found them and with trembling hands struck one, but it blew out immediately and he looked about him for scraps of paper, which he found in the coal scuttle and pushed beneath the kindling before striking another match.

This time the flame held, the twigs took hold and he carefully added more, whilst still keeping an eye on the bed. He heard a low moan and jumped to his feet. ‘Ma, it’s me. I’ve sent for ’doctor. You’re not well. What happened? Did you fall in ’water?’

She didn’t answer but moaned again. I must tek her wet clothes off, he thought, or she’ll get pneumonia, if she hasn’t already. He lifted her up, unfastened and removed her blouse and skirt, but hesitated over removing her undergarments, even though they too were wet. He wrapped her in a shawl that was on the back of a chair, took off his own jacket and put that round her, and then replaced the blanket on top. The kindling was now burning brightly and he added more wood and then a lump of coal. The kettle was hanging from a hook and he shook it. There was some water in it but not much, and he knew it would take an age to boil.

He knelt down by the bed and waited, wishing that the doctor would come soon. What if he was out? What would Christopher Hart do then? He tucked the blanket closer to her. ‘Ma. Can you hear me? We’ve sent for ’doctor,’ he repeated. ‘Christopher Hart has gone to fetch him. He’ll be back in a minute.’

Ellen exhaled, but said nothing. He put his hand to her forehead. She was still icy cold, and although he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t think she would survive.

He got up again and went to attend to the fire, carefully feeding in twigs and small pieces of wood and coal so as not to smother the flame, and then turned as he heard her say something. He went back to the bed. ‘What did you say?’ He heard the sound of scurrying feet on the path. ‘I think ’doctor’s here, and Christopher; we came together, Ma. Everything’s all right.’ His voice was choked as he lied. ‘We’ve come to an understanding – about me being ’eldest son, just like you wanted.’

He thought she gave a small smile, though he could have been mistaken; it might have been a sudden pain that twisted her lips. She breathed some words and he bent his head, and like a faint rustle or a sigh he heard, ‘Tell him – I’m sorry.’

The doctor and Christopher came into the room and Fletcher turned to them. ‘It’s too late.’ Tears streamed down his face. ‘She’s gone.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Milo introduced himself as Leo Milo, adding that most people of his acquaintance called him Milo. Charles gave him a short bow and held out his hand. ‘Charles Hart,’ he said. ‘How do you do? And my sister, Miss Beatrice Hart.’

Beatrice dipped her knee and Milo took off his hat and bowed.

‘Daniel Orsini-Tuke,’ Daniel said, putting out his hand. The Englishman gave an astonished start at the name, but he didn’t comment.

Instead, he led them back to the trattoria, taking them inside because of the heat. There were several small tables and a bar with a kitchen behind it, and he asked if they would like to have lunch. They thanked him and explained that they had just eaten.

He clicked his fingers to their waiter and asked for something. The man brought over a bottle of red wine and four glasses, and a plate of bread and olives.

‘Signorina,’ Milo addressed Beatrice. ‘Perhaps you might prefer something lighter? A glass of Puccino, or Prosecco as it is also known?’

Beatrice hesitated; she wasn’t really used to drinking wine. Milo smiled. ‘Most ladies like it. The bubbles tickle their nose.’

‘Then a small glass, signor. Thank you.’

He poured the red wine and waited for a bottle of Prosecco to be brought, poured Beatrice a glass and then raised his in a toast. ‘
Salute
.’

The others raised their glasses and Beatrice pronounced the Prosecco delightful.

‘It’s produced in this region,’ Milo explained. ‘Now, I must first of all apologize. I speak so little of my own tongue that I sometimes lapse into Italian. I’ve lived here for a long time. My wife was Italian and my daughter has been brought up as an Italian.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Federico said you were enquiring about ’Orsini family, and’ – he turned to Daniel – ‘you introduced yourself as Orsini, so you must have Italian blood?’

‘So I believe, sir. My background is rather a mystery. I never knew my father, he died when I was a baby, but according to my mother it seems that he didn’t know much about his father’s past either.’ He hesitated. ‘My grandmother, my father’s mother, said that – that my grandfather’s name was Orsini and we thought that was an Italian name.’

‘Only thought?’ Milo asked with a puzzled frown. ‘And why did you think he might be from Genoa? The Orsini family originated in Rome.’

‘I didn’t,’ Daniel admitted. ‘But Granny Rosie told me he was a seaman, so after we’d crossed Switzerland, where we were meeting Beatrice, we headed towards ’nearest Italian port, which happened to be Genoa. They, erm …’ He flushed. ‘My grandparents didn’t marry. My father was born out of wedlock.’

‘It happens.’ Milo shrugged. ‘It won’t be ’first time. But what’s left of ’Orsini family – and there aren’t many – will mostly be in Rome.’

Charles gave a little frown and glanced at Beatrice, who was listening intently.

‘However,’ Milo went on after a short pause, ‘the reason that Federico called me over was not only because he thought that as an Englishman I could help you find information, but also because he knows I’m related through marriage to an Orsini.’

‘
Oh
,’ Daniel breathed. ‘Really? That’s incredible.’

‘Goodness,’ Beatrice said. ‘How very extraordinary! What an amazing coincidence. But earlier, the waiter told us that the Orsinis were a noble family, so does it not follow that there would be several blood lines from the original?’

‘Oh, yes, most likely, I’d say.’

‘Where does your relative live? Would he be willing to meet me?’ Daniel asked eagerly. ‘He might be able to help track down my grandfather – if he’s alive, that is. I must admit I thought it’d be like finding a needle in a haystack. I didn’t expect to find someone wi’ same name on ’first day!’

‘You’re from Yorkshire, aren’t you?’ Milo asked him. ‘I can hear it.’

‘Aye, I am,’ Daniel said, ‘and proud of it even though I might have a drop of foreign blood.’

‘More than a drop, I’d say.’ Milo poured them all another glass of wine. ‘Anyone looking at you would think you were pure Italian. Yes, I’ll take you to see
la famiglia
. Where are you staying?’

They explained that they were in lodgings just outside the town, and after considering for a moment Milo said that as Signor Orsini lived outside Genoa in the village of Vernazza, on the Cinque Terre coastline, it was too late for him to take them today.

‘I’ll tell him about you,’ he said, ‘so tomorrow morning meet me here at eight thirty and I’ll take you to visit him. We’ll go by ferry, much easier and quicker than by road or rail. He’s sure to invite you to stay, so tell your
padrona
– landlady – that you might be away for one or two nights. Signor Orsini leads a quiet life nowadays but enjoys having company.’

‘That’s really good of you, Mr Milo,’ Daniel began, but Milo interrupted him.

‘Just Milo will do.’ His brown eyes were merry, appraising him. ‘Not my real name, but … well, not now. I must dash if I’m to catch ’ferry back. It’s been good to talk to you. Folks from my own country.’ He looked pensive. ‘My own county too.’ He saw their raised eyebrows and questions hovering. ‘More of that tomorrow. Don’t be late, the ferry won’t wait.’ He picked up his hat. ‘
Arrivederci
.’