The Colours of Love (4 page)

That and Lady Fortune smiling on him
, Harriet thought, saying out loud, ‘And when the poor sink so deep into poverty, despite all their efforts, and are unable to support themselves, what then? There are many who try and fail.’

‘Then there is the workhouse for those who have not worked hard enough, and they should be damned glad of it, because it’s more than they deserve.’

She had known then that she couldn’t reason with him, and also, with terrifying clarity, that she had made the biggest mistake of her life in marrying Theobald Wynford. She’d confided this to her mother when they had next been in London and had received short shrift from that aristocratic matron, who had not hidden her relief when a man had been found who was prepared to take her plain, nondescript daughter off her hands.

‘You married Mr Wynford of your own free will, Harriet,’ her mother had said grimly. ‘You will not bring disgrace on the family name by being anything less than an obedient and dutiful wife. I do not wish to speak of this again.’ And that had been that.

Now Harriet gazed at the cold, barren world outside the coach. Her life with Theobald had been like that, but no longer. She had a child; at long last she had a child. The future was bright.

The journey upcountry to the north-east was a long and tiring one, and not for the first time Harriet wished Theobald would put aside his aversion to automobiles. His farm manager and several of their friends and acquaintances had tried to persuade him that motorized vehicles were the way of the future, but her husband was stubborn to the hilt and refused to have anything to do with what he called ‘mechanical monsters’. Bernice had her own car – the latest model of the Austin Tourer – and, whilst they had been staying with her sister, the two of them had gone out for a spin several times when the men were otherwise engaged.

Through the doctor she had earlier sent a message to Theobald asking him if they might make the journey home by train, which would have been so much quicker, but he wouldn’t agree to that either, insisting that he wanted Purves, their coachman, to come and fetch them, in view of his injured leg. In the event, Theobald felt every pothole and bump in the roads and spent the entire journey swearing under his breath.

It had been dark for hours when they finally drove through the open gates of the estate. It was situated to the west of the town of Chester-le-Street, in the centre of the Durham and Northumberland coalfield, and the township had doubled since the turn of the century, the population now having reached 16,000 men and women. Theobald made it his business to have his thumb in many pies in the town, including shares in an engine works and a rope-making works, among other ventures. The Wynford family had reserved seats in the parish church of St Mary & St Cuthbert, in the gentry’s gallery. Such niceties were important to Theobald.

The wide drive was bordered by ornamental privet hedges, beyond which stretched manicured gardens; and the house itself, along with the high walls that surrounded the grounds, was made of mellowed stone. At the back of the house were the stables and a massive courtyard, the kitchen garden and greenhouses, and a large orchard that led to an area of woodland. This shielded the house from the view of the farmland beyond, and the fields of grazing cattle. The sprawling farmhouse was occupied by Theobald’s farm manager – Neil Harley – and his family, and at the side of it ran a row of labourers’ cottages. Beyond these were the byres and barns, a number of pigsties, the hen coops and a purpose-built and relatively new dairy, the old dairy having lost its roof in a bad storm a few winters ago.

Under Neil Harley’s management the farm ran like clockwork and made a good profit each year; and the gamekeeper, who had his own cottage on the very edge of the estate, provided the big house with fresh game birds and venison when required, along with rabbits and wood pigeons for the labourers’ tables and the servants’ hall.

It was generally acknowledged, by the estate workers and the servants in the big house itself, that the master – although an exacting and strict employer – was, on the whole, a fair one. True, he kept their wages low and expected them to work from dawn to dusk without complaining, but they were well fed and adequately housed, and as long as they didn’t express any progressive views or socialist ideas, he let them alone. The one or two unfortunates in the past who had made the mistake of wanting to ‘better themselves’ had been turned out on their ear, before you could say ‘Jack Robinson’.

When the carriage reached the pebbled forecourt in front of the house, lights were shining from the downstairs windows; and even before the horses had come to a stop, the wide front doors had been opened and a footman and two housemaids came hurrying towards them, followed by a small uniformed woman that Harriet took to be the new nanny. In a flurry of activity the coachman and footman assisted Theobald up the steps that led to the stone terrace fronting the doors, and there the butler, Osborne, took over from the coachman. With a quiet ‘May I, ma’am?’ the nanny reached for the baby, leaving the maids to look after Harriet. And she was glad of their help, Harriet acknowledged, as they each took an arm. She was feeling weak and wobbly, and not at all like herself.

She must have looked as exhausted as she felt because Mrs Norton, who had been waiting on the top step beside Osborne, murmured, ‘Your room is aired, ma’am, and there are hot-water bottles warming the bed. Bridget and Elsie will help you upstairs and assist you to retire. I’ll bring a dinner tray shortly, when you are ready. I’ve ordered a light meal, ma’am. Soup and one of cook’s soufflés.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Norton.’ Then, as Esther began to grizzle, Harriet glanced at the nanny. ‘She’s hungry. Follow us.’

‘I can give her a bottle, ma’am.’

‘No – no bottles.’ Realizing she’d been a little abrupt, Harriet smiled as she said, ‘What is your name?’

‘Rose Brown, ma’am.’

‘Well, Nanny Brown, my daughter was born early and is small, as you can see. She requires feeding every two hours or so, and I happen to believe a mother’s milk is best. Night or day, I wish her brought to me. Is that clear?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’ Rose hid her surprise. Well-to-do ladies often had wet-nurses or told the nanny or nursemaid to use pap-bottles, particularly during the night hours when they didn’t want to be disturbed. Mrs Wynford was obviously a devoted mother.

Theobald had been muttering and cursing as he hobbled across the hall on the arm of the butler. Now he brushed the man irritably away, leaning against the drawing-room door as he growled orders. ‘A bottle of my best malt whisky, Osborne. And I’ll have my meal in here.’ With a cursory glance at his wife, he added, ‘Get to bed and stay there till Dr Martin calls.’

Harriet couldn’t have argued if she’d wanted to. She felt so shaky that the stairs seemed a Herculean trial. But she was home now, and she had Esther. She was safe. And the baby
did
carry a passing resemblance to Theobald’s mother, funnily enough. She glanced at the gold-framed portrait of her husband’s parents hanging on the opposite wall, and at the woman who stared unsmilingly back from the painting, jet-black curls piled high on her head and her dark eyes set in creamy olive skin. She could easily have been Esther’s grandmother.

Once in her bedroom suite, the maids helped Harriet disrobe and wash. When she was settled comfortably in bed, propped against thick, soft pillows and with a hot-water bottle at her feet, Rose placed the baby in her arms. Snuggled at the breast, the baby immediately stopped her fretful squawking and began to feed with gusto. Harriet smiled as she stroked the child’s soft cheek. The doctor in Wales had remarked that many premature infants experienced difficulty in feeding, but Esther wasn’t one of them. Of course, she wasn’t as premature as the doctor had been led to believe. Ruth had only been three weeks away from giving birth, whereas Harriet had had two months to go.

‘She’s beautiful, ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying,’ Rose murmured when the maids had left the room.

Harriet looked at the nanny and liked what she saw. They smiled at each other, before Harriet said, ‘Come and sit down and tell me about yourself, and the families you have worked for. How old are you, incidentally?’

‘I’m coming up for forty in a week or so, ma’am, and you could say I’ve been responsible for little ones all my life, because I was the eldest in a family of twelve. My poor mother was never well, and so caring for my brothers and sisters fell mostly to me from an early age. Not that I minded that. I’ve always loved children.’

They smiled at each other again as the fire crackled in the grate, and the baby made little contented grunts every now and again.

‘I started as nursery maid to Reverend and Mrs Fallow’s first child, when I was fifteen years old, and they had two more – all boys. When the youngest, Master Stephen, went off to boarding school, I applied for the post of nanny to Colonel and Mrs Smith’s twin daughters, and I was with the family until now. I have good references, ma’am, as you’ll see.’

‘I’m sure you have.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Rose hesitated. It was a bit early to bring it up, but nevertheless . . . ‘When Mrs Norton engaged me, she said it was on a temporary basis as you hadn’t seen me. She said you would decide by the end of the month, ma’am?’

Harriet hadn’t known about this stipulation. It had been thoughtful of the housekeeper, but she found that she thoroughly approved Mrs Norton’s choice of nanny. There was a warmth about the woman that bode well. Having been brought up herself by a nanny who was every bit as cold and stiff as her parents, Harriet didn’t want that for her daughter. And Esther
was
her daughter now; the worry was over. ‘I’m sure you will suit,’ she said quietly.

‘Thank you, ma’am, and I can assure you I will devote myself to the baby’s needs.’ Rose had been on tenterhooks, but now she felt herself relaxing. Mrs Wynford was lovely, and that made all the difference in this job.

Esther squirmed away from the breast and gave a very loud and unladylike burp, and Harriet laughed. ‘I think you can take her now. She’s full, and I might have a nap before dinner.’ She was barely conscious of the nanny leaving the room, as thick billows of sleep drew her down into the softness of the bed, and her last thought was not of Rose or Esther, or even of Ruth. It was of Theobald. With deep thankfulness she knew he had fully accepted that the baby was his. The future was set now, she told herself, golden with promise and fulfilment – the years stretching out like an ever-growing tapestry, full of the happiness that only a child can bring.

PART TWO

Esther

1942

Chapter Four

It was a beautiful day for a wedding. Esther Wynford breathed deeply of the warm morning air as she leaned out of her bedroom window. The July sky was as blue as cornflowers, without even the merest wisp of cloud marring its expanse, and somewhere in the near-distance a fox barked as it made its way back after a night’s hunting. It was wonderful to be home again, even if only for a short while, before she returned to her work as a Land Girl and Monty went back to the air force.

Monty . . . Esther smiled dreamily, inhaling the heady scent of the climbing roses covering the walls of the house. Montgomery Grant, only son of Brigadier and Mrs Clarissa Grant of Edinburgh. The most handsome, dashing,
thrilling
man in the whole of creation, and soon to be her husband, in – Esther consulted the jewelled watch on her wrist – seven hours. She shivered in delicious anticipation. At one o’clock they were to be married in her parish church, and she couldn’t wait.

A missel thrush, on an early-morning mission to find breakfast, called a warning as it caught sight of her, and a blackbird shrilled petulantly in reply. Esther turned back to the room, and to the sight of her wedding dress hanging on the wardrobe door. In these days of everyone doing their bit for the war effort, she had been prepared to get wed in a smart frock, as so many girls were doing, and forgo the traditional white wedding; but her mother had had her own wedding dress altered as a surprise, and there it was, a vision of ivory lace and satin. She had tried it on when she got home last night from the farm in Yorkshire, and it fitted perfectly.
Perfectly
. All of a sudden she twirled round and round in an ecstasy of joy until, giddy and breathless, she collapsed on the bed.

Was it wrong to be so happy, when the world was in such a horrible mess? The thought sobered her and she sat up, flicking back the thick mass of curly black hair from her shoulders. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, especially when in the newspapers last week it was reported that the Nazis had murdered more than one million Jews to date. It had said that in Poland the Nazis weren’t bothering to send the Jews to concentration camps; instead they had special vans fitted as poisonous gas chambers, and they would herd up to ninety men, women and children into them, while other Jewish men would dig the graves. It was unbelievable, but true. And in the Warsaw ghetto, where 600,000 people were dying from starvation and disease, medical supplies were being denied to children under five. How would their poor mothers cope with such inhumane treatment? It would send you mad.

She shut her eyes, and other dreadful stories – like the Nazis’ slaughter of a whole Czech village, in reprisal for two members of the Free Czech forces killing Reinhard Heydrich, the Hangman of Europe and architect of the Final Solution – crowded her mind. But she didn’t want to think of such things today, not on this one special day.

Jumping up again, she walked over to the dress, fingering the folds of lace and satin and imagining Monty’s face when he saw her walking down the aisle. She loved him so much, and with life being so precarious – especially for him, as a fighter pilot – she longed to be his wife. They would make the most of his leave and the one-week holiday she was allowed from the farm. Her work-roughened hands caught on the soft material, and she grimaced as she looked at her red skin and broken nails. The work that she, as a volunteer in the Women’s Land Army, had to tackle was as varied as agriculture itself. Hand-milking cows, lifting potatoes, helping with land reclamation and drainage, operating heavy earth-moving machinery or driving a tractor, mucking out pigs, thatching ricks, hedging, hay-making, harvesting, planting, weeding, muck-spreading – she had done it all, and would no doubt do so again. It was a far cry from the country-house parties and tennis tournaments, the London Season and delightful social whirl that would have been her lot, had Adolf Hitler not forced Britain to declare war on Germany on a sunny September Sunday three years ago.