The Emerald Comb (31 page)

They would probably need a gardener as well, but not until after that tree was planted.

She went upstairs to the room she now shared with Bartholomew – his old room; thankfully he had not chosen to use Georgia’s room. She chose a bonnet with deep sides, a veil and a shawl, and got herself ready to go out. One thing was certain, she thought wryly: she would never employ a lady’s maid.

It was a five-minute walk to the village centre. Although she’d lived here for six months the previous year, she’d never been in the village apart from the day she’d arrived. And Georgia too had never been. She’d been too heavily pregnant when she arrived, and then too sick, confined to her room after Barty’s birth.

Agnes held her head high as she walked up the lane. No one would recognise her, so if she played her part right she would easily be accepted as Mrs St Clair, recovered at last from the birth of her baby.

As she walked through the village a portly woman passed her, with three small children tagging along behind. She nodded at Agnes. ‘How’d ye do, Mrs St Clair.’

It was Mary Moulsford, who had been Barty’s wet-nurse. Agnes nodded in response, feeling herself blush under her veil.

‘May I be so bold as to ask, how is the little one?’ said Mary.

‘Barty? He’s doing well, thank you. Fit and well, and growing quickly.’

‘Glad to hear it, Mrs St Clair. And may I say, ’tis good to see you’re back at the big house,’ said Mary. She nodded, and went on her way.

Agnes smiled. So at least one person in the village knew her as Mrs St Clair. She walked on, more confident now.

How to find servants? Bartholomew had been unsure, but had suggested she should simply ask around, at the inn, the shops and the market. She decided to start at the inn – the White Hart.

The woman who stood behind the bar was large, with a red face and straggly grey hair which poked out from a grubby white lace cap. Her eyes widened as she took in Agnes’s expensive, blue silk gown and Indian shawl.

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘I’m looking for servants,’ Agnes replied. ‘I am, um, Mrs St Clair. My husband and I are recently returned to Kingsley House and we need some staff.’

‘Ah, Mrs St Clair, how’d ye do?’ The woman bobbed a small curtsey. ‘You’ve come to the right place. My Annie be looking for work. She’s very hard-working.’

‘Does she have references?’

‘Oh, no, ma’am. She’s only fifteen and not yet had herself a job. I can vouch for her, though.’

‘Very well, send her up to the house at two o’clock this afternoon,’ said Agnes. Maybe the girl would do as a kitchen maid.

‘Shame our Libby isn’t here,’ said the woman. ‘She worked for you last year, and was very happy, at least until she were dismissed, if you don’t mind me saying.’

Agnes blanched. She remembered the kitchen maid who helped Mrs Fowles. Libby had seen both her and Georgia, and would surely recognise her. She cleared her throat. ‘Where’s Libby now?’

‘Oh, she have got herself a job in a big house up at Winchester. That be all thanks to the reference Mr St Clair wrote for her. It were such a good one – she had no trouble finding another job. Though it were a shock when you let her go so sudden like, and just before Christmas and all.’

‘I am sorry for that,’ Agnes said. ‘My husband insisted on taking me away for my health, and once he’d had the idea he wanted us to go immediately. And as you can see,’ she smiled, ‘it has worked and I am quite well now.’

‘Well, I shall tell Libby you are back and in fine fettle next time she comes home on a day off,’ said the woman. ‘Mebbe if you’re still looking for staff she might want to come back?’

‘Oh, no, if she has a good job in Winchester let her continue there,’ said Agnes hastily. ‘I am sure I’ll find other servants. I’ll look forward to meeting your Annie later on today. Good day to you, and thank you.’

She turned to leave, but the woman called her back. ‘You be wanting a man for the stables as well? There’s John Morris up at Hill Cottage as needs a job. And his missus might want to be your cook, now their sons have all left home. I did hear how you’d let the Fowleses go, and sent them off afar.’

Agnes nodded. ‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. Would you send a message to them to come at two if they want the jobs?’

‘I’ll do that, thank you, ma’am.’

Agnes heaved a sigh of relief as she left the inn. The woman had accepted her as Mrs St Clair with no questions. And she’d made a good start in finding servants. She grinned as she walked back through the village to the house. This plan looked like it was going to work. As long as Libby never came near them.

A couple of weeks later, Bartholomew sat at desk in his study, an opened letter spread before him. He drummed his fingers on the desk. How to reply to this letter? It was from his old friend in Brighton, Henry Harding. He was asking if he and his wife Caroline could pay a visit to Bartholomew and Georgia, and the ‘dear wee baby boy’. June would be a good month – they were due to visit other friends in Bath, and could divert to Hampshire on the way. It’d be good to see where dear Bartholomew had grown up, and to be reacquainted with his ‘sweet young wife’. Harding trusted Bartholomew would reply ‘at his earliest convenience’ as it had been far too long since he’d seen his ‘oldest, dearest friend’.

Bartholomew picked up his pen, dipped it in the ink well and began a reply.

My dear Henry
,

How wonderful it was to receive your letter. I am glad to hear you and Caroline are both well and happy. As are Georgia and I, and dear little Barty is a wonderful addition to our family…

No, that wouldn’t do at all. It read as though he was encouraging them to visit. He screwed up the paper and tossed it into the fireplace. Start again.

Dear Henry

Whilst I would love to have you and Caroline visit us, it is rather too soon after the birth of our baby and Georgia is not yet fully recovered…

But it was almost a year – how many women took a year to recover from childbirth? That letter too was crumpled up for kindling.

What if he simply didn’t reply at all? But then Harding might decide to call anyway, especially if he was passing nearby on his way to Bath.

Or he could write and suggest meeting instead in Brighton, just himself, pleading that Georgia needed to stay with the child, but that he had business in Brighton so could combine that with a visit? That might work, but Harding would no doubt want to come to visit another time. It would just put the problem off, rather than solve it. No, he would have to think of something which would put Harding off for good.

He sighed, realising that he would never again be able to see any of his old friends or acquaintances. He’d have to drop them all – anyone who’d ever met Georgia. They’d been lucky while they travelled, that they’d not run into anyone he knew, though he had carefully steered well clear of Brighton.

He picked up his pen once more.

Dear Henry

I am afraid we will not be able to receive you and Caroline here at Kingsley House. Georgia has never recovered from the illness she sank into after giving birth, and is unable to tolerate any visitors. Her doctor advises absolute quiet and solitude. It is her mind, you see – she was never strong and is now more fragile than ever. Any disruption to her routine causes her great distress. As you know, it is almost a year since our son was born, and it is only now that Georgia is beginning to function at all. The doctor does not think we can expect much further progress. I dare not do anything that could set her back again…

The ink was barely dry on the letter when the doorbell rang, and a moment later the housemaid Annie tapped on the study door.

‘Sorry to disturb, sir, there be a woman at the door,’ she said.

‘Well, show her in!’ What was the girl thinking, keeping visitors waiting on the doorstep?

‘I would, sir, only she looks a bit rough,’ said Annie. ‘Don’t know why she didn’t go to the back door. She be asking for someone called Agnes. I told them there were no one here by that name but she said this is certainly where she last were at, said she were working for Mrs St Clair. Should I fetch Mrs St Clair, sir? She be upstairs with the baby, I believe.’

‘It’s all right, Annie, I will go and speak to the woman. Show her into the drawing room.’

The maid curtsied and left. Bartholomew stood, straightened his waistcoat and went to see who this woman was.

Annie was right. She was certainly rough-looking. Standing in the middle of his drawing room, wearing dirty, torn clothes and smelling as though she’d never seen the inside of a bath tub, was a middle-aged woman. Her wiry grey hair stuck out at all angles from her battered straw bonnet. In her arms she held a small child – a baby really – about the same size as Barty.

‘Mr St Clair?’ She spoke with a coarse country accent.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m looking for my daughter. Her name’s Agnes Cutter. She was maid for your wife, but your girl there says she’s never heard of her.’

‘Agnes, yes, I remember her,’ said Bartholomew. He sent up a silent prayer that Agnes would not come downstairs to see who’d come to the door, and that Annie wouldn’t take it upon herself to go and fetch her mistress.

‘So where is she, hmm, sir?’

‘Um, she left us. Yes, about, ooh, a year and a half ago…’

‘When she were pregnant with this little one,’ said the woman, holding up the child. The boy grinned at her and made a grab for her bonnet ribbons. She batted his hand away. ‘Stop it, Tolly. Then she came back to you. At least she said she were coming back to you. You was in Brighton. I’ve been there looking for you, and they sent me here. Traipsed all round the country I have.’

‘Well, she, um, never came back to us. She must have changed her mind, I suppose. We’ve not seen her in all that time. I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mrs Cutter.’

The woman snorted. ‘So she’s missing, hmm? But you must know where she went.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘She could be dead in a ditch somewhere. Being eaten by maggots. My own dear daughter!’ The woman wailed, while the child watched her wide-eyed.

‘Please, Mrs Cutter, sit down, don’t upset yourself. Agnes was always capable of looking after herself, as I recall. She’s probably found herself another position somewhere. I’m sure she’s all right.’

Mrs Cutter sat down on a chintz-covered sofa, and sat the child on her lap. He had the same fair hair as Agnes, and something about his eyes reminded Bartholomew of his own son, Barty. With a start he remembered this boy too, was his son.

‘Maybe you can still help,’ she said. ‘Agnes left her bairn with me and my husband. She said she’d come back for him, when she’d got the bairn’s father to agree to take him. But she never did.’ She looked at Bartholomew slyly. ‘I don’t suppose as you knows who the father is, hmm?’

Bartholomew willed his face to stay pale and impassive. ‘I’ve really no idea, Mrs Cutter. My servants’ private lives are up to them and nothing to do with me. Though it was most inconvenient for Agnes to fall pregnant and leave us when she did, especially when my wife was pregnant herself.’

‘I’ll not go till I’ve heard where she’s gone,’ said Mrs Cutter. ‘A cup of tea would be welcome, hmm, after the distance I’ve come to get here. Get some milk for the child, too.’

‘Very well. I’ll send Annie in with some refreshments. Excuse me.’

Bartholomew left the room. He instructed Annie to fetch some tea and milk, then hurried up the stairs to find Agnes. She was resting on their bed, while Barty napped in his cot.

He stood beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder to wake her gently. She rolled over and frowned. ‘What is it? I was sleeping.’

‘Your mother is here.’

‘What? Here? Where?’

‘Downstairs. In the drawing room. And she has brought your child.’

Agnes sat up with a gasp. ‘My child? Our child?’

‘Tolly, she calls him.’

Agnes covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh, my word.’

‘She is looking for you. I said you never came back to us, after you had the baby.’ Bartholomew sank suddenly to his knees in front of her. He realised the possibility of their crime being discovered now was more real than ever. ‘Agnes, you must stay out of sight. If she finds out you are here, then we are lost. You must not go down to her.’

‘But, my son!’

‘I will give her some money. Enough to keep her happy. And I’ll send money each year, on condition she promises to stay away and keep the child away.’ He nodded. Yes, that would work. Mrs Cutter would assume, if she hadn’t already guessed, that he was the father and was paying her to stay away to avoid scandal. If she only knew how great the scandal he was trying to avoid really was!

‘My own son…’ Agnes stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘My own darling baby!’

Bartholomew took her hands. ‘Think, Agnes. If we’re found out it’s the gallows for us both.’

‘If I could just see him…’

A gurgle came from the cot in the corner of the room. Agnes rose instinctively to see to Barty. She picked him up and looked at him as though she was seeing him for the first time.

Bartholomew got to his feet, and crossed the room to embrace her and Barty. ‘
This
is your son, Georgia.’

She looked at him, with tears streaming down her face. ‘Yes.
This
is our baby. And soon, we will have another. Send the woman away, Bartholomew. Tell her I do not know where Agnes has gone.’

He nodded, smiled, and kissed her forehead, then went back downstairs to get rid of Mrs Cutter.

A few minutes later, Agnes stood at the window holding Barty, watching as the ragged woman left the house and walked up the lane towards the village. She held the child on her hip, his head turned to face back towards the house. He seemed to be staring straight up at the window where Agnes was standing.

She nuzzled her face into Barty’s neck, making him giggle. ‘Mama loves you, Barty,’ she whispered. ‘Mama loves you very much indeed.’

Bartholomew had a reply to his letter to Henry Harding within a week. This one was curt and to the point. Harding, it seemed, had heard from friends that a Mr St Clair and his beautiful blonde wife had been seen at the Assembly Rooms in Bath, and someone else had made their acquaintance in Margate, and a third had heard it from someone else that the St Clairs and their baby son had been seen boarding a train at Euston station. All that travelling and socialising was not in keeping with what Bartholomew had told him about the fragile health of his wife, Georgia.