Without a Mother's Love (5 page)

He was standing in front of the fire, lighting his cigar with a burning taper. He did not seem to want an answer for he went on, ‘I’ve enough to do, dealing with my mine, without having to wait about for you or worry about the child. That is your job.’

‘Yes, sir. She is safe with me, sir.’ Harriet felt more confident of this now.

He made a grunting sound that she believed was of approval and waited for him to continue. He was a handsome gentleman, she thought, in spite of his lined face. In fact, his maturity seemed to enhance his strong features, which were dominated by a pair of brown eyes, set well apart. His eyebrows were grey and the hair on his head had not thinned. His tall frame was not bent by toil and she knew he continued to ride when others of his years might have resorted to a carriage.

‘Is she?’ he demanded. ‘Is she not still running wild on the moor at every opportunity?’

‘Not so much now, sir. I have found her other occupations and I am with her all the time.’

‘Make sure you are. She is my ward, my property, and she is to stay that way.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Harriet wondered why he was so possessive of a child he found such a tiresome burden. Perhaps it was something to do with the mine. He seemed very agitated.

‘I don’t want any young buck near her.’

‘Good heavens, no!’ Harriet was appalled that he would voice such an opinion to her. ‘She is still a child, sir.’

He blew out cigar smoke. ‘She’s wayward. Who knows what she’s been up to on the moor?’ Then he leaned towards her to emphasize his words. ‘If she tries to run off with anyone, I shall hold you responsible.’

Harriet’s eyes rounded in horror at the idea that Olivia would do any such thing. ‘I am sure there is no risk of that, sir.’

‘Are you? Have you discovered yet who took off her drawers?’

‘She did, sir.’

‘Is that so? Who was with her?’

‘No one, sir. She - er - was using an old bucket as a privy.’ She watched incredulity spread across his face. ‘Is that what she says?’

‘Yes, sir. She is telling the truth, sir.’

‘Is she still a maid?’

His directness stunned her and she took a moment to recover. ‘I believe so, sir.’

‘Mrs Cookson does not.’

Harriet was annoyed with the woman. The master might indulge his vigorous appetites at every opportunity, but all gentlemen were not the same. ‘Perhaps Mrs Cookson knows only gentlemen like yourself.’ She snapped her mouth shut immediately. Lord, what had she said?

His face darkened. He was not a man to be crossed and she was anxious to be gone from his study before she said anything else that might anger him. She took a deep breath and hastened to repair the damage. ‘Olivia is unworldly in these matters. I have taught girls who were not innocent in the ways of men. At Blackstone, there were - girls were sent to us because they were in danger of moral decay.’

His mouth twisted. She supposed he might know that. ‘Is that why you went there?’ he asked.

‘No, sir! I was an orphan. But as a teacher I learned to recognize the signs of sin in young girls.’

He stared at her as though he were seeing her for the first time. ‘Did you, by Jove?’

‘Some girls are more knowing than others in these matters. Olivia is not, I am certain of it.’

‘Huh! What would a maid like you know about such things?’ he barked. ‘Or perhaps you are not a maid, Miss Trent.’

She felt the colour rise in her cheeks. ‘You are disrespectful, sir.’

‘You need not hide it from me, Miss Trent.’

‘Not all the girls at Blackstone are tainted!’ she protested. ‘It is true that the school will take girls in moral danger when other schools will not, as long as they show repentance for their ways. But those girls are few, I assure you.’

He sniffed audibly and removed a shred of tobacco from his lips. ‘I suppose Blackstone is preferable to a popish convent in the eyes of their worthy parents.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What about the vagrant?’

‘She felt sorry for him.’

‘He did not defile her?’

‘I do not believe so.’

‘But you do not
know
?’

‘I am not a physician, sir, but I would swear that she is innocent.’

He puffed again at his cigar and moved closer to her. She wanted to step back. But he was like the principal at Blackstone and she knew he would interpret that as weakness. She stood her ground, even though his height overshadowed her, and his eyes were hard and glittered.

‘If she is not, Miss Trent, you will be sorry. And so will she. It won’t be Blackstone for her but the asylum.’

‘Not that, sir!’ She knew this was where girls who transgressed were sent, but only if they were beyond help. It was the very worst place for any girl. He must not think of it as an option for Olivia. ‘She will behave, I promise. Just give me time with her. She is energetic and bright. She would not survive in an asylum.You cannot do that to her.’

‘I can and I shall, if her behaviour dictates it. I will not be disobeyed.’

‘I shall see you are not, sir.’

He appeared to accept this and his features relaxed into a crooked smile. But he did not step away from her and she became flustered at his proximity. She could smell the tobacco on his breath. His manner towards her was threatening and she believed him capable of beating her as well as his niece, if she did not obey him. He was trying to frighten her and he was succeeding. But he did not need to do that for her to be diligent in guarding his great-niece. She wanted to look after the child, to teach her and watch her grow. Harriet cared about Olivia - more than he did, she thought.

She looked down at her feet until he turned away and said, ‘Very well, Miss Trent. I am going north for the shooting. Mrs Cookson is in charge of the house until I return.’

The shooting? That means he will be away for weeks! She felt so relieved. His behaviour towards her was too menacing for her comfort. Without him about the house, she could concentrate on her pupil, and need not worry about his domineering presence.

‘You may go,’ he added.

Harriet hurried out of the library, anxious to be away from him and thankful that the interview was over. She would not have to speak with him again for several weeks.

Chapter 3

The master was away for the remainder of the summer. Mrs Cookson told her that he had joined his grandson in the North Riding for the grouse shooting and would stay on to hunt. Harriet was left to her own devices with the child, a luxury for one used to a roomful of little girls who could not concentrate because they were cold and hungry. Her cheeks took on a healthy bloom and she began to fill her gown so that she had to let out the bodice where she had taken it in when it had been given to her.

At Michaelmas, a cart arrived from town with supplies for the kitchen, books, paper and ink for the schoolroom, and cloth for gowns. The bolt of fabric was so heavy that the carter had to help them to carry it indoors and up to the schoolroom.

‘It’s beautiful, Mrs Cookson!’ Harriet exclaimed, as she fingered the grey woollen weave.

‘Enough for the three of us an’ all. There’s cotton, too, for chemises and drawers.’

‘I shall give Olivia sewing lessons on wet afternoons.’

‘Aye, she’s best kept inside in this blustery weather.’

‘We shall continue to take our walks. It helps her sleep.’

‘Does she still have the nightmares?’

They had become more frequent as the autumn wind and rain stirred the child’s memories. On stormy nights Harriet lay awake, waiting for Olivia’s cries, ready to rouse her before she screamed. She asked, ‘Has she always had them?’

‘Since she came to live here. She lost her parents in a storm, you see. She used to scream in the middle of the night and wake the master. He tried to beat it out of her but it made no difference and she just tried to run away.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘Up on the moor. She was easy enough to find then. I don’t know where she went after that but she’d be out all day and come in looking like a gypsy with her drawers off. I had to tell the master then.’

‘At least she returned.’

‘Only when she was hungry.’

Harriet smiled to herself. She had been at Hill Top House for more than two months now and already Olivia was a different child. She had a rebellious nature, to be sure, but much of her wildness had been because she was bored. Underneath the grime, Harriet had found intelligence and Olivia had learned quickly to read and write. So quickly that Harriet thought her mother must have taught her before she died. Now she was greedy for books, and her uncle’s library had become a haven. For Harriet, too, as long as the master was away.

When their new gowns were finished they wore them to church. Olivia’s was almost concealed by her pinafore and the short woollen cape that matched her bonnet. But Harriet had trimmed her own with a white cotton collar and cuffs. She had made three sets so that they were always fresh and clean and, as her cloak was old, she let it fall away when she stood to sing the hymns, feeling proud of her appearance and position of governess at Hill Top House.

It was the last Sabbath in October. The congregation was small so the curate came from over the moor, accompanied by his wife, in a borrowed trap. Harriet lingered in the churchyard afterwards, eager for a little adult conversation.

‘Is this the wayward child?’ the curate asked. ‘She looks quite different.’

‘She’s growing into a bonny girl.’ His wife held out her hand. ‘Come and walk with me, child.’

Harriet released her grip on Olivia and enjoyed a pleasant exchange with the curate. They talked of her life since she had left Blackstone, which he and his wife had visited, and her teaching. He asked after the master and she reported that he had been away since before the harvest and was not likely to return until Christmas. This seemed to please the curate, who gave a satisfied nod. Harriet was quite disappointed when they had to say goodbye and walk back down the track to Hill Top House.

Olivia fell into step beside her and Harriet resisted the temptation to take her hand. Her charge was proud of her new gown and she hoped she would not risk tearing and soiling it by running wild through the scrub today.

‘What did you talk about to the curate’s wife?’ Harriet asked.

‘The books I read. Especially the novels.’

‘I see. The pupils at Blackstone don’t have novels.’ The principal had some in his room, though, and, as a teacher, she had been allowed to read them.

‘Oh, I like them best of all.’

‘I know.’ Harriet’s heart sank. The curate and his wife would not approve of Olivia reading novels.They thought that worthy ones were too difficult for a girl to understand and those that were not would put wrongful ideas into her head. She added, ‘The Bible is Blackstone’s story book of choice.’

‘Why do you let me read novels, then?’

‘Because you enjoy them.’

‘I said I read the Bible every morning, too.’

This cheered Harriet. She wanted the approval of the curate and his wife. She valued their weekly conversations after church. ‘What else did you say?’

‘I told her about my lessons and our nature walks. And how you are teaching me to care for my gowns. She said it showed.’

‘Well, yes, that is very true.’

‘And I told her how you stopped me pretending to be a cat catching rats.’

They were approaching the walled garden and Harriet sensed disappointment in Olivia’s voice, as though she missed her childhood pursuits and yearned to return to them. Through the summer the brambles had grown thick and strong around the door and they had picked blackberries from them for Mrs Cookson.

‘Is your castle still there?’ Harriet asked.

‘I expect the rain has washed it away by now.’

‘Shall we see if Matt can clear the ground in there this winter?’

‘What for?’ Olivia sounded sullen.

‘So that you can grow fruit and vegetables to eat.’

‘Can I?’

‘Why not? There are books and journals in the library to tell us how.When you are mistress of your own house you will need to know about these things.’

‘Mistress of my own house?’

‘Of course. It’s what ladies of your position do. I shall talk to Matt after dinner.’

‘I’m hungry. I wonder what Mrs Cookson has made today. I like Sunday dinner in the kitchen with you and her.’

‘I think there’s blackberry and apple pie for pudding. When we get closer to the house we’ll be able to smell the joint. Let’s see if we can guess.’

But when they went into the kitchen, glowing from their walk, there was no delicious scent of roasting meat on the spit in front of the fire and Mrs Cookson was busy kneading bread dough. With the back of her hand, she pushed a strand of hair under her cap. ‘Oh, thank goodness you’re here. The master’s back. I wasn’t expecting him for weeks.You’ll have to help me with the dinner. I’ve a brace of fowls to pluck while this dough’s rising.’

‘We’ll do the vegetables. Olivia, take my cloak and your cape and bonnet upstairs, then come down to help.’

‘Wh-where is Uncle Hesley?’ she asked warily.

‘He’s resting in his chamber.’ Mrs Cookson turned to Harriet. ‘He says you and the little ’un are to have your dinner with him later.’

‘I don’t want to,’ Olivia said stubbornly, and sat on a kitchen chair.

Neither did Harriet. She was happy and relaxed at Hill Top House when the master wasn’t at home. Now tension was creeping over her and she wondered why he wanted to see them so urgently. She took off her own bonnet and gathered up their outer garments. ‘No need to risk disturbing the master. I’ll leave these in the hall for now. I suppose we must do as he orders.’

Mrs Cookson gave her an impatient, querying look, as though it should not have occurred to her to do otherwise.