Tall Poppies Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Janet Woods from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Recent Titles by Janet Woods from Severn House

  AMARANTH MOON

  BROKEN JOURNEY

  CINNAMON SKY

  THE COAL GATHERER

  EDGE OF REGRET

  HEARTS OF GOLD

  LADY LIGHTFINGERS

  MORE THAN A PROMISE

  PAPER DOLL

  SALTING THE WOUND

  THE STONECUTTER’S DAUGHTER

  STRAW IN THE WIND

  TALL POPPIES

  WITHOUT REPROACH

  TALL POPPIES

  Janet Woods

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2012

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2012 by Janet Woods.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Woods, Janet, 1939–

  Tall poppies.

  1. Dorset (England) – Social conditions – 20th century –

  Fiction. 2. Illegitimate children – Fiction. 3. Love

  stories.

  I. Title

  823.9'2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-219-1 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8136-6 (cased)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Dedicated to my dearest friend

  Sheila Sullivan

  For fifty years of friendship

  And lots of laughs along the way.

  Bin there, dun that!

  One

  Dorset, February 1918

  Livia Carr’s head jerked up when she heard the distant bell. At that particular moment her imagination was whirling her around the floor in a ballgown of ivory lace over lavender satin, with silver beads on the bodice – exactly like the one she’d admired in her mistress’s wardrobe. Handsome and dashing in his evening suit, her equally imaginary and impossibly handsome dancing partner evaporated into the shadows of the hall.

  ‘What now?’ she muttered, throwing her scrubbing brush into the bucket of dirty water that was nearly as cold as her hands. Didn’t the housekeeper realize there was only one maid-of-all-work left at Foxglove House – and that was herself.

  Of the rest of the staff, there was Connie Starling, the cook, and an ancient gardener called Bugg, who, despite his name, managed to keep them supplied with vegetables in this time of shortage.

  Livia supposed the housekeeper should be counted as staff, though she did very little. Rosemary Mortimer had appeared a year ago and did nothing but order the rest of them about. Cook had told Livia that the woman was Major Henry’s mistress, but it was such a scandalous thought that now she’d reached an age to understand what it meant, Livia didn’t know whether to believe it or not – especially with the major’s invalid wife living in the house.

  The sound of footsteps tapped across the floor and Mrs Mortimer frowned at her. ‘Livia, do stop your daydreaming. Didn’t you hear Mrs Sangster’s bell? Go up to her before she wets her bed, or something equally disgusting.’

  ‘Where’s Nurse Gifford?’

  ‘It’s her day off.’

  ‘You usually see to her when the nurse isn’t here, and I haven’t had any nursing experience.’

  ‘Mrs Sangster said she’d prefer you, so now you’ll get some experience, won’t you? You’re a maid-of-all-work, and will do as I tell you. You came from an orphanage I’m given to understand. I could soon send you back there again.’

  That had been four years ago, and Mrs Mortimer had had nothing to do with hiring her. Besides, the orphanage wouldn’t offer her shelter now she was an adult. Livia had turned twenty the previous September, and nobody but she had known it, or cared. But she couldn’t afford to lose her job. She didn’t know what else she’d do, since it had been arranged that most of her wage went to the orphanage to help support her sister and brother.

  For the past three months Livia had been doing the work of two. The other housemaid had joined the Women’s Royal Naval Service, and the last Livia had heard from her she was undergoing training at a place called Whale Island. Fanny had left a suitably nautical recruitment poster on the wall . . . a woman in a smart uniform standing on a cliff top, looking into the distance with her arm outstretched. It seemed to promise a life of freedom and adventure.

  Livia had to admit she’d been tempted to sign up herself, if it hadn’t been for Chad and Esmé. When they were a bit older, one way or another she hoped to be able to provide her sister and brother with a home. But that goal didn’t seem to be any closer than when she’d first started out.

  Not that she resented the money, since she didn’t need much for herself. Her uniform and meals were provided, and she had a roof over her head and a comfortable bed . . . except for the lumpy bit in the middle that no amount of pounding had managed to flatten.

  Mrs Mortimer took hold of her earlobe and Livia had no choice but to follow its painful tug until she was standing upright. A pair of eyes, as cold and grey as a winter sky, gazed into hers. ‘What are you waiting for? Off with you, then. You know Mrs Sangster likes you better than anyone else here.’

  And Livia liked Mrs Sangster. She was easy to talk to and didn’t complain much, though she had cause to. ‘What about the mop and bucket?’

  ‘You can empty it when you come down.’

  Mrs Mortimer could quite easily have taken it with her and emptied it, and Livia glared at the housekeeper’s retreating back. Then she remembered she’d been promised a day off, so she could take the train up to London to visit her brother and sister.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten about tomorrow, have you, Mrs Mortimer?’ she called after her.

  The woman turned to frown at her. ‘What about tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s my day off and I’m going up to London. I’ll need to get off early to catch the train. It’s almost a year since I last saw my sister and brother, and it’s their eighth birthday.’

  ‘Oh that’s too bad, and a teensy bit selfish of you, just when we’re so short-handed.’ Mrs Mortimer thought for a minute, then sighed in exasperation. ‘It’s inconven
ient, but if you must have time off, you must, I suppose, though I don’t care much for your attitude. Make sure the ironing is done first . . .’ She drifted off, leaving the suggestion behind in a cloud of perfumed irritation.

  Damn the woman, Livia thought. She’d have to stay up until midnight to get that done.

  She managed to get Mrs Sangster on to the commode without mishap, and then stoked up the fire, which had burned down almost to ashes. The scuttle hadn’t been filled with its daily ration of coal.

  Her mistress had been crippled by arthritis after a fall from a horse at the beginning of the war, which had damaged her spine. She’d also crushed several bones. The accident had left her frail, though on a good day she could shuffle for short distances, if someone supported her.

  Livia gazed at the tray. ‘You haven’t eaten your breakfast, Mrs Sangster.’

  ‘I wasn’t hungry, dear. Besides, the nurse rushed off without cutting it up for me.’

  Livia tut-tutted when she picked up the teapot. It was still full, and barely lukewarm. The woman couldn’t even get a grip around the handle, let alone lift it.

  ‘The doctor said you should eat nourishing foods if you want to get better.’

  ‘My specialist tells me there’s no cure for the damage I suffered, or the arthritis. You’ve got no idea what it’s like lying here day after day, dependent on others. My hands are really bad today. I think we’re in for some rain.’

  ‘You should have rung for help sooner.’

  ‘I don’t like to be a bother to anyone.’

  Livia felt sorry for her. ‘It’s no bother to me, though I don’t think I have the skills to match those of Nurse Gifford.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. She’s a shrew, as well as having cold hands. I think that’s one of the requisites for taking up nursing.’

  Livia giggled at that. ‘Would you like to sit in front of the window for a while? I can wrap a blanket round you and you can watch the birds. There are still a few around, even if it is February. The blackbirds and robins look for worms where Mr Bugg has turned over the soil in garden beds, and the cook usually throws crumbs and pieces of fat out for them about now. Did the nurse wash you?’

  ‘No . . . she was in a hurry, and had an appointment in town. She said Rosemary Mortimer would see to me, but I’d rather stay dirty than have that woman touch me.’

  Livia stifled her sigh. ‘I’ll take this down while you’re doing what you have to do. I’ll tell cook to bring up some fresh tea, and a boiled egg and toast . . . I’m sure the hens would have laid their eggs by now.’ It was just another task to add to her busy day. ‘I’ll bring a jug of warm water up, too, and help you wash. Your hair is knotted. You have such lovely hair . . . do you think you’d be able to bear it if I brushed it? I’ll try and be gentle, Mrs Sangster . . . perhaps I could braid it for you, as well.’

  ‘Thank you, Livia dear, that’s kind of you.’

  Livia soon had the cook organized. Of Mrs Mortimer there was no sign.

  ‘She got a telephone call earlier,’ Connie Starling told her. ‘It was from the master, I expect. She’ll be going off to London for the weekend, you mark my words. She’ll take a bath and primp herself up before she goes, so she smells nice. As far as I’m concerned, anything as vile as that woman will never smell nice, since she’s out for all she can get.’

  Livia’s eyes rounded. ‘Shush . . . she might hear you.’

  ‘Serve her right. Henry Sangster should be horsewhipped. He kept her in a flat in London. Then brought her down here when the last housekeeper left. A pity he didn’t leave her there.’

  ‘Do you think his wife knows?’

  ‘Mrs Sangster would have to be deaf and blind as well as disabled if she didn’t suspect something was going on between the pair. Not that she’d care much. Husband and wife never did get on, on account of the Sinclair legacy.’

  ‘Sinclair legacy?’

  The cook huffed laughter through her smile. ‘How long have you been here, four years? You must walk around with your head in the clouds, or else those pretty brown eyes of yours see only what they want to. But then, you’re a nice girl who rarely sees bad in people.’ Her smile was replaced by a fierce expression. ‘Most of the money in this household comes from the mistress’s side of the family, and is controlled by the legal establishment her father used.

  ‘The major married Mrs Sangster for her money, and expected to gain control. But all he got for his trouble was an allowance. The Sinclair family didn’t consider him to be good enough for Margaret Sinclair. She was engaged to a titled gentleman, you see. But then along came big bad Henry, with his charm and his wicked ways.’ She lowered her voice to a hush. ‘The wedding had to be a hurried affair.’

  ‘Why was that?’ Livia asked.

  ‘On account of Master Richard, of course.’

  ‘You mean . . .?’ Livia clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Connie nodded. ‘They reckoned he arrived early. Anyway, that’s water under the bridge. When Mrs Sangster dies everything will become the property of their son. And if Richard dies without issue, which is quite possible with the war going on and him away fighting, and all, it will go to some remote Sinclair cousin in Scotland.’

  ‘How do you know all this, Connie?’

  ‘Henry confided in the chauffeur, who told me. ’Sides, I keep my ears open.’ Connie Starling’s plump arms wobbled as she kneaded the bread dough angrily. Setting it aside to rise, she muttered, ‘I’ll see to Mrs Sangster’s tray.’

  Livia went back up, heavy brass scuttle in one hand and jug of water in the other. She was still shocked by what she’d learned. She’d thought Major Sangster was such a nice gentleman, too. To hide her disquiet she chatted as she got on with the job of making Mrs Sangster comfortable. ‘I’m going to see my little sister and brother tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s nice. You must miss them.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I can’t help thinking I’ve become a stranger to them. They were very young when they went to the orphanage, and it’s a year since they last saw me.’

  ‘You should go more often.’

  Easy to say, when you had time and money to spare. All the men had gone about the business of war, and the house was short-staffed. Even women didn’t want to work in the big houses; they could get much more exciting and better paid jobs doing the work that men used to do before they went off to fight.

  They’d heard that the former gardener had died on a beach without firing a shot at the enemy. The chauffeur had become an ambulance driver and had gone off to war, leaving his pride and joy, the gleaming Rolls Royce that belonged to the family, to gather dust in the garage.

  Major Henry Sangster was in London doing something important in the war office. He got home sometimes, but rarely used the car.

  The son of the household was at the front. At least, she thought he was. Livia glanced at his photograph. Richard Sinclair Sangster was handsome, with eyes as blue as his mother’s and a devil-may-care smile like his father. She remembered him as being tall, strong and full of fun, and he’d made her giggle with his silly jokes. When she’d first come here she’d fallen in love with him a little, though it was more hero worship. But he was several years older than her, and had hardly known she’d existed, which was just as well considering her age then. She missed him now he’d gone overseas. The house no longer rang with his laughter, and seemed to have settled back into a staid middle age without his presence.

  With Mrs Sangster settled comfortably in front of the window, Livia helped the woman eat her breakfast and drink her tea. Afterwards, she placed the bell in her lap. ‘I’ve got to get on with my work now, but I’ll drop back in later, in case you need anything. Don’t forget, you can ring the bell if you need something in the meantime.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. You’re very kind.’

  Livia inwardly sighed. She didn’t feel kind. She felt harassed and run off her feet, and to tell the truth, trapped. But she’d felt that way for a long time now. Only
God knew how Mrs Sangster felt, being almost bedridden. At least she had her own health and strength, so she couldn’t really complain.

  ‘Livia,’ Mrs Sangster said when she turned to walk away, ‘there’s a bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate in my bedside table; the reverend brought it for me. Take it to share with your sister and brother.’

  Now who was being kind? Tears pricked her eyes as she slid the chocolate into her pocket. ‘Thank you, I’m sure they’ll love it, because I doubt if they get any treats in the orphanage.’ Impulsively, she kissed the woman on the cheek.

  She had a thousand tasks to do before she went to bed, and she’d better get on with them if she wanted to visit her sister and brother tomorrow. She wouldn’t put it past Mrs Mortimer to cancel her day off if she didn’t get everything done.

  As it was, Connie found time to do the ironing for her. ‘I’ve made some gingerbread men for your sister and brother . . . a little treat for them.’

  ‘How can you, when everything is rationed?’

  ‘I have my ways. I skim a little bit off here and there, and hide it for special occasions. I’ll pack you some lunch to take with you. Don’t tell Mrs Mortimer, though . . . and come down early, before she gets up . . . though the nurse might be up then.’

  The next morning Livia threw a long jacket over her grey, ankle-length skirt, which had been purchased from a used clothing shop. She’d learned which fabrics were durable at her mother’s knee, for she’d been a designer as well as a dressmaker. Livia knew the outfit would last her for some time when she bought it. The collar was trimmed with a narrow strip of fur, and had a hat with a turned-up brim, which she’d decorated with two pretty striped pheasant feathers she’d found in the garden.

  As she hooked up her boots she noticed how shabby they looked, even though she polished them with beeswax each time she put a shine on the long dining room table. The sole of the left one was worn through, so she hoped it wouldn’t rain as she pressed a piece of cardboard over the worn patch – though it looked as if it was going to be a cold, dry day. They would have to do, because they were all she had, but she must ask the gardener to repair them for her when he had time. He was good at doing things like that.