A Handful of Ashes Page 26

  He gave her an altogether wicked grin, sank down on one knee and took her hand in his. ‘Very well, then. Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife, Miss Hardy?’

  ‘Your wife?’

  There was a gasp from behind her.

  ‘As I’ve already told you, I have two children who are in need of a mother. I also have a fairly comfortable home in Dorset.’

  Julia felt her eyes saucer with shock, yet at the same time she wanted to laugh with the unexpected delight at receiving the proposal. She didn’t have to think about it. ‘Yes, Mr Ibsen. I’ll become your wife. Please get up, you’re making a complete fool of yourself.’

  ‘I sincerely hope not, Miss Hardy. Shall we shake hands on it and consider the agreement binding, then? I’m shortly to go to New South Wales on business. As soon as that business is completed, I will return to claim you.’ As he rose and took her hand in his, he slipped a piece of paper into her sleeve and gazed into her eyes.

  ‘Just a moment, sir,’ the reverend said. ‘I went to considerable expense to bring my stepsister here from England. The girl has not yet worked her passage.’

  ‘And neither will she.’ Marcus Ibsen took a purse from his pocket, removed several coins and handed them to the reverend. ‘That should cover my fiancée’s expenses. Good evening to you, Reverend. The ship sails at midnight and I have things to do before I board.’

  Julia watched him stride away, a smile on her face. Her life was about to change, and she couldn’t help but think it was for the better.

  ‘You did not mention any man when you came to us, so what are we to make of your morals now, Miss Hardy?’ Millicent sneered.

  ‘No doubt you will make of them as you wish, as you do of every other unfortunate person you cast your eye upon.’

  ‘Mr Ibsen is an adventurer. I’m surprised you allowed him to take you in. Do you really trust him to return for you?’

  ‘I’d trust him with my life,’ she said, and smiled, for she was about to do exactly that.

  ‘You will not leave me without help,’ Millicent said triumphantly. ‘While you’re under our roof you’ll still be expected to carry out your duties, else you’ll find yourself on the street.’

  Julia shrugged. She’d be more than happy to leave this household, and at this instant. Unfortunately, she had nowhere else to go. But, later that evening, Julia chuckled as she read the note Marcus had slid into her sleeve.

  Dear Miss Hardy,

  You struck me as being an adventurous type of woman with a mind of her own. If you’d care to elope with me to New South Wales, we can be married there. It will save me the inconvenience of coming back. I will wait for you in the shadows beyond the gate until eleven o’clock. Trust me.

  Marcus Ibsen

  He’d said the ship sailed at midnight.

  Julia offered the reverend and his wife the courtesy of a brief note of farewell, leaving it on her pillow. Then, packing her bag, she crept from her poorly equipped accommodation and, with a great sense of freedom and excitement, joined her future husband.

  17

  Francis thought his grandchildren to be handsome. Alexander was growing to resemble Marcus more each day. Jane Louise was a dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty, with waving hair and a mischievous smile. Neither of them resembled their late mother to any great extent, though he searched their features for signs of Maryse every time he visited them.

  He came every week to Cheverton Manor, sometimes bringing Daisy and Goldie, so the twins would have other children for company. Today, he was alone.

  He enjoyed his visits, and was satisfied the children were well treated and cared for. They were walking now, and talking after a fashion. They recognized him as their grandfather, indeed, addressing him as ‘ganfer’ in their almost unintelligible infant prattle.

  Jane Louise held her arms up for a hug as he was about to leave. As she snuggled against him, her plump little arms holding him tight, love for her raced through him. How lucky he was to have them to care for. How could Maryse have deliberately left these two beautiful children motherless? It was something he wouldn’t have expected of his daughter.

  Halfway home, it occurred to him he’d done exactly the same with Bryn. The boy had regarded him as his father. As a father, he had loved Bryn without reservation. What had happened to that love to make him withdraw it from Bryn, a lad he’d also deprived of a mother?

  He could feel that love inside him still, crouching like a wounded animal gone to earth. He coaxed it out to examine it. How bewildered Bryn must have been in the weeks following the move. Had he waited and watched for his parents to come for him until he’d finally run out of hope? Francis’s heart ached for the boy now. Indeed, who was he to censure Maryse for the state of her mind, when his own attitude towards Bryn had been less than charitable?

  For his own peace of mind Francis knew he had to reclaim Bryn before his brothers took matters into their own hands for Ryder was quite capable of using his position to sign on his behalf. His family was incomplete without the boy, the house felt empty without him. The need for him to bring Bryn home became suddenly urgent.

  When he returned home to Rivervale House he found Pansy in the schoolroom with Miss Edgar, supervising a poetry recitation. Daisy was at her melodramatic best, her hands clasped over her heart and her eyes turned to the ceiling. Goldie wore a false moustache. He grinned at the sight and, pushing the door a crack wider, beckoned to Pansy.

  ‘What is it, Pa?’ she said, closing the door behind her in case the girls saw him and were distracted.

  ‘I’m going to Christchurch in the rig. I’ll probably stay at Kylchester Hall overnight.’

  A smile spread across her face. ‘Are you going to fetch Bryn?’

  He nodded. ‘I admit, I have been torn apart by this affair, but I’ve reached a conclusion that Bryn will be better off living with us than left to the mercy of strangers.’

  ‘Dearest Papa. I knew you would come to this realization sooner or later. I’ll inform the staff and will make sure Bryn’s bed is aired. I’m sure you’ll never regret this decision.’

  ‘Pansy, my dear, I certainly hope not, but the truth of his parentage cannot be kept concealed from Bryn indefinitely, for too many others know. He must be prepared for his future honestly and accordingly.’

  ‘He’ll be proud to have you as a grandfather, and I’ll adore you for evermore for bringing him home. I’ve missed him so much.’ Her declaration was reinforced by the warmth of her hug. ‘Wrap yourself up warmly, Papa. I’ll prepare you a food hamper, for you’ll miss dinner.’

  Francis left within the hour, shivering a little, for the wind had become blustery and brought driving showers with it. Now he’d made his decision he couldn’t wait to see Bryn again. But would the boy remember him after all this time?

  It was three hours before he crossed into the neighbouring county of Hampshire, then travelled on to the east of Bournemouth Cove. Another thirty minutes passed before he reached Christchurch. The reflection of the square Norman tower of the priory, a later addition to the various contributions to its earlier style, was wavering on the wind-rippled water of the Avon river.

  The evening shadows were lengthening when Francis found the cottage of Lucy Tisk. His knock at the door brought the sound of shuffling feet. The door opened a chink to reveal the withered face of an old woman. She gazed short-sightedly at him, her head jerking back and forth with palsy. ‘What do ’e want?’

  ‘My name is Francis Matheson. I’m here to collect the boy.’

  ‘The boy, is it? And about time, too, for my grandson, Ben Tisk, had to take the birch to him this morning. He wouldn’t do his chores, and me so crippled with rheumatics I can hardly walk.’

  Her grandson appeared then, a man of solid appearance in his early twenties, who filled the door frame of the back room. The scars on Francis’s back, placed there by a flogging when he’d been mistaken for a convict in Van Diemen’s Land, began to burn at the thought of Bryn being birched. ‘Whe
re is he?’ he said roughly.

  The woman might have been old, but she wasn’t stupid. ‘First, there’s the matter of bringing the payment of his board up to date. I was only supposed to have him till the end of the year.’ A grubby palm was extended. ‘Thirty shillin’, I be owed.’

  The man moved forward to stand behind his grandmother, arms folded.

  The sum dropped into her palm was shoved into the pocket under her apron, and the woman pointed to a ladder leading to a loft. ‘He’s up there.’

  Noticing the bolt securing the trapdoor, Francis frowned. ‘You’ve locked him in?’

  ‘The ungrateful little tyke keeps trying to escape,’ the man said. ‘He’s as sullen as a river rat. If you asks me, the discipline of that there school he’s being sent to will do him good.’

  Francis was curt. ‘I didn’t ask you. Would you fetch my grandson down, please.’

  ‘Fetch him down, Ben,’ said Lucy Tisk, as she shuffled off. ‘Make sure he don’t take the smock that boy be wearin’, less’n it be paid for, first. There was nothin’ to say I had to provide him with clothes and that smock cost me two shillin’ at the market.’

  Francis placed two shillings in Ben Tisk’s hand, then watched him open the trapdoor and poke his head and shoulders up through the hole. ‘Come ’ere, you,’ he growled. ‘There be someone here to fetch yer.’

  There was a shuffling noise from the ceiling above, then the sound of a foot thudding against flesh. Giving a howl, Ben Tisk ducked out of the trapdoor with blood dripping from his nose. ‘I’ll kill that little bastard when I gets hold of him.’ Ben shot swiftly up through the trapdoor again, his whole body propelled by muscular arms. There came the sound of a struggle, followed by a high-pitched squeal. Suddenly, the near-naked body of a boy came hurtling through the trapdoor.

  Francis was in time to catch Bryn, but the force sent him staggering backwards and they rolled together onto the floor. Immediately, the boy began to kick and punch him.

  ‘Enough, Bryn,’ he said. Pinning the child’s arms to his sides, he rose to his feet and carried him outside. He didn’t want to risk a confrontation with the burly Ben Tisk. As the door slammed behind them, Bryn was beyond reason in his passion, swearing and screaming at the top of his voice. Francis kept him captive until he reached the phaeton, where the boy suddenly ran out of energy.

  This was not the lively, healthy child he’d left with Beckwith to farm out. This was a boy who’d suffered. Francis understood now why Siana hadn’t been able to leave him at the farm in Wales. She would have known what his fate was likely to be. Now her worst fears with regard to Bryn had been realized.

  ‘Look at me, Bryn,’ Francis said to him. A pair of grey eyes came up to his and stayed there. There was no recognition in them, just pain and defiance. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Do you understand?’

  Bryn nodded, but his body was tense with fright. He was filthy, his hair was shoulder length and matted, his smell feral. Marks on his wrists and ankles indicated where a rope had chaffed and burnt his skin, welts from a recent birching striped his legs, arms and back. A piece of rag, the remnants of a filthy smock, was all the clothing he wore. Dear God, what had this boy gone through?

  ‘I’m going to wrap a blanket round you. Then I’m going to give you some medicine to help you to feel better.’ The truth was, Francis couldn’t risk driving away if there was a chance of Bryn throwing himself from the rig.

  He released the boy’s arms, said, ‘Do you remember who I am?’ Bryn stared at him, mistrustful and sullen. Francis had no time for self-recrimination. That would come later, even though he was finding this reunion, coming on top of the condition Goldie had been found in, an extremely bitter pill to swallow. He reached for the hamper and opened it. ‘I’m your grandfather, come to take you home. Are you hungry?’

  The boy snatched the bread, cheese and ham he offered, stuffing it into his mouth and choking on it as it went down. A few minutes after he finished bolting it, he pressed his hands to his stomach and groaned with pain. The food was immediately brought up again. Leaning over the side of the rig, Bryn’s thin body jerked and heaved with the involuntary effort.

  Wiping the boy’s mouth he said gently, ‘I should have known better. When we get to Kylchester Hall, we must try you on some broth, instead.’

  Again that disconcerting stare, but there was a spark of recognition in the depths of his eyes now. Bryn swallowed the laudanum Francis gave him and allowed himself to be wrapped in the blanket. Afterwards, he edged over to the corner, as far away from Francis as he could get.

  It didn’t take long for Bryn to begin to relax, for the dose had been a large one and the rocking movement of the rig was soothing. His lids closed gradually and reluctantly, jerking open as soon as they closed, as if he was frightened to fall asleep, then gradually closing again. Finally, they stayed shut. As he brought the rig to a halt Francis knew Bryn would sleep until morning. Laying the child on the seat beside him, he secured him with a rope around his waist, so he couldn’t slide off. Clicking his tongue at the horse, Francis gently set the rig in motion again and they headed for Kylchester Hall.

  It was almost dark when he arrived there. Ryder and Prudence were about to go into dinner, but came to greet him instead.

  ‘I’d be grateful for a bed for the night,’ he said to Ryder.

  Ryder sent a servant scuttling, then gazed down at the boy in his arms. ‘What are you going to do with him?’

  Anger at himself made Francis short. ‘He’ll never leave my home again until he’s of an age when he can make that decision for himself.’

  Placing a hand over her mouth, Prudence gasped. ‘Surely that child is not Bryn.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘But . . . what a state he is in, that disgusting smell! I had no idea . . . oh, Francis . . .’ She began to weep, clearly rattled by the sight of the poor child. ‘I’m so sorry. Lucy Tisk was my own recommendation. She used to be a maid of all work until she became too old and her grandson took her in. But she was always so reliable. I don’t understand how this can have happened. You must let me tend to the poor child.’

  Francis was weary, for he’d been up much of the previous night trying to patch up a woman who’d been beaten half to death by her drunken husband. She’d survived with two ribs broken, her face bruised and swollen. She’d also lost the baby she’d been carrying. He’d have liked to place her in the infirmary, but she had five children to care for.

  He’d had words with her husband. ‘The next time this happens I’ll report you to the constable.’

  All swagger, his belly full of scrumpy, her husband had grunted, ‘A man has the right to treat his wife as he sees fit.’

  ‘Not to this extent. You’ve killed the infant she was carrying.’

  ‘Got enough of the little beggars running around as it is. A man can’t get a moment’s peace.’ And indeed, there had been a row of scared, dirty little faces such as Bryn’s gazing out from behind a curtain.

  He sighed with the depth of his sorrow. As a husband he had also treated his wife and children despicably. Worse, for he’d denied the children in his charge the love and guidance of a mother.

  ‘Bryn probably has body lice. I’ve dosed him with laudanum, but he should sleep until morning. Bathing him is not a job for a lady such as yourself.’

  Prudence placed a hand on his arm. ‘I’m a mother of five sons, Francis. I know you think I’m an interfering idiot –’ an assessment not far removed from the truth, Francis thought – ‘Ryder would be the first to agree with you. I do have some common sense, however, and I’m not entirely devoid of feeling. Hand the child to me. I will summon a servant. We will make sure he’s clean, and apply soothing salve to his sores before settling him for the night.’

  ‘Place him on the chaise in my chamber then, Prudence, for I’d not want him to wake in the night and be frightened. He will lash out and be hard to handle if he feels the need to defend himself.’

  ‘He needs
mothering again.’ To Francis’s surprise, Prudence took the child from him and gently kissed his forehead. ‘Poor lad,’ she said softly. ‘This has been a tragedy with far-reaching consequences. What can we do to help you forget what you’ve been through?’

  Ryder took him into the drawing room, handing him a brandy while they waited for Prudence to return. ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Francis?’

  ‘For the first time in several months, yes, I do. I’m bringing my family back together again, for I’ve been too harsh and I’m miserable without them. Don’t think I’m ungrateful for the help you and my other brothers offered, Ryder. However, Siana loved the boy and so did I. I see no reason why he should not remain with us.’

  ‘And when he finds out the truth of his past . . . what then?’

  ‘He’ll hear that truth from me, his grandfather. When the time comes, I can only hope the affection with which we raise him will give him a sense of worth. He has, after all, got Matheson blood in him, which, Pansy aside, is more than the rest of my family have.’

  ‘My advice to you is—’

  ‘With all respect, Ryder, I believe I’m old enough to manage my life without any more advice. Being married to Siana has taught me that whatever their lot in life, all people have feelings. Over the past two years I’ve sent away the woman I love, and have been the cause of two children experiencing unimaginable horror and degradation. In the process, I’ve lost all respect for myself.’

  ‘You’re being too hard on yourself, Francis. This whole affair was caused by that damned Welsh woman making mischief.’

  ‘It was caused by a crime being committed against my daughter. Nothing more, nothing less. Had I been more observant at the time it happened, instead of setting my mind on the property William had left me in Van Diemen’s Land, I would have noticed Maryse’s distress at the time and looked for further signs.

  ‘Siana did what she thought was right. She’s not the type of woman who would turn away from a child who was in need of her, which is one of the very qualities I admired in her when I decided to wed. Now, I might have lost her.’