Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir. Mary NicholsЧитать онлайн книгу.
had struggled silently and ineffectually.
He had been a bit sheepish afterwards, grinning while he dressed himself and kissing her lightly before he left her room, as if he had done nothing untoward. ‘Part of your education,’ he had told her. It had certainly been that. If it had taught her one thing it had taught her not to trust anyone—especially not young men with bright gold hair, mischievous blue eyes and winning smiles.
‘What are you going to do?’ the old lady asked.
‘I don’t know. I must find work where I can live in until—’ She stopped suddenly, unable to contemplate the future. The prospect of the birth itself was frightening enough without the added worry of not knowing how they were both to live. The thought came to her that perhaps they would not live, either of them. Many women died in childbirth. Wealthy women as well as poor ones. It had happened to the wife of Mr Charles, so she had heard from servants’ gossip. She had never met him, but if he was anything like his brother then it was as well she had not.
‘When is it due?’
‘Her ladyship called their physician in and he said about the beginning of June.’
‘Some time yet, then…’ Becky paused, then added, ‘I have been thinking. My sister Martha takes in boarders and might be able to help. She is a widow and lives in Norwich. You will need to pay her; she is not a wealthy woman.’
‘Oh, do you think she would? I would be so very grateful. I am sure I can find work even if it is only sewing.’
It had been easy to say that, sitting in a cosy room by a warm fire, with the bowl of soup Becky had just handed her in front of her. Since then she had discovered just how hard it was for a mother with a child and no man to support her.
Becky had offered her a bed for the night, saying she couldn’t turn a dog out in that weather, and she had accepted gratefully. It was more than she could have hoped for when she had left the Hall, but she had been well aware it was only a temporary reprieve, that the future had to be faced. Shunned by society, spat upon, refused work and lodgings, all because of a child and the lack of a wedding band.
She had kept out of sight while she was with Becky, afraid that someone might see her and report her presence to the Hall, but three days later the roads had been cleared and she had set out on the carrier’s cart to Bury St Edmunds, where she had boarded the stage to Norwich. Inside her bag was a letter to Mrs Porter, Becky’s widowed sister, who lived in St Ann’s Lane.
Mrs Porter was not at all like her motherly sibling. She was thin and hard-faced, but while Annette had been able to pay for lodgings she had been prepared to tolerate her, believing her to be Mrs Annie Anstey, the widow of a soldier killed in Portugal. It was there that her son had been born and put into her arms, and in that moment she had known that, whatever had brought him into life, she would nurture him and love him with every ounce of her strength. That was what had been missing ever since her mother had died: someone she could truly love and who might love her.
Lady Ashbrooke’s five guineas, along with the proceeds from selling her mother’s wedding ring and a small pendant which had been all that was left of her jewellery, had kept her going through her pregnancy, but a week ago all but a few shillings had gone, and she had been obliged to admit she did not have the rent money.
‘I cannot keep beggars,’ Mrs Porter had said, ignoring the fact that Annette had been helping with the housework and cooking for the other lodgers in return for a rebate on her rent. ‘There are others ready and willing to pay well for a room as good as this. I only took you in because Becky asked me to.’
‘I know. I’ll find work. If you would be so good as to keep an eye on Timothy while I go out, I am sure I can earn the money for our keep.’
‘No. I am not a children’s nurse. I don’t like children—especially when they cry all the time…’
‘He can’t help that, poor lamb.’
‘No, but my other lodgers don’t like it. I am sorry, Mrs Anstey, I have told a young couple they shall have this room. He is in work and there will be no trouble with the rent. I will give you to the end of the week…’
‘But that’s only four days away!’
‘Then the sooner you start looking, the better, wouldn’t you say?’
In despair she had packed her few things, picked up her child, wrapped in a shawl, and ventured out onto the street. And had ended up here, in this terrible hole. Mrs Grosse, who had a large family and had said it would be no trouble to keep an eye on Timmy while Annette worked, had demanded rent in advance, and so she had given the woman her last two shillings. Until she was paid for the work she was doing she had nothing. Nothing at all.
The sewing dropped into her lap and she looked across the room at her sleeping child and felt a tug at her heart. He was so beautiful and so helpless. Whatever happened she must not fail him. Sighing heavily, she bent once more to her needle.
CHARLES walked on, ruminating on the encounter with the young woman with the parcel. It reminded him of something his brother had said. ‘Out of the ordinary,’ he had told him, describing their stepmother’s nursery maid. ‘If she were dressed up a bit you could take her out and about in Society and no one the wiser. She has—what do you call it?—presence. Yes, that’s it. Presence. She speaks as well as we do and she holds her head up, and she has the most lustrous dark brown hair and wonderful greeny grey eyes …’
He had smiled at the time, putting it down to Jeremy’s fancifulness, but it exactly described the young lady he had just seen—except for the hair which, though dark brown, could hardly be called lustrous. She was too thin to be beautiful, but the rest fitted. He had almost spoken to her, accused her of being Annette Ryston, but had desisted, unwilling to make a fool of himself. If she was not the nursery maid then she would have laughed in his face or, worse, thought he was seeking an hour or so of pleasure. After all, Norwich was a large city, teeming with life, and there must be thousands of girls fitting the maid’s description. It did not matter anyway, because he had the girl’s direction and would see the real Annie Ryston there.
He stopped outside the boarding house on the corner of St Ann’s Lane and King Street, hesitating whether to go in or not. It looked respectable enough: the windows gleamed, the curtains were clean, the step scrubbed and the brass knocker on the door shone with much polishing. If she was staying here then she was not doing too badly and perhaps it would be best to leave well alone. There was no proof of anything, and Jeremy had denied he had got the girl with child. Jeremy, his brother. Was he his brother’s keeper?
The answer to that was that, in the absence of the brother himself, he was certainly his offspring’s keeper—if such a child existed. He went up the steps and knocked.
A skinny little maid opened the door, and then left him on the step while she went to speak to her mistress. He did not have long to wait. Mrs Porter arrived, tying a fresh apron about her waist. He doffed his beaver. ‘Good afternoon, ma’am. I am looking for Mrs Anstey—Mrs Annie Anstey. I am told she resides here.’
‘No more, she don’t.’
‘Oh, do you know where she has gone?’
‘No.’ She was eyeing him up and down, probably coming to the conclusion he was the child’s father. ‘You’ve come a bit late in the day, hen’t you?’ she went on. ‘She could ha’ done with you a couple of months since.’
‘She had a child, then?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘No. I met her husband out in Spain and I have a message for her from him.’
‘Hmph,’ she muttered, evidently not believing a word. ‘I still don’ know where she’s gone. Try the work’us.’
He