Regency Sins. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
Her oldest son, eleven-year-old Michael, was working at the hat factory, but the two shillings and three pence he brought home weekly would barely be enough for bread, let alone rent or other living supplies.
Nora cast a quick look at Mary’s younger son, Robert. He was six and old enough to work as a scavenger, one of the many children who crawled beneath the machinery at the cotton mills to gather up loose cotton. She shuddered at the thought. The little money he would make doing such a perilous job would not be worth the risk. Each year children died, crushed beneath the heavy machinery if they slipped or were too slow. At best, Robert would end up crippled or permanently stooped from the demands of the job.
Behind her mask, Nora shut her eyes briefly and whispered a prayer. She would find a way to help the Malones. She thought of the three hundred-pound notes she had discovered in Stockport’s breast pocket last night when she undressed for bed. It had been tempting to keep them. It was tempting now to give them to the Malones. Three hundred pounds would be a fortune to them. She fought the temptation. The money wasn’t hers to give and she had given up her right to it when she dared Stockport to come with her today in payment for the ring.
If she took the money, it would confirm all the ills Stockport thought her capable of, and for some reason that rankled. It was inexplicably important that Stockport did not find her lacking.
Nora finished housekeeping and busied herself laying the table. Little Anna came to help put on the cloth Nora had brought, knowing that Mary appreciated such touches of domesticity. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that the boys had discovered Stockport’s greatcoat and Stockport let them.
He was even playing with them, using sticks of firewood for swords, looking quite boyish himself.
The sight of him romping with the children was mesmerising. Nora had difficulty tearing her gaze away. His dark hair was uncharacteristically messy and his shirt was coming out of his waistband as a result of his exertions. And Stockport was smiling! Actually smiling the way he’d smiled for the brief moment on the dance floor.
He looked her way and Nora knew she was caught. She must be more careful. Even with her mask on, she felt exposed. He whispered something to the boys and swept her a bow that made the boys laugh before turning back to them.
Nora lit a pair of candles and called everyone to dinner, satisfied that the table, with its cloth and tallow candles, looked well enough to set the day apart from the rest.
The children gathered around the table on barrels and crates serving as makeshift chairs. They looked hungrily at the feast spread before them and Nora tried to see the fare through their eyes. Hattie’s hearty soup with meat and vegetables filled their bowls, while plenty more hung over the fire, drenching the musty room with its rich aroma. Freshly baked loaves of bread sat on a wood board in the centre of the table next to a small crock of butter. The luxury of milk filled their cups.
Stockport escorted Mary to the table and Nora noted how much the young widow leaned on his arm for support. Mary sat and looked around at the expectant faces.
‘Who shall ask the Christmas blessing?’ she asked.
‘Brandon!’ the boys chorused, pointing to Stockport.
Stockport was surprised, but accepted and competently performed the duties. Everyone closed their eyes while Stockport blessed the food and spoke a few words about the sacred day.
Nora stole a look at him while the others had their heads dutifully bent. She should have kept her eyes safely downcast. The moment she gave into the little temptation she knew she was lost. In the candlelight, he looked angelic—like an archangel she’d seen painted in the cathedral in Manchester, a unique mixture of power, strength and justness with his sooty lashes swept over his sapphire eyes and his broad shoulders obvious through the white cotton of his shirt.
He was handsome and he did not disappoint. Today, he’d been all she had anticipated when she’d asked him to accompany her. It would be easier to dislike him if she’d been wrong about him, if he had stayed glued to the seat of her wagon, if he hadn’t carried baskets with her, if he had simply refused to come at all. In all honesty, he’d been better than good. It was more than she’d hoped for.
‘Amen,’ Stockport said solemnly. All heads came up. The children began to eat and exclaim about the food all at once.
Stockport kindly chided them. ‘Eat slowly or it will come back up again.’ Then he launched into a tale from his boyhood about a time when he’d eaten too many apples, making the boys laugh with his gestures and little Anna grin at him with her eyes wide.
He would make a wonderful father. Nora mentally recoiled from the thought it. She was getting positively henwitted if Christmas brought out such a reaction in her. This was the second time she’d had uncomfortably sentimental thoughts regarding Stockport.
He looked down the table at her and winked, bringing her into the new story he was telling. Nora gave herself up to her fantasy, rationalising that it would be her little gift to herself. For the duration of the meal, she pretended she had the right to call him Brandon; that he could call her Nora; she didn’t have to eat dinner with him behind a mask; that they had a supper table filled with children around it who he would make laugh with his tales over the evening meal; two happy people living a simple life in a simple cottage somewhere, with happy children. It had been her ultimate fantasy since she was very young, part of a life she’d once had, but then lost. She took a deep breath and pushed down the memories that thought threatened to dredge up. She couldn’t risk the pain. It made her vulnerable, something she could not afford with the Earl of Stockport hovering so near.
When the meal was over, her daydream was too, firmly locked into its place in the depths of her heart. It was too dangerous to let such a powerful dream linger too long.
After dinner, Stockport roped the children into helping him do the dishes and storing the remaining food, leaving Nora a chance to speak with Mary alone.
‘You’ve done too much. I can’t imagine how you managed all this and I know you’ve brought baskets for so many others,’ Mary said when they were seated near the fire.
‘I’ve done very little.’
‘Everyone will be grateful.’ Mary coughed into a worn handkerchief.
‘How are you, Mary?’ Nora asked cautiously.
‘It is taking me a long time to get over this,’ Mary confessed.
‘Should I send a doctor?’ Nora didn’t know how she’d manage that. She had spent all the money from her robberies on the baskets and rent was due on The Grange. Even if she could find the money, she didn’t know how she’d find a doctor who would be willing to come to such a neighbourhood.
‘This is nothing sunlight and country air can’t cure.’ Mary waved a dismissive hand that looked skeletally thin in the firelight.
Along with hot food, clean living conditions and freedom from worry over an insecure future, Nora mentally added. Out loud she said, ‘I’ll send more food over later this week. The soup and bread should last a few days.’
‘I wish I could say we won’t take your charity, but I have nowhere else to turn and I am grateful,’ Mary said sadly. Mary nodded to Stockport as he sat jiggling Anna on his knee and telling the children a story. ‘Is this man your beau? Does he know who you are? He’s lovely to look at and there’s something in the air between the two of you.’ The thought of love added a soft spark to Mary’s eyes.
Nora shook her head. ‘He’s not my beau. I thought there might be something in it for us if he came today.’ She was saved from saying more when Stockport’s story came to an end and the boys clamoured for presents.
Nora rose and clapped her hands for attention. ‘Gather round over here and Brandon will bring the basket. There might be some presents in there.’ Brandon. The boys had called him by his Christian name and it slipped as easily off her tongue as it had theirs. Perhaps her daydream wasn’t as tightly locked away as she thought. Most likely, it was due to the shirtsleeves’