Orphans from the Storm. Penny Jordan
scales to be weighed against his past experience and his cynicism.
‘And you reckon you can set this place to order, do you, with this honest, decent work of yours?’
Why was she hesitating? she thought. Wasn’t this what she wanted—why she had come here? The kitchen might be untidy and chaotic, but at least it was warm and dry. Where was she to go if she was turned away now? Back to where she had come from? Hardly. Yet still she hesitated, warned by something she could see in the arrogant male face with its winter-sky-grey eyes. His gaze held a hint of latent cruelty, making her feel that if she stepped over the threshold of this house and into his domain she would be stepping into danger. She could turn back. She could walk on into the town and find work there. She could…
A gust of wind rattled the windows and the door slammed shut—closed, Marianne was sure, not by the force of the wind but by a human hand.
‘Yes.’ Why did she feel as though she had taken a very reckless step into some dark unknown?
She could still feel him looking at her, assessing her, and it was a relief when he finally spoke.
‘So, tell me something of the cause of such an urgent need for work that it has brought you out on such a night and to such a place. Got turned off by your mistress, did you?’
Although his voice had a rich northern burr, it was not as strong as that of the departing housekeeper. She could hear the hostility and the suspicion in it, though.
‘No!’
‘Then what?’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers, sir,’ she replied quietly, looking not at him but down at the floor. It had taken more than one whipping before she had known that it was not her right to look her betters in the eye.
‘Beggars? You class yourself as such, and yet you are aspiring to the post of a housekeeper?’
‘I know the duties of a housekeeper, sir, and have carried them out in the past. On this occasion, though, I was not in any expectation of such an elevated post.’
‘Elevated? So you think that working for me as my housekeeper would be a rare and juicy plum of a post, do you?’
‘I had not thought of it in such terms, sir. Indeed, I had not thought of taking that position at all—you are the one who has done that. All I was looking for was the chance of work and a roof over my head.’
‘But you have worked as a housekeeper, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’ It was, after all, the truth.
‘Where was your last post?’
‘In Cheshire, sir. The home of an elderly lady.’
‘Cheshire! So what brings you to Lancashire?’
The baby, who had fallen asleep, suddenly woke up and started to cry.
‘What the devil?’ He snatched up a lantern from the table and held it aloft, anger pinching in his nostrils and drawing down the corners of his mouth into a scimitar curve as he stared at them both. ‘What kind of deceit is this that you try to pass yourself off as a servant when you have a child?’
‘No deceit, sir. I am a respectable widow, forced to earn a living for myself and my child as best I can.’
‘No one employs a woman with a child as a servant.’
It was true enough. Live-in domestic staff were supposed to remain single. Housekeepers might be given the courtesy title of ‘Mrs,’ but they were certainly not supposed to have a husband, and most definitely not a child.
‘I was in service before my marriage,’ she answered his charge, speaking the truth once again.
‘So you’re a widow, are you? What happened to your husband?’
‘He died, sir.’
‘Don’t bandy words with me. I don’t have the temperament for such women’s ways. There’s no work here for the likes of you. You might have more luck in one of the bawdy houses of Manchester—or was that how you came by your brat in the first place?’
‘I am a respectably married woman.’ Marianne told him angrily. ‘And this child, my late husband’s child, was born in wedlock.’
‘I’m surprised you haven’t had the gall to farm it out to someone else, or left it outside a chapel door to add to the problems of some already overburdened parish. Without it you might have convinced me to give you some work.’ He was walking towards the door, obviously intending to force her to leave.
It was too late now for her to wish that she had not allowed her pride to overrule her caution.
‘Please…’ She hated having to beg for anything from anyone, but to have to beg from a man like this one was galling indeed. However, she had given her promise. A deathbed promise what was more. ‘Please let me stay—at least for tonight. If nothing else I could clean up this kitchen. Please…’
She hated the way he was looking at her, stripping her of her dignity and her pride, reducing her to nothing other than the miserable creature he perceived her to be.
He gave a mirthless bark of derisory laughter.
‘Clean this place—in one night? Impossible! What is your name?’
‘Marianne—I mean Mrs…Mrs Brown.’
Something too sharp and knowing gleamed in his eyes.
‘You don’t seem too sure of your surname, Mrs Brown. Could it be that you have forgotten it and that it could just as readily be Smith or Jones? Where were you wed?’
‘I was married in Cheshire, in the town of Middlewich, and my name is Brown,’ Marianne told him fiercely.
‘Aye, well, anyone can buy a cheap brass ring and lay claim to a dead husband.’
‘I am married. It is the truth.’
‘You have your marriage lines?’
Marianne could feel her face starting to burn. ‘Not with me…’
He was going to make her leave…
‘If I turn you out, you and the brat will no doubt end up on the parish, and the workhouse governors will have something to say about that. Very well, you may stay the night. But first thing in the morning you are to leave—not just this house, but the town as well. Is that understood?’
He had gone without giving her the opportunity to answer him. Which was just as well, given the circumstances that had brought her here.
For tonight at least she and the baby would have the warmth of this kitchen. A kitchen she had promised to clean in return for its shelter, she reminded herself, as she rocked the baby back to sleep and prayed she would be able to find some milk for him somewhere in the chaos.
Her arms ached from carrying both the child and their few possessions, and her ankle was still throbbing. She limped over to an empty chair and placed the silent swaddled bundle down on it. Her heart missed a beat as she studied the small waxen face. She turned towards the fire glowering sullenly in the range. Ash spilled from beneath it, suggesting that it was some time since it had been cleaned out properly, and she would need a good fire burning if she was to heat enough water to get this place properly clean.
Picking up the lantern, she walked slowly round the kitchen. Half a loaf of bread had been left uncovered and drying out on the table, along with some butter, and a jar of jam with the lid left off, causing her mouth to water at the sight of it. But she made herself resist the temptation to fall on it and silence the ache of hunger that tore at her insides. Everywhere she looked she could see filthy crockery, and the floor was sticky with dirt.
A door opened off the kitchen into a large pantry, in which Marianne was relieved to find a large pitcher of milk standing on a marble slab. Before she did anything else she would feed the baby. Another door opened