Chapter Nine
T here was, perhaps, one way to determine whether another person was truly good.
Which was how they treated a crying child.
Etty’s heart warmed at the expression on Frances Gadd’s face as the girl lifted Gabriel out of his crib.
“Who do we have here?” the young girl cooed. “Such a handsome young man—you’ll be breaking hearts before you’re in your breeches, won’t you?”
Etty winced at the memory of her former self and how she’d measured her success in Society by the number of hearts she broke.
Heartbreaker of the ton…
That was what Eleanor had once called her. And Eleanor had been right in that—and in all things.
“I sincerely hope not, Frances,” Etty said.
The girl blushed and set Gabriel down. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mrs. Ward—I meant no offense, truly.”
Etty approached the young girl, who stepped back, her eyes widening, fear flickering in her green gaze.
Heavens —did she think Etty was going to strike her?
“I-I’ll do better, I promise, Mrs. Ward,” she said. “Please don’t send me back. I-I only meant that he was such a handsome lad, that he’s bound to have his pick of sweethearts.”
“That’s very kind of you, Frances,” Etty replied. “But I would hope my son grows up to be a kinder man than the sort who’d break a girl’s heart. I want him to be a better man than…”
She hesitated.
…than his father.
Which, given Dunton’s cruelty in his disregard for her and his treatment of his subordinates, was unlikely to be a challenge. Gabriel would grow up to be a fine man. A good man who cared for, rather than judged, the sinners in his midst.
A man such as Mr. Staines.
“Mr. Staines has been ever so kind,” the girl said.
Sweet Lord —had Etty spoken out loud?
“Oh, has he?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. It was him what sent me here today. He told Ma he’d found me employment here in Sandcombe, and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. But I don’t want to let him down.”
“I can’t imagine your letting anyone down, Frances,” Etty said. “I can see that my son adores you. And he’s as good a judge of character as any.”
“Then you’ll take me as housemaid?”
Etty’s heart almost broke at the desperation in the girl’s voice. She was a mere child who had only one choice before her—to seek a wage to support her family.
At twelve years old, Etty had had no such concerns to trouble her. For as long as she could remember, she had outshone her older sister in elegance and beauty—and had a host of adults who never ceased to remind her of her qualities and the success she’d make of her life. At twelve years old, the prospect of toil had never entered her mind.
“Of course,” Etty said.
“To live in?”
“Don’t you wish to remain at home?”
“Oh.” The girl’s smile slipped. “It’s just that Ma said I could earn…” She blushed and lowered her gaze. “Beggin’ yer pardon, it’s not done to speak of such things.”
Of course! A live-in housemaid earned more than one who visited daily.
“I hear twelve pounds a year is a reasonable sum,” Etty said.
The girl’s eyes widened, and Gabriel almost slipped from her grasp. Then she tightened her hold on the boy and shook her head.
“No—no, Mrs. Ward,” she said. “That’s too much. It’s what Mr. Smith earns at the Sailor, so my da says.”
“The Sailor?” Etty asked.
“The inn,” the girl said. “Not that you’d know. Da says he drinks most of it, leaving Mrs. Smith with next to nothing for the housekeeping.”
“And you think I should pay you less than this Mr. Smith earns?”
“What Mr. Smith does is man’s work.”
“Does he work harder than you intend to work for me?”
“Oh no!” the girl cried, an undertone of pride in her voice. “Ma says I work twice as hard as anyone—and I’ll work even harder for you, Mrs. Ward, never you fret about that.”
“Then,” Etty said, “if a woman—or in your case, a girl—works harder than a man, she should, at the very least, be paid the same. Perhaps this Mr. Smith expects to be paid more merely because he drinks most of his wages, leaving little for his unfortunate wife.”
“Loveday Smith is able to make her housekeeping stretch ever so far—or so Ma says, though she’ll be returning to her position soon, at the big house”—Frances hesitated, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes—“at least, when she’s well enough.”
“Your mother sounds like a gossip,” Etty said.
The girl blushed. “It’s not that, Mrs. Ward, but my ma cares ever so much for Loveday Smith. She’s Ma’s cousin, you see, and Ma says Loveday reminds her of our Freda. She has the most beautiful baby girl—she said I’ve looked after her ever so well. You can ask her yourself if you like, Mrs. Ward, ma’am, before deciding whether to take me on.”
“I’ve already decided, Frances, dear,” Etty said, her heart aching at the eager girl’s expression, “and I’m sure Mrs. Smith wouldn’t relish a visit from me. I am, after all, a stranger.”
“Ma says Loveday Smith needs visitors, even if she don’t like them. Mr. Staines visits her a lot.”
“Why does she need visitors?” Etty asked.
“She’s always hurting herself,” came the reply. “She broke her arm last year and couldn’t work. Mr. Smith was ever so cross about it. Then just before she had baby Anna, she fell down the stairs and sprained her wrist. She had an awful big bruise on her face when Ma and I visited her yesterday. Walked into the door, she said. Mr. Smith said she was a clumsy fool, and Ma got ever so cross with him before he left.”
“He left?”
“Aye, he spends most evenings in the Sailor now the baby’s here. Da says he should be at home tending to his wife like any good husband, but Ma said he’s better out of the house. She said it’s better for Loveday—but how can it be if she’s always having accidents? What if she fell and her husband wasn’t there?”
“Perhaps Loveday Smith has fewer accidents when her husband is not at home,” Etty said.
“That’s what Jimmy says,” the girl said. “And Ma says she’ll be all better once she’s working again.”
“You mean she has to work ?” Etty asked. “When she’s just had a baby?”
“Aye, she works at the big house helping out with the mending. Ma says it’s better for her, though not by much, provided she stays below stairs. Loveday’s ma takes care of her children,” Frances said. “I asked if I could help, but Ma said I wasn’t to visit her on my own. I don’t know why. We were friends at school, until she left to work at the big house.”
“She’s your friend?” Etty asked. “And she has two children? Heavens above, how old is she?”
“Seventeen last summer, but Mrs. Swain taught us all just the same.”
Etty shook her head. A young girl—barely out of childhood—and already with two children and a drunkard for a husband. But perhaps Frances was mistaken.
“How old are you, Frances?”
“I was twelve last Sunday,” the girl said, pride in her voice. “Ma says that makes me all grown up.”
“Did you do anything special to mark the occasion?”
“We visited Freda’s grave like we always do, then Mrs. Ham from the Sailor brought round a fruitcake special. There’s some left. I could bring you a slice.”
“Do you miss Freda?”
“I never knew her,” the girl said. “She died before I was born.”
What had been inscribed on the headstone? d Aug 13 th 1805
August the thirteenth had been last Sunday.
Which meant Frances had been born the day her sister died.
Something of a coincidence…or perhaps not?
“Jimmy misses her,” Frances said. “Sometimes I hear Ma crying. I want to comfort her, but sometimes she looks at me as if she blames…” She shook her head, and her eyes glistened with moisture. “Forgive me for rattling on, ma’am.”
She turned her attention to Gabriel. “What do you want, little man?” she asked. “Do you want to explore?”
“You can set him on the rug,” Etty said. “I swept the floor yesterday. He likes to crawl about the house, and he’s already walking, though he needs a little help.”
“What a clever boy you are!” Frances said brightly. She placed Gabriel on the rug, then took his hands, steadying him while he took a teetering step forward. “We’re going to have so much fun together,” she said. “There’s so much to explore hereabouts.” She glanced up at Etty. “That is, if your ma allows it.”
“Of course I’d allow it,” Etty said. “The countryside is beautiful. I’ve never lived in the country before. It’s so peaceful compared to London.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “You’re from London? What’s it like?”
“Too much noise,” Etty said. “And too many people. All crammed together, wanting to know everyone else’s business. Sometimes I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. And I didn’t want Gabriel growing up there. So I brought him here, where we could live away from prying eyes.”
“There’s plenty of prying eyes in Sandcombe,” Frances said. “But you’re out of the way here.”
Etty nodded. It was no wonder Eleanor had come here seeking solace. Two sisters who had never been close, both fleeing the judgmental eyes of the world after ruination. Except, in both cases, that ruination had been brought about by Etty herself—her spite and envy.
“Have you been to the beach yet, Mrs. Ward?” Frances asked. “I could take Gabriel there. I’m sure he’d like to see the sea.”
“How about we spend the day on the beach?” Etty said. “We could have a picnic.”
“Oh!” Frances let out a cry of joy. “A picnic? Can we really?”
Etty smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm over something so simple as a picnic. But perhaps, in her hard life, she had rarely experienced such a treat.
“We can have picnics as often as you like, Frances,” Etty said. “What do you think of that?”
More tears glistened in the girl’s eyes. “I think Gabriel is the luckiest child in the world to have you as his ma. I wish…” She shook her head and resumed her attention on the little boy. “I’m going to show you so much, Master Gabriel,” she said. “You’re going to love the beach, the feel of the sand between your toes. And paddling in the sea—you just wait till you try it!”
She glanced toward Etty again. “Of course, I won’t shirk my duties, Mrs. Ward. Ma says I must work hard and keep house for you.”
Etty lowered herself onto the rug beside Frances. Gabriel let out a gurgle, then toddled toward her, arms outstretched, and Etty drew the boy into her arms.
“My darling,” she said, kissing the top of his head. Then she smiled at Frances. “Life isn’t all about hard work,” she said. “We must also enjoy it while we can.”
She closed her eyes, recalling a pair of warm brown eyes framed by soft blond hair. What had the vicar said to her yesterday?
“Life is there to be lived.”
“That’s what Mr. Staines always says,” Frances said. “I like Mr. Staines, don’t you?”
Etty nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “Very much.”
“He’s said some very civil things about you, Mrs. Ward. He said you’d be the kindest employer in Sandcombe and that you were in need of a little kindness yourself.”
Etty couldn’t be more ashamed. She had no need for kindness, not after the sins she’d committed. Yet if what this innocent girl said were true, there were other souls in Sandcombe whose need far surpassed hers—a young woman with a brutish drunkard for a husband, and a mother whose grief for the daughter she lost marred her love for the daughter she had.
And though Etty could never atone for the sin she’d committed against her own family, perhaps, in exiling herself to this remote little village, she had found her purpose.
She might lack the ability to change the world—Papa had always told her she was too selfish a creature to think of others. But if there were a handful of souls to whom she could provide some comfort, then perhaps she could earn her place in the world. Not merely to prove her father wrong, but because it was the good thing to do.