Chapter 2 The Widow
STAINEYBANK, brINSHIRE: NOVEMBER
Georgie Hastings started every day with a chat to her husband.
She sat up in bed holding his dear face in her hands and told him everything.
Not that there was much to talk about, but she told him all that she planned to do that day, and how her friend Rowena’s baby was going on, and how the wind had got up in the night and probably brought great deluges of leaves from the trees for the patient gardeners to sweep up before the next leaf fall.
He never spoke a word back to her, but then he had never been much of a conversationalist, even when he was alive.
Poor Henry! This was all she had left of him now, this delicate and not even very accurate cameo of his silhouette.
Even the baby he had given her had been lost in that initial outpouring of grief, and she had never much felt the loss in the far greater tragedy of losing Henry.
It was only now that Rowena had married the Duke of Brinshire’s heir and brought a tiny daughter into the world that Georgie had begun to feel that sorrow for her own child.
Would it have been a boy or a girl? A quiet little mite, like Rowena’s, or a bawling, lusty son, waving pudgy arms as if shaking its tiny fists against the unkind world?
For it was an unkind world, of that she had no doubt.
A kind world would have spared her Henry, so full of life that she had simply not believed he could be dead until she had seen his crumpled body for herself.
A kind world would not have given her so much joy, and then extinguished it so quickly.
The ache for Henry never lessened, and now she ached for the child who had never been born, too.
Nevertheless, she did not repine, because what was the point?
Once she had had her little talk to Henry, she gave thanks to God for the good things she had been given after Henry had left the world.
So many blessings. Her little cottage in Oxford and the tiny income her dowry had brought, thanks to her uncle’s careful arrangements.
Good neighbours and friends, not least of them Rowena.
And now, a new home under the Duke of Brinshire’s patronage as companion to Rowena, with not just a roof over her head, but unlimited food, coals and candles, a soft bed and the use of a maid whenever she needed one.
She did not like to presume on such services, so she allowed the fire, rebuilt by some silent servant in the pre-dawn darkness, to die down, washed in last night’s chilly water and dressed herself with swift familiarity.
Then it was off to the nursery to admire the infant.
Rowena was there already, of course. Georgie had never yet managed to arrive before the doting mother.
The doting father was there today, too, still in his nightcap and a fashionable banyan, creating with his wife and a smiling semi-circle of maids an adoring audience for the gurgling child, merrily displaying her modest array of teeth.
“Look, Georgie, she can walk!” Rowena cried, as soon as Georgie entered the room. And indeed, with Richard’s hands holding her up and her own kicking feet pushing forwards, the child did appear to be walking. She was nine months old now, and every day brought some new milestone to be admired.
Georgie made the appropriate remarks, and gratefully accepted a cup of chocolate from the nursery maid. She would never dream of asking for such luxuries, but it would be foolish beyond permission to refuse when offered.
When Richard had taken the infant away to the window to admire the view, Georgie took the opportunity to speak to Rowena on matters less baby related.
“Do you have need of me today, Rowena? Is there anything particular you wish me to do?”
“Not unless we have callers, which does not seem likely, but in any event, I would not wish you to be waiting on me if you have a more interesting occupation in mind.”
“No, no, but if there’s nothing more pressing, I thought to offer my services to Mr Hammond again.”
“Of course, dear. I think he needs all the help he can get transcribing the duke’s diaries into a memoir.”
“Well, I think so too, and I can copy with a neat hand to make it easier for him to read later. If you need me for anything, you’ll know where to find me, then. You know I’m always at your disposal, Rowena.”
“I know, dear. You are very good, and you were indispensable to me before Caroline was born and I had nothing worthwhile with which to occupy my days, but now that I have my lovely girl to tend to, you are free to spend your time in whatever way pleases you best. I would not have you cling to my side like a limpet, and Mr Hammond has more need of you than Caroline and I do just at present. When she is older, you will be able to teach her to embroider those exquisite cushion covers of yours.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Georgie said, with a quick laugh, and soon thereafter made good her escape.
She always left the nursery shaking from head to toe, and with a physical pain inside her that made her feel weak.
Her own child would have been… goodness, almost five, now.
He would have been running about, shouting, because boys always shouted, didn’t they?
Or would it have been a docile little girl?
Or a hoyden! That would be more fun, a girl who ran about and shouted and climbed trees and scraped her knees, just like a boy.
Yes, boy or girl, she would not have wanted a timid child.
It was madness to think of such things, she knew that.
For her own peace of mind she must accept her childless state, and acknowledge that it would never change now, because first there would have to be a husband, and where was to be found a man who could measure up to Henry?
Not that he had been perfect, for a wife who had seen her husband foxed as often as she had could not deceive herself on that score.
But he was such a charming, good-humoured and downright lovable man.
She had loved him from the moment he had first winked at her across his aunt’s crowded parlour, and the flame of her love had never wavered for a moment.
The breakfast parlour contained only Mr Godley, the chaplain, a man both tall and skeletally thin, who considered it part of his ministry to make ponderous conversation with the ladies of the household.
He no doubt thought himself to be brightening their lives with a little gentle flirtation.
Georgie thought him a bore, but she would never dream of responding with other than kindness.
He was a dependent employee, just as she was, and therefore much to be pitied.
Happily, Mr James Hammond came in not long after.
He was the duke’s secretary and memoirist, a pleasant man who was always ready with a smile.
He reminded Georgie a little of Henry in that regard, although Mr Hammond’s slighter frame, spectacles and light brown hair that turned blond in summer were nothing like Henry’s darkly handsome looks.
“Good morning, Mrs Hastings. Morning, Godley,” he said, bowing politely to Georgie before serving himself from the chafing dishes on the sideboard. “Plenty of leaves down overnight. I trust the wind did not disturb your repose, Mrs Hastings?”
“I woke once or twice, but not for long,” she replied. “I hope there was no damage to the building works.”
“I had a quick look, but everything that was upright seems to have remained so, and everything that was horizontal has stayed close to the earth, so I think we need not be unduly worried. Mr Grumbridge was there, and he seemed unconcerned.”
Mr Grumbridge was the builder charged with taking the designs for the proposed new gallery and orangery, and turning them into actual stone and glass and wood.
“That is good news,” Georgie said. “Mr Hammond, my services are not required by Mrs Richard Merrington today, and the domestic duties are ably undertaken by Merrington ladies, so if you can use another pen to work on the duke’s diaries—”
“I should be most grateful,” Mr Hammond said. “His grace’s scribblings are… extensive, shall we say, but a little hard to read.”
“The word I should use is illegible,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he said with a chuckle. “Your eyes seem better able to read his hand than mine, so perhaps you might continue where you left off yesterday? The workings of the House of Lords are not the most riveting of subjects, but that section is important from a historic perspective.”
“Then I shall be delighted to assist.”
***
Finishing their breakfast at much the same time, Jamie walked behind Mrs Hastings to the study.
This was no hardship, for she had a trim little figure, with the slightest sway to her hips, and the sliver of a cap that she wore did little to hide the mound of auburn hair that was piled up on her head.
Jamie was not, like Godley, a man who habitually admired and complimented females, but he was only human, and in his occasional inner musings on the subject, Mrs Hastings’ glorious hair featured rather more than was good for him.
He had not thought much of her when she had first arrived, the poor widow accompanying her equally poor friend, with her dowdy clothes and quiet demeanour.
The friend had married the heir to the dukedom and hoisted herself a great many rungs up the social ladder, while the widow was still poor and quiet, even if her nimble fingers and a few pounds in her purse had made her much less dowdy.
But she was sensible and practical, finding work for herself even when her friend was too absorbed in her new husband and child to remember her.