Chapter 7
The Cleveland Court estate employed servants inside and out: maids, butlers, gardeners, stable hands and two coachmen.
Riding around the estate, Lochranza had made the acquaintance of the people who lived so close by but in lowlier circumstances than she.
When she’d seen they were hungry, she brought them food.
If they required clothing, she’d rummage through the piles of things she’d grown out of and would never wear again.
If her uncle ever noticed that some of his old clothes had gone missing, he’d never said so.
It was quite likely that he’d never noticed.
She’d heard that Mrs Wainwright had been widowed and left with four children. Her cottage was the end one of a series of three beside the main track between the Kildare estate and the village. All the cottages were occupied by estate workers and their families.
A woman wearing a plain grey dress, a white apron and sun bonnet was bent over at the front door, watering a row of carrots growing in the border beneath the window. The window itself was square and small, the cottage built of the local stone. A dormer window pierced the thatched roof.
A small dog leaping on the end of a rope barked at them. A baby crawled along the edge of the carrot patch towards the corner where the dog was tethered.
The woman shouted at the dog. When he didn’t shut up, she looked up from her task and saw them. Slowly, she rose, her expression a mixture of surprise and fear.
Lochranza’s greeting was bright and breezy. ‘Good morning, Mrs Wainwright.’
Mrs Wainwright’s bottom lip trembled. Her eyes were as big as saucers, surprise gone, full of fear. ‘Is it today?’
Lochranza knew immediately what she meant.
Her heart bled for the woman. It must be terrible to lose the only breadwinner and be left with four children to feed.
I should have brought more food, she thought to herself.
I should have got the whole of the kitchen staff to form a file and bring as much as we could carry.
‘I haven’t come to evict you, Mrs Wainwright,’ she said gently. ‘I’ve come with food.’
Relief seemed to travel from the woman’s careworn face all the way down through her legs and to her toes. When her legs crumpled, she toppled gently sideways, ending up sitting in a balloon of grey skirt.
Seeing that the poor woman was on the verge of fainting and might do so if she attempted to get her on her feet, Lochranza got down beside her, the cheese nestling between them.
‘Shall I have my servants place everything inside?’
Mrs Wainwright seemed unable to answer. She looked very pale. Her husband had been dead for two weeks. In all probability, she was trying to make things last and therefore going without herself.
Mention of taking the food inside made something start in her eyes. ‘No! I can take things in…’
She attempted to get to her feet and ended up leaning against the wall of the cottage.
‘Do not trouble yourself, Mrs Wainwright. We can do this.’
Tilly led the way into the house, the chef, Henri Sevres, and Grace followed.
Tilly was the first to come out still carrying her basket.
‘Your ladyship.’ She looked perplexed.
The poor widow threw up her arms, her voice plaintive. ‘No. You mustn’t go in. It’s in no fit state…’
Lochranza bent down, her palms smoothing the woman’s shoulders. ‘Calm down, Mistress Wainwright. I’m here to help.’
The interior of the cottage was dark, little light coming in through its one and only window.
Two wooden shelves occupied a space at the side of the small fireplace.
To one side of the fire was a single chair.
To the other, a simple three-legged stool.
There was no table, nothing covering the floor, no soft furnishings of any description.
A wooden ladder led to the upper floor where the family slept.
One room, thought Lochranza, her gaze turned upwards.
Pots, pans and a few poor-looking dishes lined one of the two shelves.
What remained of a small sack of flour hung from a string from the ceiling.
So did a few other items of food, kept high above the capabilities of climbing rats and mice.
The thatched roof would be full of them. One single mousetrap sat in one corner.
What did this mean? It came to her swiftly.
The table had either been sold or chopped up for firewood.
Mrs Wainwright was holding on to the small pension payoff she’d received.
She had to. There was no work for her here on the estate and she had children.
Work would be difficult to find no matter where she went.
Lochranza turned to see the poor woman standing in the doorway, holding onto the frame with both hands.
‘Your ladyship. We don’t live like you and this place might not look much compared to the Court, but—’
Overcome with emotion, Lochranza shook her head. ‘This is your home. You should be allowed to stay here.’
Mrs Wainwright hung her head. ‘My husband’s dead. The tree came crashing down, and that was that. Josiah, my eldest, got casual work with the mill, but when he asked for his money, Mr Gillard clipped him round the ear and told him to shove off.’
‘Oh did he now!’
Lochranza was livid and vowed to mention the fact to her uncle. Gillard was known to him, the mill manager not the owner. She wasn’t sure who the owner was, but whoever it was would prefer not to lock horns with Lord Kildare.
‘Leave it with me. I’ll have a word with Mr Gillard! In the meantime, you are to stay here, at least until your husband’s replacement takes over.’
Despite Mrs Wainwright thanking her profusely for the food she’d brought, Lochranza left the cottage with a heavy heart. The least she could do was to find work for Josiah Wainwright, perhaps in the stables or the gardens, even in the fields. Surely there was plenty of work in the fields!
It struck her she didn’t know how old the boy was. Perhaps it was that going against him.
After ordering the others to go back to the house, she wended her way deeper into the cool woods, welcoming the smell and sounds of summer. Overhead, the branches of trees interlocked in lacy patterns against a sky of clear blue.
Feeling hot, she took off her velvet cloak, spread it on a bank of dark green moss and, arms beneath her head, lay down.
The breeze was cool, the sunlight warm and a symphony of birdsong and whispering leaves lulled her to doze awhile.
The dream came to her on the breath of a breeze and for a moment she thought she could smell the sea.
Her face was hot. A cool hand caressed her forehead, accompanied by soft words.
Try as she might, she could not see the face of the person who stroked her fevered brow, making her feel safe and much loved.
The sudden sound of a game bird taking flight jerked her from sleep. Lochranza sat up, looking around her, searching with curious eyes for the bird or whatever it was that had disturbed it.
There was nothing to be seen. Nothing stirred. It occurred to her that the bird was part of her dream, a warning call to wake – or perhaps a suggestion that she knew exactly who to ask about a job for Miss Wainwright’s son.
Moving quickly, she picked up her cloak, brushed the leaves from her hair and stalked off along a path she knew very well.
The trees grew thicker before thinning out to where she would find Jordan Roper tending the young of next year’s game birds; pheasants, grouse and partridge being brought up to be shot.
He glanced up at her with a half-smile, half-scowl on his face. ‘Lady Lochranza! Now what might you be doing here?’
‘I didn’t think you’d heard me. I trod very softly.’
‘Not softly enough.’
His tone was surly. It usually was. His refreshing rudeness was what attracted her to him. He never doffed his cap unless there was company around, and neither did he adopt a servile attitude. All he cared about was raising game birds and keeping poachers from the Kildare estate.
‘You don’t sound very pleased to see me.’
‘You want something.’
She frowned. ‘How did you know that?’
‘You’re on foot. If you were on horseback, it would be different. What is it you want?’
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she queried why her uncle kept him employed. He was so ill mannered. But she had to concede he was right. She was here for a purpose.
‘You’re very disrespectful.’
‘No matter. I do my job and that’s what counts.’
Lochranza stood feeling perplexed and awkward.
Seemingly absorbed with the job of feeding the gape-mouthed youngsters, Jordan ignored her.
Lochranza settled herself on a wooden crate that Jordan sometimes used to trap foxes.
Drawn by the smell of raw meat, the foxes failed to notice the trap until the metal teeth had clamped over a paw.
The thought of their peril and terrible pain horrified her, but Jordan had shown her what foxes could do to chicks; what they could do to lambs.
Spreading her skirts over the crate helped her cope with the thought of bloodied animals screaming in distress. She was here on a mission. She had to keep her nerve.
‘I was wondering if you need any help. A boy perhaps. Only, I know of someone…’
Jordan wasn’t one to answer immediately.
She knew she had to be patient. In the absence of anything else to look at, she looked at him.
His shirt was open to halfway down his chest. His hair, damp with sweat, curled wetly around the knots of muscle at the nape of his neck.
She’d known him since she was a child when she’d run wild through the woods.
He’d taken her under his wing, taught her about the birds, the animals, how to set traps, how to shoot.
He had a pistol and a shotgun. He’d also taught her how to use a longbow.
‘A very English weapon,’ he’d said to her.