‘You’re good with stock, better than Dewi. I thought you might give me the benefit of your experience.’
It was mildly said, and Matthew knew that the glance which accompanied the words would be rueful, almost apologetic. The old man was a card all right, he’d needle you and needle you to get a sharp response and then, when he did, he’d be sorry, couldn’t wait to set all straight again. Mrs Cled said it was because he didn’t have sufficient employment, that his brain was so quick it sought any means of amusement, but he, Matthew, didn’t know about that. All he knew was that Mr Geraint could be a real bugger at times.
‘Matt?’
‘Keep ’em apart, then,’ Matthew said gruffly. ‘Next sty, so’s they can see each other, touch through the bars, even. But apart, so there’s no fighting.’
‘Good man; that was my own thought but I’m still a beginner with pigs. Now you’ve bred pigs, so what do you think of the Tamworth as a breed?’
It was a question after Matthew’s own heart and he answered it seriously, happy to mull over the advantages of Large Whites, Gloucester Spots, Tamworths and Landrace whilst Mr Geraint listened, argued and became absorbed. They were still deep in discussion as they swung into the drive, Matthew slowing automatically as they passed the lodge. He glanced into the front room as he always did, but could see nothing, no movement, no duster being rubbed over the panes or broom-wielding figure attacking the carpet. Of course Hester might be in the
kitchen, but likelier she was either on her way to the castle or there already.
As he rounded the bend in the drive Matthew changed down, noticing that there was an obstruction on the road ahead, something oddly boat-shaped. He saw Hester bending over it, saw her reach down – and recognised the inverted pram. He slammed on the brakes and the heavy car screeched to a halt a foot or two away from the accident. Beside him, Mr Geraint looked over his shoulder.
‘Damn you, Matthew, think of the ladies in the trailer! They’re in a delicate condition, remember, if you …’
‘It’s Nell. Hester love … I’m coming!’
Matthew was out of the car and running whilst Mr Geraint was still speaking. He had guessed what must have happened in that first shocked glance. The pram had obviously overturned and his wife was tugging frantically at it the way a woman would instead of lifting it carefully away from – from whatever lay beneath.
He picked Hester up as though she weighed no more than the baby, stood her to one side, then bent over the pram.
‘She’ll be all right, love, just stand back, soon have it … ah!’
He righted the pram, great, heavy thing that it was, and there lay Helen, her woollen coat dirty, her bonnet askew. Hester snatched the baby up, clutching her to her heart, murmuring endearments while tears of fear and shock ran down her pale cheeks, and as though Helen had been waiting for a signal she hiccuped, snatched some breath and began to wail. She was alive! And unhurt it seemed, save for a bruise on her forehead. Relief weakened Matthew’s knees; he sagged, had to grab hold of the Lagonda’s long bonnet as support.
‘Oh Matt, you’re so wonderful, you’re always there when I need you. She turned the pram over, trying to
get out to pick dandelions for the lambs … Oh Matt, she didn’t cry or anything, I thought, I thought …’
Matt pushed himself away from the Lagonda and gathered his weeping wife and wailing daughter in a close embrace. He forgot Mr Geraint, the pigs in the trailer, everything. Hester’s hair was against his face; it smelt sweet, and her body in his arms was sweeter still, warm and familiar. The baby, hiccuping, reached up and patted his cheek.
‘Daddy, Nell walk, no pram, Nell walk!’
‘No no, Nell must not walk, Nell shall ride,’ a deep, amused voice said. ‘Come along, little lady, you shall sit on my knee and ride up to the castle like a queen. Your mother shall push the pram while your father drives us in style.’
‘She’s only just two – today,’ Hester said, sniffing and knuckling her wet eyes with the backs of her hands. ‘She won’t understand a word you’ve been saying, she doesn’t even know what a queen is!’
She sounded resentful, Matthew thought, almost rude. But Mr Geraint had meant well, he just knew nothing about children.
‘She’ll soon get the idea,’ Mr Geraint said cheerfully. Without asking, he took the baby neatly from Hester’s arms and walked back to the car. Matthew could hear him talking to Helen as though she were an adult, telling her that there were pigs in the trailer at the back so they would have to travel slowly, but even so they would reach the castle well ahead of her mother, pushing the pram.
Helen, who could be a little devil as Matthew well knew, sat placidly in Mr Geraint’s arms, watching his face. When he got into the car and sat her on his knee she bounced twice, then sat still, staring curiously at the dashboard, piping up with questions now and then, which Mr Geraint’s deep burr answered.
Matthew tried to give Hester another hug, but she
was in one of her sudden, strange moods and pushed him away. ‘Go on with you,’ she said crossly and rather too loudly for Matthew’s peace of mind. ‘If Mr awfully-important Geraint walks off with my daughter and leaves me to push this damned pram, what can you do about it? Now don’t you let him cart her off indoors, you wait for me up at the castle, the pair of you.’
‘He won’t want much of her company, she don’t sit still for long enough,’ Matthew said uncertainly, and watched Hester walk off, straight-backed, pushing the heavy pram. You could have knocked me down with a feather, he thought, seizing the starting handle and beginning to crank the engine again, when the old man took the kid from Hester – it weren’t his style, not his style at all. Though Helen was a fetching little thing and the old man wasn’t getting any younger; perhaps he’d begun to wish he had sprogs of his own, you could never tell, though so far as Matthew could recall Mr Geraint had never shown the slightest interest in children.
The engine coughed, spluttered, purred into life. Matthew ran for the driver’s seat and Helen shouted, ‘Daddy! Brrr-brrr-brrr!’ Mr Geraint laughed, Matthew put the car into gear and they trundled up the drive, passing a pink-faced Hester who would not wave, though she did give Matthew a quick, almost furtive smile.
In the stableyard, Matthew tried to take the baby from his employer, but Mr Geraint was back in his needling mood and refused to relinquish the child.
‘You go about your business, Matthew,’ he said crisply. ‘I’ll just have a word with Mrs Cled before she goes. Get Dewi to give you a hand with the pigs, I want them unloaded and fed; that’ll quieten them down after the journey.’
‘I can tek the baby …’ Matthew began, but he was talking to empty air. Mr Geraint and his burden had disappeared into the castle.
Hester seethed all the way along the drive, across the courtyard and into the kitchen.
The cheek of the man, commandeering her baby and leaving her to walk up the drive alone. Not that she would have dared to let Helen walk, not with that great blue bruise on her forehead, and to put her back in the pram after her experience seemed rather unkind. It occurred to Hester that Helen might be concussed, though she had seemed cheery enough, prattling away and bouncing up and down on Mr Geraint’s knee as though she had known him all her life.
Which she most certainly had not done, since Hester had scarcely seen Mr Geraint in the two years she had worked at the castle. Oh, he came through the hall sometimes when she was on hands and knees, scrubbing the tiles, or into the kitchen when she was up to her elbows in dirty dishes, or carting the heated iron off the stove to replace the one Mrs Cled was laying aside. And he took absolutely no notice of her; ignored her completely. She might have been a piece of furniture for all the notice he took.
Not that I want his notice, Hester reminded herself quickly. He lied to me that night in Rhyl, then again in the wild garden. Why, his name wasn’t even John! He used me in Rhyl, just used me, and now perhaps he’s ashamed and wants to forget – well, that’s all right with me.
So they steered clear of each other and behaved like, well, like the lord of the manor and his scrubbing woman, I suppose, Hester told herself now, guiding the pram round a chunk of rock and letting it crunch sideways into an empty puddle, almost turning it over once more. If I never speak to him again, it’ll be too soon. Matthew is loving, kind, a wonderful father to Nell. I don’t need Mr Geraint, or his castle, though his half-crown does come in useful each Friday.
She and Mrs Cled never discussed Mr Geraint, though Mrs Cled sometimes made remarks which seemed to indicate that she was getting fed-up with her position at the castle. Just what that was, Hester still didn’t know. Sometimes she suspected … but she had no proof, no proof at all. Mrs Cled was a wonderful housekeeper and manager and if she and her employer spent their evenings together in the drawing-room, why not? The tiny housekeeper’s room next to the big old kitchen was not inviting, and most of its meagre space was taken up with the bedstead, a wardrobe and an old-fashioned treadle sewing machine.
Did they share more than the drawing-room, though? Did they share a bedroom – a bed? If so, it’s none of my business, Hester told herself stoutly, turning to go into the back yard and then hesitating. The Lagonda was in the front yard, pulled up beside the front steps, but she had grown no fonder of the geese over the past two years and they would come running as soon as she appeared. Perhaps she would go in the back way, after all.
She turned the pram on to the narrow path, suddenly remembering vividly that first night when she had been lost and rescued by Mr Geraint. He had not only rescued her, he had clutched her. He had no right, Hester reminded herself angrily, trying to ignore the fact that even thinking about it made her stomach knot in a strange way, he had no right at all to lay hands on me. If I’d told Matthew …
But she hadn’t, of course. It would have been pointless, especially when you considered that for two years now she had worked in Mr Geraint’s house, lived a mere stone’s throw away and had only exchanged the most casual of greetings with him. ‘Good morning, Mr Geraint.’ ‘Morning, Hester.’ ‘Good afternoon, Mr Geraint.’ ‘Hello, Hester; nice afternoon.’
Sometimes I wonder if I imagined that night in Rhyl,
Hester told herself crossly, clattering the pram across the paving slabs and stopping outside the back door. Or perhaps it really was a fellow called John and not Mr Geraint at all; certainly he hasn’t shown the slightest interest in me since. Not that I want him to, of course; it’s better that we treat each other like strangers, far better.
She had parked the pram and was approaching the back door when it opened. Mrs Cledwen stood there in a smart, violet-coloured coat with fur round the collar and hem. She wore an elegant hat with a narrow brim and a small feather in the crown, and in one hand she carried a gladstone bag. Hester saw that her face had been carefully made up with powder, pink lip salve and a touch of rouge. She looked excited and a trifle impatient.
‘Good morning Hester, you’re a little late. I’m just off. I’ve left a list of instructions for you and a letter for Mrs Bellis, who will arrive later this morning, I believe. I don’t think there should be any problems, but if there are have a word with Mr Geraint. Where’s Nell? Not actually sleeping, surely?’
Hester laughed. Helen had now given up her morning nap and spent the time between ten and one in a playpen which Mrs Cledwen had found, frequently throwing toys on to the hearth-rug and demanding their return at the top of her healthy lungs. She was well on the way to being spoilt, but school would change that; in the meantime, Hester enjoyed watching her as she became dexterous, began to talk, experimented with everything she touched.
‘No, she isn’t asleep. There was a bit of an accident, that’s why I’m late. The baby wanted to climb down and managed to turn the pram over, so Matthew stopped the car and righted it for me and Mr Geraint gave her a lift. I expect she’s in the drawing-room.’
‘Is she all right? Little monkey, whatever will she think of next? I’ll miss her while I’m away – and you, my
dear – but I really must be off or I shan’t catch my bus. If I’d known Mr Geraint was coming back so early from the market I’d have begged a lift from Matthew, but as it is I’d better hurry.’
‘When are you coming back?’ Hester said, picking up the gladstone bag. ‘This is quite heavy, Mrs Cled; Matthew’s parked round the front, why not get him to take you at least as far as the bus stop? Or I could wheel your bag in the pram if you’d rather. Only I’ll have to fetch Nell first, of course.’
‘Coming back? Oh, in a week or so,’ Mrs Cledwen said vaguely. ‘Let’s see how Matthew is situated, then. If he’s very busy I’ll manage my bag somehow, but if he’s got a moment I would appreciate a lift.’
The two women walked across the back yard, out under the arch, and along the winding path through the wild gardens. It was a sweet, sunny morning and a heavy dew still bowed the heads of the narcissus, the patches of bluebells, the tall, purple irises which throve in the beds despite the choking brambles and the insidious march of nettles and dock.
‘I keep meaning to do some tidying out here,’ Mrs Cledwen murmured. ‘I believe it was very lovely once. You’re fond of gardening, aren’t you, Hester; perhaps we might tackle it together when the longer evenings arrive.’
‘It’ll need double-digging,’ Hester observed. In two short years she had discovered that there was nothing romantic about growing things. It meant hard work – digging, manuring, planting out, constant weeding – and then you reaped only half of what you had sown, what with rabbits, slugs and other pests. ‘Still, I wouldn’t mind having a go, Mrs Cled.’
‘I’ll have a word with Mr Geraint when I come back,’ Mrs Cled observed. ‘Ah, Matthew!’
They had rounded the corner and were entering the
front courtyard under the big arch and there was Matthew, just coming down the front steps. He grinned at Hester and made a vague salute-type gesture in Mrs Cledwen’s general direction.
‘Mornin’, Mrs Cled. Mr Geraint said if you hadn’t left I might as well give you a lift, ’cos he wants me to pick up a Mrs Bellis at the station. She’s the lady what’ll be looking after us till you return, I reckon.’