Believing in Tomorrow, page 21
He nodded, and when he didn’t question her further she surmised – rightly – that he had been told of her circumstances. The whole village was no doubt buzzing about it.
‘Well, me mam’s agreed to come and live with me an’ the missus,’ he carried on, ‘an’ not before time, I must say. She’s been right poorly for the last few years since me da died but she’s a stubborn old biddy and wanted to stay put. Worried me to death, she has.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Molly said, liking Mr Stefford immediately. There was something about him that reminded her of Mr Newton although the two men were poles apart.
‘Anyway, I must say at the start that I’m no landlord, miss, and I’ll be looking to sell the place rather than rent. It’ll be a bit of a tug at me heartstrings, truth be told, cause it were me great-granda who built the cottage for his bride well over a hundred years ago an’ there’s been Steffords there ever since. He built it well, mind – it’s stood the test of time – and I wouldn’t mind living there meself but it’s a bit out of the way and me missus is an Ashington lass, born an’ bred, an’ don’t like the country.’
‘I see.’ Molly nodded. ‘Well, I would love to view the cottage, at your convenience, of course.’
‘It’s nothing grand, miss. Not like you’ve probably been used to, I mean.’
She thought of the hamlet and the room at Dockwray Square. ‘I’m sure it will be fine, Mr Stefford, but I’d like to see it before I decide?’
‘Oh, aye, of course. Well, I’m going to take me mam back home today. I’ve come up with a horse an’ flat cart for the bits she wants to take but there’ll be plenty left which might or might not suit. Shall we say tomorrow morning about elevenish?’
He clearly didn’t want to let the grass grow under his feet but that suited her too, Molly thought, as she smiled and agreed, feeling a flicker of something akin to excitement pierce the abject misery of the last few days.
Molly was up at the crack of dawn the next morning. For the first time since she had arrived at the inn she managed to finish her breakfast, her thoughts occupied with the forthcoming visit to the cottage as she ate, rather than the last caustic scene with John.
Mr Stefford was true to his word and arrived at the Plough just before eleven o’clock in a small horse and trap. It was a bit of a squeeze on the plank seat for both of them but Molly didn’t mind. She was doing something positive and it felt good. She had made up her mind during another long night that once she was settled in permanent accommodation, be it Mr Stefford’s cottage or something else, she would go and see Mr Weatherburn and find out when he and his sons could begin work on the factory.
The morning was bright but bitterly cold as they drove out of the village and along the country road to Cresswell, which was two or three miles as the crow flies. There had been no fresh snowfalls over the last three days, and although in the village the snow had become impacted in certain places, either side of the road they were following the drifts were five feet tall or more at some points. It was a beautiful day, the sky high and blue, and although the winter sun was devoid of heat, it was still nice to feel it on your face, Molly thought.
When they arrived, Molly realized the cottage was nearer to Ellington than it was to Cresswell. It lay just off the road and had a bridle path stretching away towards woodland at the back of it. The roof was thatched and it had a small square of cultivated garden neatly enclosed with a picket fence at the front and what appeared to be a large paddock and outbuildings at the rear, although she couldn’t see this clearly from where she was standing. ‘There’s a well at the back for water,’ Mr Stefford said as he helped her down from the trap, ‘and a stream runs at the bottom of the land over there’ – he pointed – ‘before the ground rises up into the wood. Keeps you in fuel, the wood does. I put a new roof on the old barn for me mam no more than five years ago so that’s sound, an’ the stable’s still good although she didn’t get another horse after old Bessie died. Same with the chicken run – she got no more hens as the old ones died off. Me an’ the missus used to bring her groceries and anything else she needed once a week, winter and summer. I shan’t be sorry not to have that journey at the back of me mind in the bad weather, I can tell you.’
‘I can imagine,’ Molly said politely, gazing around her. It was so peaceful, tranquil.
‘When I was a lad we had a cow and pigs an’ all sorts,’ Mr Stefford went on. ‘Right little smallholding it was. Me da kept everything hunky-dory outside and me mam on the inside. House-proud she was in those days but of late things slipped a bit, although she struggled on, bless her. All her memories of me da are here, you see, an’ they rubbed along right well together. I’ve said to her, she’ll be with me and the grandkids now and though it won’t be the same for her we’ll make things nice.’
‘I’m absolutely sure you will, Mr Stefford,’ Molly said warmly, touching his arm. He had tears in his eyes and her heart went out to him. Selling the cottage was the end of an era for him too. ‘Your mother is lucky to have such a caring son.’
‘Don’t know about that,’ he said huskily before pulling out a big red handkerchief and blowing his nose hard. ‘Come an’ see inside – but like I said, don’t expect too much.’
He opened the stout, unpainted front door with an enormous key which he took from his coat pocket. ‘First time in umpteen years this door was locked, yesterday. Me mam an’ da never bothered although once she was on her own we kept saying. She didn’t take any notice, though. They don’t, the old ones, do they.’
Molly stepped straight into a sitting room and stood still, her heart thumping. It was small, admittedly, but not dark as most cottage interiors were. The stone walls had been whitewashed and reflected any light from the mullioned window. Two armchairs upholstered in a faded tapestry material stood either side of the open fireplace, and a carved oak settle with a thick cushioned seat in the same cloth as the armchairs sat against one wall. An oak bow-front corner cabinet with shelves above and drawers below and a chest of drawers made up the rest of the furniture in the room, and on the stone floor were two brightly coloured thick clippy mats.
‘Me mam re-covered the armchairs and settle to match when Da was still alive,’ Mr Stefford said, his tone apologetic, ‘and everything could do with a good polish, as you can see. Likely you won’t want to keep anything and I could borrow me pal’s flat cart again and take away anything that’s not needed.’
Molly couldn’t speak for a moment for the lump in her throat. She felt as though she had come home – that was the only way she could explain the feeling that had risen up in her the second she had walked into the house. The cottage had been loved. It radiated out from the walls, the furniture, everything. She wouldn’t change a thing, from the small wooden clock ticking away over the mantelpiece to the flowered curtains at the window. Whatever Mr Stefford wanted for it, she had to have it.
‘Come through and see what you make of the kitchen,’ Mr Stefford said, his voice still apologetic. He had clearly assumed that her silence was down to disappointment. ‘It’s about the same size as this room and there’s a small scullery attached with a sink and some shelves.’
The kitchen was – to Molly – as perfect as the sitting room. The fireplace was a large open blackleaded range with a massive four-foot-long steel fender and a conglomeration of well-used fire irons in one corner. A bread oven still smelled of fresh bread and a big black kettle stood on the hob. A row of copper saucepans along with a black frying pan stood on shelves at the side of the range, and a well-stocked dresser holding crockery and dishes and cutlery was to the left of the kitchen door. An oak refectory table with a three-plank top and two long benches either side of it took up the centre of the room. On the floor, along the length of the fender, was a huge clippy mat and on this, one at each end, stood two beechwood rocking chairs, the cushions of which matched the curtains at the small window.
‘Well, what do you think so far, miss? I know the furniture an’ that is getting on now – me granda and his da before him made most of it – and everything needs a good clean but—’
‘It’s perfect, Mr Stefford.’
‘Really?’ he said, brightening. ‘Well, come and see upstairs.’
There were two bedrooms, both with small fireplaces. The one overlooking the front garden above the sitting room held a double bed, wardrobe and dressing table and had clearly been Mr Stefford’s mother’s room because it still smelled faintly of a mixture of old woman and lavender. The other one was at the back of the cottage. When Molly looked out of the little window the view was of the paddock and old barn and beyond that a sloping field and then the woodland. Although this room was slightly smaller than the other one and only had a three-quarter-sized bed and wardrobe, Molly liked it better.
Both bedrooms had varnished floorboards and clippy mats and there were faded curtains at the windows. There was no bedding in either room that she could see, and she assumed – rightly – that Mr Stefford had taken all the linen and towels home with him the day before. That was not a problem because she would have wanted to buy new anyway, she thought, and replace the flock mattresses in both rooms.
Once she had finished inspecting the interior, Mr Stefford took her outside via the back door from the scullery. This led on to a paved yard holding the brick-built privy, a coal bunker and a wash house. The latter boasted a coal-fired boiler, deep stone sink and a tin bath propped against one wall.
The yard was enclosed with a five-foot wall, and through the gate leading from it was the old chicken house and run. Beyond that was the enclosed paddock with the barn standing to the left of it, along with a stable large enough for just one horse.
By the time they left Lilac Cottage, Molly had agreed to pay Mr Stefford the hundred and ten pounds he wanted for the place. She knew she would have to buy a pony and trap; the walk from the village would be pleasant when the weather was clement but if it was raining or snowing then transport would be a must. But that was all right – she could do that, she told herself. True, she’d never had anything to do with horses, but she could learn.
Mr Stefford had said that all the furniture that was left, along with pots and pans and other bits and pieces like crockery and cutlery, was included in the price if she wanted it, and she’d gladly accepted the offer. It would mean she had little to buy initially apart from a new mattress and bedding for the bedroom she intended to use. She could replace things as she went along and buy new curtains and so on, but for now the cottage was perfectly inhabitable.
They arranged to meet at a solicitor’s that Mr Stefford knew of in Ashington at the end of the week, and he told her of a shop there where she could buy a new mattress and anything else she needed. ‘They’ll deliver it for you and take the old one away. They’re most obliging – me an’ the wife have used them ourselves. Now, there’s a good stack of dry logs and kindling in the barn that I chopped for Mam for the winter but you’ll need to get coal delivered – that bunker’s nearly empty, if I remember rightly. The well won’t freeze whatever the weather so you’ll always be all right for water but I’d keep yourself well stocked up with food once you move in. You never know if the weather might turn and you can’t get out for a week or two.’
Molly listened and thanked him; Mr Stefford seemed to have taken a fatherly attitude once he knew she was buying the cottage. She was finding it hard to concentrate as they made their way back to the Plough, her mind buzzing with the knowledge that she’d just bought her own home. And Lilac Cottage would be a home, not just a house: it had welcomed her the moment she’d set foot inside. That might sound fanciful to some folk but it was true. The hundred and ten pounds was a big chunk of money to come out of her savings, but the bank manager had assured her he’d be willing to provide her with a loan in the future so she wasn’t going to worry about it. And if she met any difficulties in the next months she’d deal with them, one by one. She didn’t need anyone else.
Immediately, a mental image of a tall dark man with slate-grey eyes flashed across her mind. Her chin rose as she recalled the look in those same eyes the last time she had seen him, and she told herself that that chapter of her life was over and done with. If her heart ached, only she would know. From this moment forth she was Miss Molly McKenzie, businesswoman and builder of houses. Not even Ruth knew how she felt about John; she’d given no hint of her feelings in their correspondence and she was glad about that now.
Maybe she was destined to live her life alone? It seemed that if ever she got close to anyone it ended badly. But she would have her own home now and that was more than she could have imagined years ago. Her own home and a career. That would be enough for her, it would have to be.
Chapter Nineteen
Cuthbert Havelock stared at his daughter in amazement. He couldn’t believe his ears. He glanced at his wife, who was calmly eating her breakfast and showing no reaction whatsoever to the news Rebecca had just imparted. ‘Were you aware of this?’ he asked sharply.
Gwendoline raised perfectly manicured eyebrows, her delicate nostrils flaring slightly at his tone. ‘Why would the actions of a servant interest me, Cuthbert?’
‘She’s John Heath’s housekeeper, or was.’
‘Quite.’
The three of them were sitting in the breakfast room at the Hall. The table could easily have accommodated twenty or more people, and three staff – a footman and two maids – were attending them.
Rebecca, delighted to have her father’s attention for once, continued, ‘Angeline said Miss McKenzie left without even saying goodbye to her.’
‘And you say the woman’s going to build a factory? Are you sure Angeline isn’t mistaken?’
Rebecca shook her head, her blonde ringlets bobbing. ‘Her father said that’s why Miss McKenzie had to leave, because she is going to be too busy to be a housekeeper too, but Angeline thinks he’s cross about it although he hasn’t said that.’
‘When did all this happen?’
‘Two weeks ago, I think. Angeline has been longing for me to get back so she could tell me.’
Rebecca had been ill with the same virus Angeline had had but in Rebecca’s case the cold had gone to her chest and she had been confined to bed, only returning to school the day before.
Cuthbert leaned back in his chair, reaching for his coffee cup and taking a loud slurp. Well, well, well, he thought. Miss High and Mighty certainly intended to make a name for herself in one way or another. First as John’s mistress and now this. He could imagine how John had reacted to the undertaking, which was no doubt why she’d found herself out on her ear. No man in his right mind would approve of a female behaving in such a disgraceful fashion and the shame would have reflected on him if he’d kept her in his employ.
He speared a sausage on his fork, chomping on it like a pig at a trough, partly to annoy Gwendoline, who was looking at him with distaste, but also because he couldn’t be bothered with the niceties of taking his time over a meal.
‘Did Angeline say where this supposed factory is going to be and what it’s for?’
Rebecca shook her head. ‘I don’t think she knows.’
He would find out. If it was somewhere round here maybe the McKenzie woman had taken lodgings in the vicinity. With John’s patronage gone she’d be more inclined not to look a gift horse in the mouth and he’d be happy to oblige.
He began to shovel scrambled egg into his mouth, bits dropping out onto his plate and the fine linen tablecloth. Where the hell did she get the money to build a factory? he asked himself. She’d have needed to purchase a plot of land too. She must have known a lot of tricks in the bedroom for John to dig that deep into his pockets, something he was no doubt regretting now. She’d got whore written all over her – he’d thought that the first time he saw her. But a high-class whore, he’d give her that. If he were able to come to some sort of arrangement where he set her up somewhere, she could carry on with this factory notion as long as she was discreet about him. He’d had a fancy for a while now to see how she performed between the sheets. There was something about her, something he couldn’t put his finger on, but she was like an itch that needed to be scratched.
He glanced at Gwendoline, who was dabbing the corners of her thin mouth with her napkin. Who would have thought she would have dried up into such a thin old stick just years into their marriage? Once she’d given him the heir and the spare and then Rebecca, she’d moved out of their marital suite and into her own set of rooms before their daughter was a year old. That sort of thing was over, she’d told him. He was at liberty to find satisfaction elsewhere but outside the home; if there was any more trouble with maids in their employ, then she would go home to her parents and take the children with her. He didn’t think she would have followed through on the threat – Gwendoline was too conscious of their social standing to cause a scandal – but nevertheless, since then he’d confined his needs to various brothels. He could have taken a mistress, of course, but he’d found he liked variety, and the more earthy and vulgar the wench, the better. He’d make an exception with Molly McKenzie, though; a small house where he could visit at will would suit him very well, and she’d be a fool to turn down such an offer.
Excitement caused the blood to pound through his body and he felt himself harden. It had been a week since he’d had any relief. He’d call and see John today on the pretext of his mother needing another visit and find out what had gone on, but he’d be circumspect about it. John could be a funny fish at times, something of a closed book.
Gwendoline stood up. She dropped her napkin onto the table as she said, ‘It is nearly time for school, Rebecca. Come along.’
She didn’t look at her husband as she ushered the child out of the room; she rarely did unless it was absolutely necessary. She knew exactly what he was thinking, though. Did he realize how transparent he was? she asked herself as she walked into the hall. She had no doubt that later that morning he would decide to take Midnight for a gallop and she knew just where he would go. And if he didn’t find out what he wanted to know from John Heath, he would gain the information in some other way. She had noticed the McKenzie girl when they’d visited Buttercup House before – tall, beautiful, dignified, a servant but cut from a different cloth to most. She had also noticed the way Cuthbert had eyed the housekeeper, nauseating man that he was.
