The bed made, she knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Stanley,’ she said, ‘time for me to check how clean you are.’ Earlier he had undressed on his own, making it obvious that he didn’t want her to see him without his clothes, which could have been due to shyness, though Florence knew it wasn’t. She’d felt how he’d flinched when she’d hugged him downstairs in the hall.
Not giving him the chance to protest, she went straight in. What she saw made her feel physically sick. The poor lad was in a terrible state. She suspected he’d been thrashed with a belt; there were long welts, and marks that could only have been made by a buckle. There were also small round livid circles on his back and stomach. She had the dreadful feeling they were cigarette burns.
‘Who did all that to you?’ she said when he was out of the bath and she was carefully wrapping the towel around him.
‘I fell,’ he said, avoiding her eyes.
She knelt in front of him and rubbed at his scalp with another towel to dry his hair, at the same time checking to see if he had brought any lice with him. He hadn’t. ‘You don’t have to lie to me, Stanley,’ she said when she’d finished combing his hair. ‘Not to me of all people. Did I ever tell you how I ended up working for Mrs Devereux-Temple?’
He shook his head.
‘My dad used to beat me something rotten; my brothers too if they’d had a skinful at the pub. It was like a sport to them. And do you know, the worst thing about it was that for years I blamed myself. I thought it was my fault they hit me, that I deserved it, and so I never told a soul; I was too ashamed. What I eventually came to realise was that I had to get away. Then one day, when I was preoccupied with figuring out how I was going to do that, I nearly got myself run over. The driver of the car was Mrs Devereux-Temple, and to cut a long story short, she offered me a job and the chance to escape. So I grabbed that chance and made a new life for myself.’
‘I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hit you, Florence,’ he said quietly, while Bobby nuzzled in closer, as if sensing they were talking about something serious. ‘You’re far too nice and pretty.’
‘Yeah well, often it’s the nicest people who get treated the worst. Now tell me the truth: was it your mum who did this to you?’
He nodded. ‘And ’er new boyfriend. ’e don’t like having me around. I don’t think she does much neither.’
‘Why was she so keen to have you back at home, then?’
‘She just wanted my ration book, I reckon. But I took it from the kitchen drawer before I left.’
Florence had heard that this sort of thing was now common; that people would go to any lengths to get their hands on an extra ration book. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘tomorrow I’m taking you to see Dr Garland. I want him to look at those burns; they look infected to me. I’m assuming they are cigarette burns?’
With the smallest of movements, Stanley nodded again. ‘What will ’appen to me? Will I have to go back?’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ she said, ‘I’ll find a way to keep you safe if it’s the last thing I do.’
His eyes brimmed, and near to tears herself, Florence gently slipped her arms around him, taking care not to cause him any pain. ‘Put your slippers on,’ she said, ‘and let’s go downstairs and see what Mrs Partridge has got for you to eat.’
That evening, after Annelise and Stanley had gone to bed, and after Romily had sat for an age giving Isabella her bottle and then put her to sleep in her cot, she held what she laughingly called a pow-wow in the kitchen.
With Mrs Partridge presiding over a big pot of tea, everyone gathered around the kitchen table, their faces wreathed in concern as though they were about to hear yet more bad news. Keen to put their minds at rest, Romily began.
‘I’ll keep this as brief as I can,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day for us all, but I wanted to thank you both, Florence and Mrs Partridge, for all your help with the funeral. I’d like to think Elijah would have approved of the way it went, and of your support. I’d also like to think that together we make quite a team, wouldn’t you agree, Hope?’
Hope nodded. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Which leads me on to what I really want to discuss. We have to accept that life has changed yet again for us here, and I think we can safely say that not one of us could have predicted where we are now. And who knows what tomorrow will bring?’
‘Who indeed?’ murmured Mrs Partridge, pouring out their tea.
‘The way I see it,’ Romily continued, ‘is that to keep the show going, we have to pull together even more, and perhaps our roles here at Island House will have to change accordingly.’ She paused and looked around the table.’
‘This sounds terribly ominous. What on earth do you have in mind?’ asked Hope, taking her mug of tea from Mrs Partridge.
‘We need somebody to be in charge of the children; somebody caring and dependable, and above all somebody the children will love.’
‘You mean hire a nanny?’
The expression on Florence’s face as she asked the question told Romily that she hated the thought of that happening. Hope didn’t look too happy either.
‘Not as such,’ said Romily. ‘What I have in mind is this: Florence, I’d like you to take on the job of caring for the children. Annelise and Stanley already adore you, and Isabella will—’
‘But I’m not qualified,’ interrupted Florence, clearly taken aback at the suggestion. ‘I mean, I’m just a housemaid.’
‘You’re not just a housemaid,’ said Romily with a frown, ‘and don’t let me ever hear you say that again. You’re blessed with common sense, firmness, and a loving and kind heart, I don’t believe there is anyone better qualified than you to be the children’s official nursery nurse.’
