‘You can pack that in, Bertie Preston, I ain’t in the mood,’ she told him sternly and Bertie laughed. He was looking very smart and she had no doubt he would be off to a card game somewhere.
‘So when will yer be in the mood?’ he asked teasingly. ‘An’ when are yer gonna let me make an honest woman o’ yer? I don’t know why yer don’t just agree to it. Yer know we were meant to be together.’
‘Says who?’
Bertie shrugged. ‘Everybody! Even our mams allus took it fer granted we’d get wed when we were of an age, so why don’t we just do it? I’ve got enough tucked away to keep yer, an’ there’s old Mrs Besom’s cottage just come empty now she’s passed away. Think on it – yer wouldn’t ’ave to work again.’
Amber sighed and made to walk on but he caught her arm and now his voice had an edge to it as he told her, ‘I shouldn’t be too long makin’ yer mind up, gel. There’s plenty o’ lasses hereabouts as would jump at the chance o’ bein’ me wife.’
‘I suggest you give one o’ them the honour o’ becomin’ Mrs Preston then,’ she said harshly and hurried away. Deep down she knew she shouldn’t be so hard on him. Bertie might be a rogue but he was likable with it and as her mother had told her, she supposed she could do far worse. The trouble was she didn’t love him and she would never love anyone now. She blinked back tears as she wondered if Bertie would still be so keen to wed her if he ever discovered she had just given birth to Barnaby Greenwood’s child.
Chapter Fifteen
As she turned into the tree-lined driveway, Amber paused to stare at the Temples’ beautiful house She was still hesitant to accept the post seeing as it had been Barnaby Greenwood who had secured it for her and she didn’t want to be beholden to him for anything. But common sense took over, so taking a deep breath, she passed the coach house and set off. The leaves were fluttering from the trees and a cold wind was blowing but after working with the herring girls, Amber was used to the cold now. She glanced down at her hands. They were still cut and sore and she wished that she’d had some gloves to wear. But gloves were for toffs so all she could do was hope that Mrs Temple wouldn’t notice them. They certainly didn’t look like the hands of a nanny.
As she emerged from the trees and neared the round marble steps that led up to two enormous oak doors, a gardener carrying a scythe appeared from the side of the house and she asked him, ‘Excuse me, would you happen to know where I’m to go? I’ve come to see Mrs Temple about a position.’
His face broke out in a broad smile and he thumbed across his shoulder. ‘Yer’d best go this way then, lass. Follow the path round an’ you’ll come to the kitchen an’ the housekeeper’ll sort you out.’
She smiled her thanks and hurried on the way he’d pointed to find herself in a large yard where some brilliant white sheets were flapping on a line in the wind. She passed a room with steam floating out of the door and saw a young, red-faced girl at a large sink scrubbing away at a sheet as if her very life depended on it. Beyond that was a large stable block where beautiful thoroughbred horses poked their heads over the top half of the doors, and beyond them she saw a large orchard. And then she spotted the door she wanted. She could hear the sound of pots and pans clattering as someone scrubbed them and rightly assumed that this must be the kitchen. Nervous now, she tentatively tapped on the door and seconds later it was opened by a young maid in a rough apron – the kitchen maid no doubt.
‘I’ve come to see Mrs Temple,’ Amber told her and the girl ushered her inside without saying a word. A rosy-cheeked cook was standing at an enormous table rolling pastry and at sight of Amber she raised an eyebrow.
‘If it’s a maid’s job yer after I’m afraid yer out o’ luck, lass,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘We don’t need no one at present.’
Amber shook her head. ‘Oh no, I’m not here for a maid’s job. I have an appointment with Mrs Temple at ten o’clock. I’ve come for the nanny’s position.’
The woman’s eyes stretched wide as she glanced at Amber’s down-at-heel boots and her shabby skirt and shawl. The lass looked clean enough, but she certainly didn’t look like nanny material, the cook thought.
Amber shuffled uncomfortably under the cook’s regard, wishing she’d worn the boots her uncle had given her, but she hadn’t wanted to ruin them on the long walk to the house.
Luckily, before the cook had the chance to comment, a tall, slim woman with fair hair swept into the kitchen and as her eyes settled on Amber she asked, ‘Are you Miss Ainsley?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Ah good, you are punctual so that’s a good start,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Mrs Brewer, the housekeeper, and if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you in to Mrs Temple. She’s in the drawing room.’
Nodding towards the cook, who was watching with interest, Amber followed the woman into a large hallway that was even bigger than the one at Greenacres and very tastefully furnished with gilt-framed pictures and mirrors on the silk-wallpapered walls. The keys on the chatelaine about Mrs Brewer’s waist clanked together as she walked and the full skirts of her stiff bombazine gown swooshed over the highly polished tile floor.
‘Wait there,’ she told Amber, pausing at a set of double doors, before disappearing through them, only to reappear seconds later to hold one of the doors wide and tell Amber, ‘Mrs Temple is expecting you. I shall be back shortly.’
As Amber entered the room she felt as if she was walking into a lion’s den for she had no idea at all what to expect. But she needn’t have worried. As Mrs Temple rose from her chair she gave her a wide smile and ushered her towards the chair opposite hers.
‘Do come and sit down. It’s Amber, isn’t it? Or would you prefer to be called Miss Ainsley?’
‘Oh no,’ Amber said hastily as she perched on the edge of the leather wing chair. ‘Amber is fine, ma’am.’
Mrs Temple looked to be in her early thirties and was very attractive indeed. Amber had seen her pass through the town in her fine carriage on a few occasions but close up she realised she was even prettier than she had realised. It had been the talk of the town when she had married her husband, a wealthy barrister, some twelve years before, for he was at least twelve years her senior and everyone had gossiped that it wouldn’t last. But the Temples had proved them wrong and it was clear to see that this woman in front of her was a very happy one.
‘So, what has Barnaby— I’m sorry, I mean Mr Greenwood, told you about my two little terrors?’ There was a twinkle in her eyes as Amber stared back at her blankly. The woman’s hair was very fair and tied into two small bunches of ringlets above her ears and the blue shot-silk day gown she was wearing was the exact colour of her eyes. A row of perfectly matched pearls was strung about her slender throat and matching pearl earrings adorned her ears. She was, Amber thought, quite simply one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen.
‘He, er?.?.?. he ain’t told me much about ’em at all, ’cept to say that they need someone to be their nanny till after Christmas.’
‘I see.’ Helen Temple’s mind was racing as she wondered what her parents would think of this young woman’s dialect. It was broad Yorkshire, but then she supposed it was a problem that could be overcome. She could sit in when the boys had their twice weekly elocution lessons and it wasn’t as if her parents were going to see a lot of her anyway.
‘Then I shall tell you about them,’ she said with a smile. ‘And before you leave you must meet them. They’re both quite lovely, but then I’m their mother so I would say that, wouldn’t I? Henry, or Harry as we call him, is almost ten, and George is almost nine. But I should warn you, just like most young boys they can be very mischievous so you will have to let them know who is in charge right from the start or they’ll run rings around you, I’m afraid. My husband always says I’m far too lenient with them but then he isn’t much better himself.’ She gave a tinkling laugh and just for a moment Amber’s face was transformed as she smiled back. This woman made it very hard to remember there was a class divide between them.
‘But now while we have a chat, we shall have a cup of tea. It’s a little early for elevenses but who cares?’ Rising she went to the side of the large marble fireplace where a cheery fire was roaring up the chimney and pulled a silken rope. Soon yet another maid in a starched white apron and a cap, both trimmed with broderie anglaise, appeared and dipped her knee.
