Adeline had been good company in the weeks of their confinement. Now and then she would go away for a few days and, during that time, Dorothea would sit outside and watch the fisherman unload trawlers on the curved stone breakwater below their cottage. She never would have believed that a village could live as it had done for four hundred years—without cars—every villager having to bring their wares up or down the hill by sled.
They ate fish from the trawlers, and vegetables grown in the gardens of the residents. They took the sea air and played chess and watched the seabirds while Adeline chain-smoked and Dorothea knitted a layette—booties, cardigans, hats—with the delicate yarns Adeline supplied.
They made friends under assumed names, told people they were cousins, visiting Clovelly for the fresh sea air for part of the pregnancy, and would return home when it came time to give birth. The people of Clovelly accepted them, although the two women kept to themselves as much as possible.
Dorothea told people she was due a month later than she was, so nobody presumed it strange that she was still there in the days before the baby came. A midwife in the nearby town of Barnstaple was called when the pains arrived. Adeline had met with the woman previously and organised she be on hand for any ‘unexpected emergency’ during their visit. She had asked her not to speak of the birth to anyone. Paid her handsomely,Dorothea knew. Adeline was adamant they must not be discovered; that the secret of the baby’s birth must never be known by Edward or his family.
Now, weeks later, as she waited for the bookshop visit that Adeline had promised, Dorothea craved something to fill the emptiness inside her. She had chosen this course, but she hadn’t known it would be so hard. Mr Thistlethwaite entered from the back room and frowned. ‘Are you all right, Dorothea?’
She forced a smile. Her employer had been so good to keep the job for her. To accept her excuses about going away to help her sick aunt, with only a mild level of worry and an assurance that she was always welcome in the bookshop.
She owed him her best efforts. ‘I’m just realising how good it is to be back here,’ she said. ‘The smell of the books is something you never get anywhere else.’ This much was true, and as she breathed it in, a green car pulled up outside and Adeline stepped out of the driver’s side. A young woman got out of the back of the car and lifted out a Moses basket.
‘Lady Fitzhenry! How wonderful to see you. And with your new family addition. Congratulations!’ said Mr Thistlethwaite as they came in the shop door.
Adeline smiled. ‘Thank you, Harry. He’s wonderful. Katie here is excellent at feeding him and getting him to settle too. And, of course, we have Nanny Pam at home, giving us three generations’ worth of experience in raising Fitzhenry children. I feel quite lucky!’ She looked over at Dorothea. ‘Hello, Dorothea. Are you well?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Dorothea stepped closer. ‘May I see?’ She peered at the sleeping face of the child.
‘We called him Francis, after his father’s grandfather.’ Adeline lifted the baby from the basket. ‘Francis Edward Montague Fitzhenry. Would you like to hold him?’
Dorothea could barely nod, but she took the sleeping baby and lowered her face; smelled the yeasty sweetness of him. She closed her eyes and felt a little split in her soul, and into it crept a yearning so deep and pure she knew that this was a mother’s love, and it was as vast and mysterious as the woodlands of the Weald. She would stay close by to watch over him; it was her fate. She would stay. Here in this village, within the dark blue walls of this shop that sustained her so well. She would be close by him forever, just in case his need for her arose.
‘Hello, Francis,’ she whispered.
46
DOROTHEA
1975, CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND
‘In ancient Rome there was no symbol for zero,’ said Dorothea, pointing to the page with her pencil.
‘Not possible,’ declared Francis. ‘How would you count ten apples or one hundred and twoBritish Voguemagazines? That’s how many Mummy has.’
His reference to Adeline in the present tense, despite losing her more than two years ago, made Dorothea’s heart clench.
‘They used letters, as I wrote here, see. Fine for record-keeping, but not terrific for more complicated equations.’
Francis was pirouetting around the room, hardly listening. ‘Can we have lessons in the garden?’ He had been unable to settle all morning, jamming his ruler into crevices and flicking at the pages of books drawn from the shelves at random.
Dorothea found herself uncharacteristically snappy. ‘Stop, Francis.’
He should be properly on holidays, that was the problem. Long summer holidays where he could roam outdoors all day or curl up with a book. Why did Edward insist on lessons in the schoolroom? They could learn as easily in the garden. Biology. Botany. Hydrology. It was all there in this gigantic wonderland of a place, where staff beavered away to keep it beautiful. At least Edward seemed less worried about keeping the staff employed, now that he had secured the marriage to Cricket and her family money. Still, as often as not, Edward came and went like a bear with a sore head, unless it had been a very good day at his club or the races or some other sort of social outing. On those days he could be magnanimous, and both she and Cricket breathed easier.
When Francis was younger, she sometimes saw Edward smile with him. But now his son’s features were losing their childish sweetness and his father seemed to despise the heralding of adolescence. She supposed Francis wasn’t a strapping boy either. He was odd and awkward and physically uncoordinated,so like James, she thought with a pang.
Francis had tried with sports and physical pastimes, but it was books and collections, or anything pretty and of good quality that held his real interest. None of which Edward approved of. She wondered what he suffered at school. She knew that boys like Francis—those too sentimental and sensitive—would not find favour with their masters. Also, those too colourful. This morning’s efforts were a case in point. They’d been attempting Shakespearean character portraits. And truth was, Lysander was probably not inclined to wear robes in the three shades of pink Francis had carefully sketched and blended (‘ombré,’he had declared), although Puck’s floral embroidered skirt might have worked. She thought his drawings accomplished and creative but wondered what his schoolmasters or father would say if confronted with such vivacious creations.
She thought of Edward’s ire as Francis pushed eggs around on his plate this morning; his irritation at the way he drank his milk. The formality with which he treated his son. She sometimes had the urge to dig her fingers hard into each of Edward’s cheeks, pull upward and say, ‘Smile! See? Not so difficult, is it?’ There were probably easier ways to cause a viscount to have a tantrum, but Dorothea thought this one would work as well as any.
She supposed she should feel sorry for Edward. His own upbringing had probably been awful. Edward’s father was dead but she’d met his mother. She was so cool and unpleasant that Dorothea went out of her way to avoid her if she happened to be visiting.
Had Edward always been so awful? It was hard to say. He had charisma. He could charm on cue; and he could sustain it when he thought it might pay off. When she had made an appointment with him after Adeline’s death, and upon hearing Nanny Pam had been taken ill, he had turned it on. She had no experience of child-rearing and her degree in English Literature and a job in an antiquarian bookshop didn’t really scream, ‘I am qualified to raise your progeny!’ But she had argued her case and had looked her best. She had the right accent. She recalled what she had worn to the interview: her favourite patterned dress that hugged her ‘ridiculously gorgeous figure’ according to her friend Iris.
At the interview, Dorothea had said all the right things. She’d known Francis from a baby. Every week Lady Fitzhenry had brought him into the bookshop and Dorothea would read to him; book after book as Lady Fitzhenry did her browsing or ran errands. So, she and Francis were already well acquainted, Dorothea had explained. Plus, she was excellent at maths. Surely that all qualified her?
It had.The nannying position will be in school holiday periods. Soon, Francis will be off to boarding school. In term time, there is plenty to do in the garden and around the house.She had agreed, eagerly, sickened at little Francis being packed off to school, but she’d clean toilets if it meant she could step into Adeline’s shoes and be there for the newly motherless Francis.
