She knew she would need to be jack of all trades too. Large homes such as this one were being abandoned or sold all over the country. Generations of privileged families lacked the money to keep the grounds and maintain the crumbling bricks and leaky roofs. ‘Open to the public and make a business of it, or abandon ship’, had been the choice for many. Lord Edward Fitzhenry had chosen to stay and fight. He sold off land and valuable paintings, and reduced his staff. She was to be one of only five still on his payroll back then. But with Cricket now in tow, it was recently back to nine.
Edward’s charm had been abundant at first. And when Francis had been younger and easier to adore, Edward had found less fault with him. Still, she had seen glimpses of the real man early on—cross words to Francis without need; belittling Mrs Wilson when the food wasn’t perfect. Adeline had hinted he could be difficult. There had been signs. In hindsight, she had continuedto forgive him long after she should have known better. This need to believe in the goodness of human nature would cost her, later.
Edith Wilson popped her head in the doorway now. ‘Do you want morning tea? I’ve baked a raspberry sponge for his Lordship’s visitor.’
‘Yes, please, Mrs Wilson,’ said Francis.
The housekeeper nodded. ‘It’s there when you’re ready.’
Dorothea found Edith Wilson hard to fathom, although since their run-in last week, with the whisky in the kitchen, she had begun giving advice to Dorothea about how to care for Louis—hard-won and now wasted mothering knowledge she was eager to share—which had thawed the freeze between them. She would happily feed him his bottle or burp him if Dorothea needed to do something with Francis. If they heard him whimpering in his pram, she insisted Dorothea let him cry to get himself off to sleep, telling her to go off with Francis to lessons. She would listen for him, and Dorothea needed to learn that crying never harmed them. It was theleastthing that could harm them. Dorothea’s heart rattled for poor Mrs Wilson and her dead children. She appreciated the woman’s concern but was a little afraid too. Was it safe to leave a baby with someone who’s mind had suffered through such a gruesome history? In the quiet hours of the night-time, Dorothea’s intuition had been sending out icy tentacles. Something was coming, but she could not place its origin.
‘Louis will sleep for a while longer. Let’s get some cake and have your lessons outside,’ she said to Francis, knowing that Edward had taken his friend through the woods. They wouldlikely be an hour or two. There would be little chance of being seen outside the schoolroom in the next half hour. ‘If we put on our coats, the wind won’t bother us.’
Outside, Francis ran ahead, and she called for him to wait. The central rose garden was in full bloom and to the left was a stand of elms covering the space of half a football field. To the right was the lake and jetty and small brick outbuilding that housed Francis’s collections. Francis was beetling across the lawn towards it. He kept feathers, interesting rocks and flowers in a press she had gifted him for his birthday. The wind was a little too wild to be handling the feathers, although most were pinned to a board they had lined with fabric. She wondered what he was fetching.
A hint of colour caught her eye, and Dorothea looked towards the main gates. Edward’s friend was walking back through. Dorothea gave a polite wave, and the man headed towards her.
‘Hello,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Archie Pembroke.’ He eyed Dorothea with a diffident smile as she shook his hand.
‘I’m the nanny. Dorothea Stewart.’ Anxiety churned in her gut. She looked over her shoulder for Edward then nodded to the outbuilding. ‘Francis and I are just rummaging about for a bit. Some informal lessons …’ She let the words trail off.
He gave her nothing; no smile, no hint of reproach that lessons should be saved for school term. Dorothea looked towards the building door and Francis came out with a box in his hands.
Archie said, ‘Edward is around somewhere. We were looking at the dovecote. Fascinating structure, isn’t it? I’m an architect, so perhaps I’m biased.’
‘Mmm, yes,’ murmured Dorothea, hoping Edward would not appear.
‘Hello,’ said Francis, arriving beside them.
‘Oh, hello.’ Archie nodded at the box. ‘What do you have in there?’
‘It’s a collection of rocks. Interesting ones we’ve found on the estate, and some from Cornwall when Mummy took me to the beach. I also have some from Cumbria when we visited my cousins. I would like some from Mount Vesuvius one day. They’re volcanic.’
‘I know. I’m one-quarter Italian.’
‘Really? You don’t look it. Can you speak Italian?’
‘A little,’ said Archie.
‘Say something.’
‘Good lord, how funny you are,’ said the man, laughing.
A movement drew Dorothea’s attention. Edward was striding towards them from behind Francis.
‘Baby Louis thinks I’m very funny,’ said Francis.
‘Who’s baby Louis?’
Francis looked uncertainly at Dorothea.
‘What are you two doing out here?’ said Edward.
‘Learning,’ said Francis. ‘About rocks and we were discussing Italian.’
‘Must be time for the classroom, don’t you think, Dorothea? Don’t want to raise a barefoot savage who doesn’t know his mathematics.’
Dorothea glanced down at Francis’s feet, fully shod, of course, because it was cool and damp. And also, because he was Francis, the sensation of grass on his feet would make him squirm.
