have cleansed the wound now, sir. I will cover it until the nurse gets here.’
‘Pass me that brandy,’ he demanded.
Thinking he intended to pour himself another drink, Marianne did as he had commanded, but instead he dashed the tawny liquid straight onto his flesh.
Marianne winced for him as his free hand clutched at her arm and hard fingers dug into her flesh. She knew her discomfort was nothing compared to what his must be.
‘Your husband—how did he die?’
Marianne stiffened.
‘He died of smallpox, sir.’
‘You were not with him?’
‘Yes, I…I was with him.’ She had nursed Milo through his final days and hours, and it was hard for her to speak of the suffering he had undergone.
‘But you did not take the disease yourself?’
‘I had the chicken pox as a child, and my late aunt was of the belief that those who have that are somehow protected from smallpox. I think it would be best if you were to lie down now, sir.’
‘Oh, you do, do you? Very well, then.’
Automatically Marianne went to help him as he struggled to get up from the chair, doing her best to support him. He was obviously weaker than he himself had known, because he fell against her, causing her to hold him tightly.
He smelled of male flesh and male sweat, and his thick dark hair was oddly soft against her face as his head fell onto her shoulder. The last time she had held a man like this he had been dying, and he had been her husband. Marianne closed her eyes, willing the tears burning the backs of her eyes not to fall.
To her relief the master managed to gather enough strength to get himself onto the bed, where she was able to put a loose clean cover over his wound and a fresh sheet over him, followed by some blankets and an eiderdown. She noticed that he was shivering slightly, and resolved to make up a fire in the bedroom as well as heat some bricks for the bed.
She had just finished straightening the linen, and was about to leave when, without opening his eyes, the master reached for the keys she had returned to him and spoke. ‘Here—you had better take these, since you have taken it upon yourself to announce to the world that you are my housekeeper.’
Marianne stared at him, but he had turned his face away from her. Uncertainly, she picked up the keys. These were her official badge of office—one that everyone coming to the house would recognise and honour.
Relief swelled her chest and caused her heart to beat unsteadily.
To have accomplished so much and gone so far towards keeping her promise in such a short space of time was so much more than she had expected.
From downstairs came the sound of someone knocking impatiently on the back door. The Master of Bellfield was lying still, his eyes closed, but she knew that he was not asleep.
‘SORRY it’s tekken me so long to get here, missus,’ Charlie Postlethwaite apologised when Marianne opened the door to him. ‘Only it took me dad a while to get hold of old Harry to ask him about that honey you wanted.’
‘You got some?’ Marianne exclaimed, pleased.
‘Aye. He weren’t for giving it up at first, but when Dad said that it was for Mr Denshaw…’
Marianne tried not to frown. Here was someone else telling her that the Master of Bellfield was a man well regarded by those around him. And yet there were others all too ready to tell a tale of cruelty and neglect towards those who had most deserved his care.
‘Mr Denshaw said to tell you that he wants to see a Mr Gledhill,’ she told him.
‘Aye, that’s t’manager of t’mill. It’s all round the town now, what’s happened, and there’s plenty saying that they’d never have thought of anything like that going wrong at Bellfield, on account of the way the master is always having his machines checked over and that. Them that work in t’other mills are always getting themselves injured, but not the people at Bellfield. My dad’s sent up a chicken, like you asked for—he said how you want to make up some soup with it. Got some turtle soup in the shop, we have, that would suit t’master a treat,’ he told her, repeating his father’s comment.
‘I’m sure it would,’ Marianne agreed diplomatically, ‘but chicken soup is best for invalids. Will you thank your father for me, Charlie? Oh, and Mr Denshaw said that I was to see if you could ask your uncle at the laundry to send someone up.’
Nodding his head, Charlie headed for the door.
Marianne had no sooner seen him cycle out of the yard and fed the baby then there was another knock on the door, this time heralding the arrival of the nurse.
‘I’ll show you up to Mr Denshaw,’ she told her, after she had let her in.
‘There’s no rush for that. He’s waited this long. He can wait a bit longer. A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss, mind.’ The nurse sniffed and wiped her hand across her nose. Her hand was grubby, and Marianne couldn’t help but notice the strong smell of drink on her breath.
‘You’ve come from Manchester, then, have you?’ she commented, settling herself in front of the range.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Marianne fibbed.
‘Bit young, ain’t yer, to be taking on a job like this?’
Marianne said nothing, lifting the kettle from the fire instead, to make the tea the nurse had requested.
‘A nip of something in it would go down a treat,’ the nurse told her. ‘Just to warm me old bones.’
‘The doctor said that he would send a draught up with you for Mr Denshaw,’ Marianne told her, pretending she hadn’t heard.
‘Aye, a good dose of laudanum to keep him quiet, so as we can all get a decent night’s sleep. I can’t abide nursing anyone what don’t sleep. Heard about what happened to his wife, I expect, have you?’ she asked Marianne.
‘I heard that she died in childbirth,’ Marianne felt obliged to reply.
‘Aye, and some round here said they weren’t surprised, that they’d thought she were daft to marry him in the first place. Ten years older than him, she were, and a widow with a son what should have inherited this house and everything that went with it. Only she had her head turned by him coming along and making up to her, so she let him have what the wanted, like a fool. He married her out of vengeance, so they say. And to get his hands on the mill, of course. See, his pa and hers were in business together at one time. Only his pa decides to go and set up on his own, and then things went wrong for him, and he got himself into debt. Blew his brains out, he did, and him upstairs were taken into t’workhouse.’
Marianne’s heart clenched with pity and fellow feeling.
‘Poor woman, she must have regretted the day she stood up in church alongside Heywood Denshaw. She’d be turning in her grave, she would, if she knew what he did after she’d gone. Drove her son, what was the rightful heir to Bellfield Mill, away. And Amelia, that niece of hers, as well—the master’s ward, what the young master were sweet on. Ran off together, they did. And there’s some folk that say as they’ll never come back, on account of a foul dark deed being done by a certain person, that they’re lying in their graves now…’
Marianne’s hands shook, and seeing them the nurse said, ‘You do well to look fearful, lass. A terrible man the Master of Bellfield is. If I was you I’d get that babby swaddled nice and tight, so that it lies quiet instead of moving about like that.’ She changed the subject to look disapprovingly at the baby in the basket. ‘A bit of laudanum in its milk at night and you’ll not hear a sound from it. That’s what