Cherry Tree Lane Read online

  On the Monday, the weather being pleasant again, Jacob saw Miss Newington walking down the lane from the big house. She stopped by the gate, reaching up one hand to caress the blossoms on the lower branches of the flowering cherry trees. They were just beginning to flower, so the heavy rain hadn’t done much damage. In a week or two they’d be beautiful. They might not produce anything he could sell, but he’d taken a cutting and his own young tree was also in bloom lower down the slope just inside his gate. He was thinking of taking other cuttings and putting more trees along the lane.

  His eyes went back to Miss Newington. She wasn’t striding along as she usually did, but walking slowly, and she looked tired. She must be coming to see him, because if she went into the village she usually took the dog cart. What did she want with him again? The rents weren’t due yet.

  He walked across to join her as she reached the other side of the perimeter wall and walked along the inside as they headed towards the gate. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Newington. Bit brighter today, isn’t it?’

  She glanced up at the sky and nodded agreement, then put her head on one side and studied his house. ‘Your family have lived here for a while, haven’t they, Kemble?’

  ‘Yes, miss. My father and grandfather leased this smallholding before Dad bought it. I grew up here.’

  ‘Do you have any money saved?’

  He shook his head, puzzled by the question. ‘Not much. I save every summer to see me and the kids through the winter, when there’s less money coming in. But last year’s money’s nearly used up now.’

  ‘But you do at least have the sense to save for the winter.’

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘How else would we manage if I didn’t?’

  ‘Not all the villagers are as thrifty. I wonder, would you offer me a cup of tea, Mr Kemble? I wish to discuss something with you.’

  He thought of the stranger, still feverish, the kitchen in a proper old mess. ‘The place isn’t fit to entertain a lady in. Not having a wife, and Mr Grey being ill, I’ve had no help and … Well, I’ve not had time to clear up today. I had to come out and get these seedlings in, you see. Perhaps I could come up to your house later?’

  Miss Newington gave him one of her piercing glances. ‘I need to talk to you and I wish to do so now. If the house is untidy, it won’t worry me.’

  Somehow he couldn’t argue with her. She had such an upright spine, such a piercing gaze – and anyway, she was his employer now. He didn’t want to upset her and lose the extra money.

  As he opened the back door for his visitor, he heard the stranger moaning and talking in disjointed snatches. His heart sank. No hiding the presence of the sick woman now.

  His companion stopped to listen. ‘Who’s that? It’s not a child’s voice.’

  Sarah came to the hall door. ‘She’s worse, Dad.’

  Miss Newington didn’t wait for an invitation to enter, but moved forward, following the sound of the voice. She stood by the sofa in the front room, staring down at the sick woman. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘A stranger. Luke found her lying unconscious in the lane on Friday night. She’s feverish, not making sense, so I don’t know who she is.’

  ‘Why haven’t you sent for the doctor?’

  ‘He can’t do much for pneumonia. No one can.’

  ‘You should have sent for Mrs Henty, then. It’s not fitting for a man to care for a sick woman, especially one who’s a stranger.’

  ‘Mrs Henty would have sent her to the poorhouse. They wouldn’t look after her as well as I do.’

  ‘I’m helping Dad,’ Sarah volunteered. ‘That’s why I’ve not gone to school today.’

  ‘You’re a good lass,’ Jacob said. ‘Go and get the best cups out, then make sure the kettle’s on the boil. We’ll offer our visitor a cup of tea when she and I have finished talking.’

  When Sarah had gone, he shut the door and looked at his landlady, trying to gauge her feelings. But the stranger moaned and tossed off the covers, so he went over to sponge the burning brow yet again. ‘She’s running away from someone and … she’s been badly beaten in the past, bears the scars from it.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Flushing slightly, trying not to show more of the woman’s body than needed, he undid the neck of the nightgown, and pulled it away at the back to reveal the scars. ‘She was half-conscious when we found her and I … well, I promised her I’d keep her safe, not let whoever it is catch her. She was upset but my promise calmed her down straight away. If I called in Mrs Henty …’ He didn’t know how to say it delicately.

  Miss Newington surprised him by grinning and finishing his sentence. ‘The whole village would soon know about it, if not the whole county.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I nursed my father when he came down with pneumonia and he survived. We need to prop her in an even more upright position and that fire is too hot. Let it die down a little. Do you have another pillow?’

  ‘Yes. Shall I fetch it?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  When he came downstairs with the pillow, which he’d put into a clean if unironed pillowcase, his visitor was sponging the stranger again. After that, they made her more comfortable and she fell into a doze.

  ‘She’s not wearing a wedding ring,’ Miss Newington said thoughtfully. ‘And apart from that shawl and those ragged things, the rest of her clothes are those of a respectable young woman, well cared for – darned and mended, though. She’s decent, I’m sure. I wonder why she’s running away. Or from whom?’

  He’d wondered that quite a few times over the past two days. ‘She calls out sometimes, words like “Don’t let him catch me” and tries to get up.’

  ‘Well, she’ll be able to tell us her troubles when she recovers.’ Miss Newington pointed to the two armchairs. ‘The cup of tea can wait. Sit down. I still need to talk to you. We can do it here as well as anywhere.’

  He could only obey, but he felt anxious. What did she want of him? Had she changed her mind about him collecting the rents? Or … she wasn’t going to sell the big house, was she? He’d heard that Arthur Newington wanted it and knew the village would be in bad hands if that man came here.

  And although Jacob owned his own land, a rich man had ways of making life difficult if he took against you.

  Bart got ready for work on the Monday, angry that he’d not bought enough bread for his sandwiches, or anything to put in them, either. He’d had to get up earlier than usual to get his own breakfast and he was furious that he’d not really found out anything about where his daughters had gone. The anger made his chest feel as if it was about to burst, it was so hot and strong inside him.

  He was amazed that Stan still wanted to marry Mattie. He wouldn’t. There were plenty of single women or widows who’d snap up a husband earning a decent wage, without a man marrying one who’d taken the bit between her teeth and run off like that, the ungrateful bitch.

  That thought made him stop, butter knife in hand. Should he find himself another wife? He could do it easily enough and it’d solve one problem, at least – looking after the house. Then he shook his head. He’d had two wives and buried them both. The second one hadn’t even given him a son. He didn’t want any more daughters, or worse, a house full of brats, which might happen if he married someone younger than himself.

  And wives were harder to manage than daughters, always wanting money for this and that, complaining if you went out for a drink. He’d vowed when Mattie’s mother died that he’d not go through that again. After all, you could get your pleasures elsewhere for the cost of a few drinks.

  He got on with his work. He was a good worker, took a pride in what he did and in his strength too. But he was getting on, nearly fifty now, starting to weaken just a little, though he hoped he’d hidden that. It only showed that he’d done the right thing, saving hard for his old age, and it meant it was even more important that he got his daughters back to look after him as he got older.

  The foreman came round but didn’t
say anything, just letting them know he was there. Bart spat as he watched the sod walk away. They both knew where they stood. The foreman didn’t pick on him and he did his work well.

  Chapter Four

  Emily studied Jacob as she spoke, hoping she’d not mistaken her man. ‘I have some plans which you may be able to help me with and I’d be grateful if you’d not mention what I’m going to tell you to anyone.’

  ‘I can keep my mouth closed.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve noticed. The fact is, I’m not getting any younger and wish to move back to Northumberland. It’s home to me, as Wiltshire never will be, and I love living by the sea. I had a job there, an easy one as companion to a wealthy lady, but someone else has taken that now.’ She paused, staring into the fire. ‘However, though I was left the big house and some land and cottages, I wasn’t left any money, that went to my cousin. And the rents aren’t enough to pay for the upkeep of such a large house as well as the rent of another place in the north.’

  As she paused for breath, Jacob made a noise to show he was listening, then she continued without looking at him, almost talking to herself.

  ‘I think my uncle wanted to cause trouble, the way he left things. He was a bitter man after his son died. Cook tells me his wife simply faded away, died a couple of years later, because she’d lost heart. I hadn’t expected to inherit anything. The cousin who lives near here seemed the likely choice, but he only inherited the money and I doubt there was as much of it as people thought, anyway.’

  ‘Mr Arthur Newington, that’d be.’

  ‘Yes. He’d set my housemaid to spy on me and report to the lawyer who handled the estate. I’ve dismissed them both and found myself a new lawyer.’ She saw Jacob’s look of surprise. ‘You’re wondering why I’m bothering to tell you all this?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Because you’re honest and intelligent. I trust you, as I do not trust my cousin, and I think we can help one another. Anyway, let me finish my tale. To further complicate matters, I’m only allowed to sell the house to my cousin, not to anyone else, for ten years after I inherit. I can sell off some of the smaller pieces of land and one or two cottages, the ones that weren’t in the original estate. I’ve done that now, sold all I can, and had to use most of the money to repair the roof. So there still isn’t enough money to support me in any comfort if I move back to Northumberland.’

  She sighed and stared into the fire for a few moments, then continued. ‘My new lawyer says there’s nothing to prevent me from letting Newington House, however. It’s large enough to bring in a decent rent. The money from that and from the other rents would be enough to manage on and to maintain the big house till the ten years are past, which is only another three years to go. But I’ll have to be careful with my money, very careful indeed.’

  He frowned at her, clearly still puzzled.

  ‘That’s where you come in. I want to appoint you my rent agent for the big house as well as for the remaining cottages. There’s no one else suitable in the village and the lawyer in Swindon is too far away to keep an eye on things, though he’ll supervise renting the property. You could deal with small maintenance matters there, I’m sure. I’ll be watching my pennies carefully and I think you’ll do the same for me. It’d be best for me to have someone on the spot to look after things.’ She waited for him to comment.

  He was staring at her in amazement.

  ‘Well?’ she prompted.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Miss Newington.’

  ‘Say yes. After all, you’ve done repair work before.’

  ‘Only on my own house.’

  ‘I’ve seen what you’ve done and you’ve done it well.’

  ‘That’s not the same as dealing with the sort of folk who’d live at the big house, or repairing such a big place.’

  ‘It’s close enough for my needs. To be frank, I only wish the house to be in a fit state to be sold at the end of the ten years. It need not be perfect.’ She was surprised Kemble hadn’t accepted at once, and a little annoyed at having to persuade him. ‘It’d mean more money, regular money even in winter. I’d pay you a set amount per week plus extra if there were repairs to be done or workmen brought in to oversee.’

  He nodded a few times, very slowly, then took a deep breath. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good. But I have one condition. You must find yourself a wife. You’ll need to be better dressed if you’re dealing with the tenants at the big house. You’re better spoken than most. I gather your mother was a schoolteacher before her marriage?’

  He nodded, taken aback by this condition.

  ‘I know others have said it, but you really do need a woman to look after such things, Kemble, so I must insist you find yourself a wife. But unlike other people, I’m not making any suggestions as to who that should be.’ She didn’t say anything, just let the suggestion sink in. He’d see the need to smarten himself up, she was sure, and anyway, men as young as him were not meant to live celibately. ‘Now, I’m quite thirsty and would like the cup of tea you promised me, after which Sarah and I will give this poor woman a sponge bath before I leave.’

  ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘She needs our help.’

  Later he saw his visitor out and walked with her to the lane. Emily had noticed before that he was a courteous man and she liked that in him. She stopped for a moment. ‘Do you think you can find yourself a wife, Mr Kemble?’

  ‘I’ll promise to give it serious thought, Miss Newington, nothing more.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, if you have trouble finding one, let me know. I’ll be happy to help.’

  Jacob watched her go, not sure how he felt about her or what she’d offered. She was a strange lady, prone to barking out orders to her tenants – though usually sensible orders. And yet she’d not been too high and mighty to give the stranger a sponge bath. What’s more, he’d listened to her chatting away to Sarah as they worked, and the child clearly felt at ease with her.

  To his relief, Miss Newington had promised to return the following day to perform the same intimate services for the stranger.

  The villagers marvelled that she managed that big house with so few servants when it had taken three times as many to run it before. But she’d shut up a lot of the rooms, the maid said. In fact, now Jacob came to think of it, that Agnes had been a right old gossip. You shouldn’t gossip about your employers. He wouldn’t.

  He stopped on that thought. The wages she was offering would be a step up in the world for him. But why the hell had she taken it into her head that he needed to marry to do the job properly? She knew who lived in the village, must realise no man of sense would fancy any of the unattached women there, and more to the point, none of them would make the sort of efficient wife a rising man needed. Because if he did take the job, he’d definitely rise in the world. It would be just the impetus he needed to bring his ambitions back to life again. Didn’t every man want to make a better life for his children?

  His mother would have liked that. She’d been well educated for a woman, had come to the village as schoolteacher and stayed on to marry his father. She had given her son her own love of reading, but his father had never touched a book that Jacob had seen. Plants, now, his father had had a gift for growing things. Jacob would never be as good at that as him, even though he did quite well.

  As the day passed, Jacob couldn’t get the thought of what this job would mean out of his mind. He wanted to accept it for the children’s sake, but where was he supposed to find a suitable wife? You couldn’t just go out and ask some stranger to marry you.

  No, he’d have to find a way to change Miss Newington’s mind about that. She’d realise it was impossible once she really thought about it, he was sure she would. He’d discuss it with her next time, pointing out the lack of suitable candidates round here.

  For the moment, he had a market garden to plant and stock, two children to look after, an invalid to care for – and not enough hours in the day.

  A w
ife would change that, a little voice said in his head, but he didn’t let himself dwell on the thought. But he couldn’t help remembering the restless nights where his body reminded him of its needs. And looking after the stranger had made that worse.

  That night someone tried to break into Newington House. Cook and the young girl who helped out were the only servants left, apart from a scrubbing woman who came in three times a week from the village, and Horace who looked after the horse and trap, and also did a bit of gardening. The old man slept above the stables, the female servants in the attics and Emily had a bedroom on the second floor which had excellent views of the nearby countryside. She preferred it to the old master’s bedroom.

  She was lying wakeful, something which often afflicted her, worrying about her future, when she heard the sound of glass smashing. It sounded to come from the rear of the house. She slid out of bed at once, because that sort of noise couldn’t happen by mistake. Heart pounding, she crept onto the landing which overlooked the stairwell and looked down.

  In the moonlight she saw two figures emerge from the kitchen area and start creeping up the stairs. They seemed to know their way and on the first-floor landing made straight for what had been the master bedroom previously.

  Not an ordinary burglary, then, she thought. She picked up her bedroom poker before creeping up the stairs to the attics to rouse Cook and the girl. She put a hand over Cook’s mouth as the woman tried to scream and whispered a quick explanation. ‘Get something to hit them with.’

  ‘They’ll murder us, miss,’ Cook said at once.

  ‘No, they won’t. There are three of us to two of them and we’ll arm ourselves. Hurry up.’ She went and roused the maid, who slept next door.

  ‘I’ll help you, miss.’ Lyddie shrugged on her dressing gown and snatched up her water ewer, hefting it in her hand.

  ‘Good girl.’

  Cook joined them on the landing brandishing a poker and wearing a voluminous dressing gown, with her hair hanging down her back in its customary straggly plait.