The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth

‘Please call me Amos, everyone does. I must admit, her age is hard to figure out. I don’t think she can be any more than five, do you?’

‘Isn’t she a bit tall for five?’ Stephen asked. ‘My wife thinks she’s four, though. And I suppose we’ll never know.’

‘I believe she’s more than four, she’s very bright and intelligent, but not more than five, I’m certain of that. I tried to find out how long she had been on the streets, but she wasn’t able to tell me. She doesn’t have any sense of real time, very few children do as a matter of fact. But she was very dirty, and her clothes were unusually filthy, so I can only think she was out there living in cubby holes and corners, scavenging for herself, for at least three or four weeks, possibly longer.’

An involuntary shudder passed through Stephen and he closed his eyes for a moment; when he opened them there was a strange look in them, a mixture of sorrow and pain most acute. He made no response to Amos’s comment, just sat there looking sickened.

Finally, after a few seconds, Stephen said, ‘When we saw her earlier this afternoon she was bubbling over with happiness that we were here. There’s something quite lovely about her personality, when she’s not so tense.’

‘I know exactly what you mean, Mr Forth,’ Amos replied. ‘She’s full of life.’

‘That’s a good way of describing her. Yes, Rose is full of joie de vivre.’

‘Amos! Amos!’ a child’s voice rang out, and a moment later Rose was rushing across the floor to greet her friend.

As he watched her draw closer Amos thought she had never looked bonnier. There was a big white ribbon tied on top of her auburn hair, and she wore black stockings, a navy wool dress and a starched white pinafore. He knew they were clothes Vicky had bought for her.

As she drew to a stop Amos grinned and picked her up, and swirled her around. And then he placed her on the floor, noticing at once how steady she was now, not wobbling the way she had when he had first found her.

‘Hello, Rose,’ he said, giving her a broad smile. ‘You look beautiful in your new clothes.’

‘Fank yer,’ she said, and bobbed. ‘Mrs Vicky give ’em ter me. She’s like me Mam.’

Amos took hold of Rose’s hand and led her across to the sofa, where he sat down, and brought her close to his knees, looked into her bright blue eyes. ‘Rose, will you do something for me, please?’

‘Summfink ’ard, is it?’ she asked, looking at him keenly, her head on one side.

‘No, no, it’s not hard. It’s easy. I want you to go to Mrs Vicky and ask her to unlock the special cupboard, so I can take a look at your things in your cloth bag.’

‘Wot yer wanna look at me fings for?’ she demanded, frowning, suspicious all of a sudden.

‘We want to try and find out how old you are. It’s possible something in the bag will tell us.’

Reaching inside the neck of her dress, Rose pulled out a piece of black ribbon on which hung the key. ‘Mrs Vicky put the key ’ere ’cos I cried for me fings wen she took ’em.’

‘Isn’t she a nice lady? Well, come along, little one, let’s go to the cupboard.’

Smiling up at him, taking his hand in hers, Rose led him across the floor to a series of cupboards built along the wall facing the trestle table. She pulled the ribbon over her head, and opened the cupboard. Then she reached inside for the cloth bag.

Rose was careful to lock the cupboard, and put the ribbon around her neck, before they went back to the sofa. When Vicky saw what they were doing she hurried to join them. She and Amos sat down on a sofa, and a moment later Stephen walked over, carrying a cup of tea for Vicky. After handing it to her, he said to Amos, ‘Would you like a cup?’

‘Not at the moment, thanks, Mr Forth. I want to concentrate on these items here.’ He indicated the cloth bag with his head.

Rose looked at Amos and asked, ‘Wot yer wanna see?’

‘What about the photograph you showed me last time?’

Without a word Rose took the photograph out of the cloth bag and handed it to Amos. He stared at it for a moment then stared at Rose, and asked, ‘Is this Mam?’

She nodded several times and said vehemently. ‘Yeah.’

‘She always says that,’ Vicky volunteered.

Amos studied the photograph. It had been taken in a studio, no doubt in his mind about that, and it was by a good photographer. So it had cost money. Poor people did not have cash to spare to have their photographs taken.

Did this young woman in the picture come from money? She looked as if she did. Her hair was swept up on top of her head, with all the curls coming forward to the front. This was the current fashionable style, one favoured by the society women, who copied Queen Alexandra.

She wore a dark dress, and the lace collar was beautiful, came across her shoulders and chest, and it had the latest stylish high neck. Matching lace cuffs trimmed the long sleeves. As he peered at the photograph he noticed the young woman was wearing a star-shaped brooch which looked as if it was set with diamonds. He had not noticed it before because he had been concentrating on the woman’s features. He also noticed the earrings sparkling, and they looked real.

The face was lovely; her eyes were large and she had a wide brow. The first word that came into his head was class. She had it, in Amos’s opinion. She obviously came from good stock. Suddenly, he knew deep inside himself that this was true. He glanced surreptitiously at Rose, who was talking to Stephen and Vicky, and caught a glimpse, fleeting though it was, of the young woman in the photograph. She was Rose’s mother, he truly believed that.

Turning the picture over, Amos looked again to see if there was a photographer’s name on it. No luck, there wasn’t. If there had been a name they would have noticed it when Rose had first allowed them to open the bag.

‘What can you show me next, Rose?’ Amos asked, and she turned from Vicky and Stephen, looked in the bag and brought out a key. She handed it to him.

It was a plain key, no name or markings on it. Amos shook his head. ‘I don’t know what this is for. Do you, Rose?’

‘Mam’s key,’ she answered and looked at Vicky as if she could supply the answer.

Amos handed the key to the child. After putting it away she brought out a piece of flannel, a scrap really. He knew what it was—the gold wedding ring. He took it out of the cloth, his eyes resting on it for a moment, and then he wrapped it carefully and once more she took it, placed it in the bag.

There were other small things, which she showed him, mostly a child’s treasures, things she had saved for herself. Several coloured glass marbles, a pressed flower between two sheets of paper, a handkerchief, and a small prayer book. Inside he saw again the neat inscription: ‘To Grace from Mother.’ No date. Nothing else. Not a word.

A brick wall, he thought. We’re facing a brick wall. Looking at Vicky and Stephen, his eyes full of disappointment, Amos murmured, ‘It’s the same as last time, I’m afraid. I haven’t found a clue amongst her things. I somehow thought I might, that there would be something there that would be a lead, a clue, something I’d missed before. I’m afraid it’s wishful thinking on my part.’

‘We understand,’ Vicky said. ‘And anyway, it will be like starting afresh, won’t it, Amos? The three of us together…a new family.’

Pushing herself to her feet Vicky went over to Fenella standing near the table. She slipped her arm through hers, and said in a low voice, ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done, my dear, dear friend. I shall be forever grateful.’

‘Vicky, darling, I’m thrilled for you and Stephen, and for that simply gorgeous child. She’s lucky, we’re all lucky.’

‘If it hadn’t been for Amos and Haddon House—’ Vicky broke off and shook her head. ‘Imagine what might have happened to our little rosebud if Amos hadn’t found her and you hadn’t opened Haddon House three years ago?’

Fenella nodded and smiled. All of a sudden she seemed on the brink of tears. She swallowed them back, took control of herself, and together the two women walked across to the big sofa near the fire. As usual, the child was clutching the cloth bag, and appeared to be suddenly alarmed as the two women approached.

Vicky said, ‘Don’t look so frightened, Rose. I’m going home now—’

‘Naw! Naw!’ the child whimpered, and her face crumpled. Tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Please doan go.’

‘Ssssh,’ Vicky said softly, and knelt down in front of her. ‘You’re going to come, too, Rose, with me and Stephen, to our house. And you shall live there with us, and we shall look after you always, and we shall keep you safe.’

THIRTY-FOUR (#)

The sunlight filtering in through the many glass windows in the conservatory cast a soft golden glow on everything on this sunny May Saturday.

Amos Finnister glanced around, admiring the room, which was airy and lighthearted, yet extremely comfortable with wicker chairs and sofas filled with plump cushions, and matching occasional tables. It overflowed with white orchids and others of more brilliant hues. Nan Watkins’s pride and joy, they were glorious, and Neville’s wife had created an indoor garden that was serene and peaceful, a quiet haven.

Will Hasling, who was sitting with Amos, broke the silence when he said, ‘I have finally met Rose, and she is the loveliest little girl. My sister and Mr Forth are thrilled to have her, and Rose is lucky to have fallen into their laps, so to speak, thanks to you.’