Orphans from the Storm: Bride at Bellfield Mill / A Family for Hawthorn Farm / Tilly of Tap House

Now, though, she was busy in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the baby whilst she worked busily.

Although she had been upstairs several times, on each occasion the Master of Bellfield had been sleeping, so Marianne had not disturbed him. Now the kitchen was full of the rich smell of the chicken soup she had made for the invalid, and the cat, who had proudly presented her with three dead mice already, was sitting purposefully in front of the range.

As she bustled about, Marianne hummed softly under her breath, mentally making lists of all that she had to do. There was the warming pan to be made ready for the master’s bed. Thanks to Ben, there was now a fire burning cheerfully in the bedroom, and tomorrow she would send Ben down to the mill to ask Mr Gledhill if he had any idea where she might find the boiler that should provide hot water for the bathrooms. She suspected it would be in the cellars, but she was reluctant to go down and investigate, knowing that it was by the door that led to them that the cat sat, waiting for her prey. The thought of mice running over her feet as she explored the cellars’ darkness made her shudder.

That meant that she must heat water on the range, both to clean the master’s wound and for him to shave with, should he choose to do so.

It had caused her several moments’ disquiet to discover that nowhere in the linen cupboard was there a sign of any kind of male night attire. There must, however, be a draper’s shop in the town, and they would be sure to be able to supply some, she decided firmly. Whether or not Mr Denshaw would wear them was, of course, another matter.

She let the cat out and, covering the soup and leaving it to simmer, gathered up everything she needed to wash and bandage her employer’s injury.

This time when she knocked on the door and turned the door handle the Master of Bellfield was not only awake, he was also sitting up, leaning back against the pillows and frowning as he stared out of the uncurtained windows.

‘Who gave orders for a fire to be lit?’ he demanded brusquely.

‘I did,’ Marianne told him. ‘When a person has received a wound of the magnitude of yours, then it is important that they are kept warm. I have brought you some water and some clean towels in case you wish to…to refresh yourself, before I bring up your supper. But first I must check your…your injury.’

‘My injury can look after itself.’

Marianne stood her ground. ‘I am relieved that you feel recovered enough to think so, sir, but I would rather check.’

‘Very well, then, but I warn you that my belly is empty, and I am in no mood to be fussed over like a mewling babe in arms.’

Marianne ignored him, dragging a chair over to the side of the bed instead and then laying a clean cloth on it.

‘What is that for?’

‘I thought that you could rest your leg on it whilst I cleaned the wound, so as not to dampen the sheets,’ Marianne told him calmly.

‘You want me to place my leg on the chair, do you?’

‘If you would be so kind, sir, yes.’

So far Marianne had managed to keep her gaze fixed on the wallpaper above his head, and thus avoid having to look at his naked chest, but now, as he moved, the sheet slipped down to reveal more of his torso, at the same time as he pushed his naked leg free of the bedding to rest it on the chair.

Marianne’s throat went dry. On this side of the bed at least there was nothing covering him except the shadows of the bed, which mercifully covered those parts of him she should not see. But in order to reach the site of his injury she would have to lean over him, and then…

What was the matter with her? She had attended other injured men, and nursed a dying husband to his death, sponging his whole fever-soaked body over and over again through those long hours.

But this man was different. This man touched something within her womanhood that she had no power to control. Marianne looked towards the door. It was too late for flight now. She had given her word and must stay, no matter what the cost to herself.

Taking a deep breath, she removed the cloth from the wound. The bleeding had stopped, but there was an ominous swollen reddening of the flesh around the puncture. Very gently Marianne placed her hand over it, her heart sinking when she felt its heat. The wound was becoming putrid.

‘Imagining me dead already, are you?’

The harsh words made her flinch.

‘The wound has some heat, sir, but I doubt that you will die of that,’ she told him, with more conviction that she felt. ‘I shall cleanse it and bandage it, and then if the heat has not gone I believe you should send for Dr Hollingshead.’

‘That quack! I’ll not have him near me.’

‘Perhaps another doctor, then?’

‘Aye, perhaps I should get myself one from Manchester—like my new housekeeper,’ he taunted her.

Marianne said nothing, getting up instead to fetch what she had brought with her.

She wiped the wound clean first with boiled water, using fresh pads as hot as she thought he could bear to draw the poison as her aunt had taught her, whilst keeping an eye on him to make sure that she was not causing him more pain than he could stand. And then, when she had done that, she reached for the honey.

‘What the devil do you mean to do with that?’ her patient demanded angrily, attempting to draw his leg out of the way.

‘It is honey, sir. My aunt believed that it has great efficacy in the drawing and healing of wounds.’

‘Well, I’m having none of it. Douse the injury with brandy and then wrap it up clean, and let’s have done with it.’

Marianne could see that he meant what he was saying. Reluctantly she did as he bade. She could not swear to it, but as she secured the clean bandage over the wound she feared that his flesh already possessed more heat.

‘I will go downstairs now and bring your supper, sir.’

His brusque nod told her that he was in more pain than he wanted her to see, she acknowledged as she hurried back to the kitchen.

A faint scratch at the back door told Marianne that the cat had returned and wanted to be let in. When she opened the door she saw that whilst she had been attending to her patient the sky had clouded over and it had started to snow, the flakes whirling in such a dizzy frenzy that she couldn’t see across the yard.

Shivering, she closed and then locked the door.

She had found blankets and pillows in the linen cupboards that would suffice for now, and had made herself a bed up on the settle. The range was stoked up for the night and banked down, and the kitchen clean and warm.

The baby, more lively now, held up his arms to her and smiled.

‘You should be asleep,’ she reproved him as she lifted him from the basket. Surely he was fatter and heavier already.

Marianne laughed to see the eagerness with which he took the small spoonfuls of soup she fed him, laughing again when he crowed happily at the sound of her laughter. The nurse might have wanted to see him swaddled, but Marianne could see his pleasure in being able to wriggle and kick out his legs.

‘My, but your daddy would be proud of you,’ she told him emotionally. There had been so many times during the arduous journey here when she had asked herself if she was doing the right thing, and now that he was here she was no closer to knowing the answer.

According to the nurse and the doctor, the Master of Bellfield was a man who had treated his late wife cruelly, abandoning her in her hour of need and leaving her to die along with his child. He was a man who had driven away his stepson, surely his rightful heir, and had caused the disappearance of the young innocent girl in his care.

But then his mill manager had spoken highly and warmly of him, and so had others. Who was to be believed? The baby yawned and closed his eyes. Tenderly Marianne carried him to his basket and laid him in it, kissing his forehead as she did so.

It was gone ten o’clock and she was tired. Once she had cleaned the housekeeper’s rooms on the attic floor she could enjoy the luxury of its bathroom, but for tonight she would have to make do with a wash here in front of the fire. Even that was a luxury compared with what she had known in the workhouse.

She started to take down her hair, ready to brush it. She had no nightgown to wear and would have to sleep in her chemise. Perhaps Mr Gledhill might know of somewhere where she could buy some serviceable lengths of flannelette. There was a sewing machine in the nursery, and her nimble fingers would soon be able to fashion some much needed new clothes for the baby and for herself.

Fashionable ladies might wear the new ‘health’ corsets beneath their expensive gowns, to emphasise the sought-after S-shaped curve that the King so admired, but even if she could have afforded such a garment there would have been no point in her wasting good money on it, Marianne reflected, for she had no one who might fasten it up for her.

Tears weren’t very far away as her meandering thoughts brought home to her how very alone she now was. All those she had loved had gone, though her beloved aunt thankfully would never know how cruelly her much-loved orphaned niece had been treated by those who should have cared for her. Her aunt’s estate, which should have been hers, had been sold over her head to pay off a bank loan Marianne was sure had never really existed, but at seventeen she had been too young and powerless to be able to prove it.

Life in the workhouse had come as a terrible shock to a young girl reared so gently. But it had been there that she had met and lost her very best and dearest friend.