Sylvia tossed the food scraps into the pigsty, letting out a startled exclamation as Arnold appeared at her side and took the empty pail from her.
‘You should have told me you wanted the scraps taken to the pigs, Mrs Budd. I’d have seen to it. This is a heavy pail for you to be carting around.’
Though touched at his gesture, Sylvia couldn’t help but laugh. ‘That was a kind thought, Arnold, but it’s a sight lighter than a basketful of wet washing, I can tell you.’
‘That’s as may be, but you must make sure to let me do this for you in future. If I can lighten your load in any way, I’m glad to do so. You’ve been so good to me.’
‘That’s most kind of you, Arnold. I hate to think how we would have managed without you since Will was taken.’
‘Ah, you’re much too kind, Mrs Budd.’ He squeezed Sylvia’s shoulder.
Recalling how she’d earlier so nearly — so brazenly — fallen into his arms, Sylvia stiffened at the familiarity, but it was concern in his eyes, not lust, and she relaxed. It was no more than an act of sympathy, and in all honesty, the warmth of his touch was comforting, reminding her of Will.
She was suddenly aware of being observed, and turned to see Libby scowling at them — specifically, at Arnold’s hand resting on her shoulder. Sylvia shrugged from his touch, then was struck with resentment that she should feel obliged to do so. Arnold meant no impropriety. Tight-lipped, she returned Libby’s gaze, thinking her daughter would have the grace to know she was being rude and would look elsewhere. But no, she stood there, eyes unblinking and accusing. Nettled, Sylvia turned her back on her daughter and carried on speaking to Arnold.
‘I am telling no more than the truth. We would have been in a fine old pickle by now if not for your help.’
‘I’m a man of conscience, Mrs Budd. If I’m to be honest, I must confess to having considered moving on after Will died …’
Sylvia’s heart gave a dull thud.
‘… but I could not leave you here struggling to cope, with one of your family hardly more than a boy and the other ill. Not with you so grieved about Will and worrying about the business. But now …’
‘Oh, Arnold, you’re not thinking of leaving us?’
‘Not within the next week or so, no. But eventually. You must understand that I have my own way to make in life. I would have been gone weeks ago, but for Will dying.’
‘Is there nothing I can do to induce you to stay? Some extra wages perhaps?’ Sylvia was ashamed of the tremor in her voice, but the thought of coping without Arnold’s help was too frightening.
‘Mrs Budd! That you should think so little of me! It would be mean-spirited and greedy of me to consider taking more from you in your time of need. You do far too much for me now.’
‘After all you have done for us, how can you possibly consider what I do for you is too much? Accepting a little extra in your wages could not be considered mean-spirited and greedy.’
‘You have made a generous offer, Mrs Budd. And it’s no more than I would have expected from a good woman like yourself. But no, I couldn’t take bread from the mouths of you and your children and that’s a fact. Come now, let’s be getting back to the cottage; there’s a chill in the air.’ He offered her his arm.
Libby was still watching them, still glowering. Defiantly — who was Libby to censure her? — Sylvia slipped her arm through Arnold’s and they strolled back along the path.
‘I didn’t mean to distress you before, Mrs Budd, when I spoke of leaving. But seeing the grand business Will built up has turned my thoughts to owning my own. Even perhaps a partnership in an established business. So you see, I need to be off fairly soon. A man’s not getting any younger and the sooner I start out on my own behalf, the sooner I’ll be set up.’
A lump lodged in Sylvia’s throat. She desperately wanted him to stay. Knowing he was going had made her realise how much she valued his company as well as his support. But she had her pride. She would not beg.
‘Arnold, I’ve been so taken up with my own problems I’ve not given a thought to how you must feel with your own needs set aside while you’ve been helping us. Of course you have your own way to make in life. I’m grateful you’re giving me time to find someone to take your place. I expect we’ll find someone capable. After all, it won’t be long before Jack is old enough to take over. He’s inherited his father’s gift for furniture-making. We shall miss you, but you’ll leave our home with my blessing and gratitude.’ Tears stung her eyes. She looked away quickly.
‘I can see I’ve upset you.’ Arnold came to a stop, slipped his arm from Sylvia’s and took hold of her hands. ‘Perhaps I can stay a little longer. It’s true, I do have a yearning to set up in business, but another few months here will not hurt. You’ve no need to be hasty in looking for a man to replace me. I would never walk off and leave you in a bind. And in the meantime, I shall put more aside to start up on my own, so it’s a favour I’m doing for myself, as well as you.’
‘You would do that for me? You’re a good man, Arnold Price. We were truly blessed the day you knocked on our door. You have become a good friend to us. Indeed, I think of you as one of the family, and like it or not, there’ll be extra in your wages from this day on. If your mind’s set upon saving for a start in your own business then it’s the least I can do to help.’
Arnold patted Sylvia’s hands before gently letting go. ‘If you insist, then so be it. But understand that I have more than a twinge of guilt about taking more from you, Mrs Budd.’
Arnold’s words, his very tone of voice, could well have come straight from Will’s mouth. Sylvia was unable to speak.
‘Ah, now. I’m not one for words and I’ve upset you with my clumsy way of putting things, I can see that,’ said Arnold, looking at Sylvia’s eyes, which, to her shame, were full of tears.
‘No, no you haven’t,’ Sylvia managed. ‘At least, yes you have — but in the nicest possible way,’ she added at Arnold’s quick frown. ‘You sounded so very much like Will then; it was as if he were speaking to me through you.’
‘You’ve paid me the greatest of compliments there, Mrs Budd.’
‘It’s the truth, Arnold. And while we’re about it, please call me Sylvia. “Mrs Budd” is far too formal for the true friend you’ve proved to be.’
‘That’s another grand compliment you’re paying me, Mrs — Sylvia.’
They turned at the sound of squawking and cackling coming from the direction of the fowl run.
Jack’s voice rang out. ‘You’re not crying again, are you, Libby? I swear you’re going to melt into a puddle of water if you’re not careful. She’s let the chooks out again,’ he muttered as Sylvia and Arnold arrived at his side.
‘Elizabeth Budd, will you never learn?’ cried Sylvia, irritated to see the hens, tail feathers pointing skyward, bobbing and pecking at wheat spilled outside their run.
‘She’s forever doing this,’ she told Arnold. ‘She opens the gate, spills the wheat and lets the hens out. By the time we’ve managed to round up the silly creatures, they’re so flighty, most of them are off the lay for days. I tell you, if not for the cayenne pepper I feed them every second day to increase their laying, we’d never get any eggs out of them with Libby around.’
Libby clapped her hands at the hens, attempting to shoo them into the run.
‘You needn’t bother — you’ll only scatter them further,’ Sylvia snapped, shoving her aside. ‘Jack and I will get them back into the run.’
Libby threw the empty wheat bowl on the ground and ran away.
The lamp on the duchesse threw a small circle of light around the bedroom. The dimness was in keeping with Sylvia’s sombre mood. Arnold’s decision to leave had shocked her into realising how much she’d come to depend on him. But his willingness to put her needs before his own and stay longer had nearly undone her. It was the sort of kindness Will would have shown others and she wondered how she’d failed to notice how like her husband Arnold was. Not in his appearance — Arnold’s swarthy colouring was a mile apart from Will’s fairness — but in his consideration of others.
If only he would stay. What might have come from their friendship had he been nearer her age? she mused, heating at her presumptuousness in even thinking such a thing. Perhaps, in time, he might have suggested marriage? Perhaps, even with the difference in their ages, he might yet? But that was a foolish hope. Why would he bother with an older woman, and one so plain, she chided herself, under no illusions as to her lack of beauty. He could have his pick of single women … his own healthy and well children. The last thing he’d want was to be burdened with the likes of Libby.
If only Libby could see the good in Arnold, but she seemed determined to hate him. Sylvia was loath to admit it, but Libby was becoming ever more of a problem, and it wasn’t simply a matter of Will’s death unhinging her. She’d been behaving oddly before then. From around the time Arnold had come to work for them.
Was it jealousy? Sylvia wondered. After Arnold had arrived, Libby had no longer been the centre of Will’s attention, with him having to teach Arnold his trade. Whatever the cause, there was no denying she’d been a little madam to him. Even now Sylvia blushed to think of her blackening Arnold’s teeth.
Their lodger had never seen Libby at her best. She’d always had a stubborn streak, and a quick temper at times, but she’d also had a ready smile. Nowadays it seemed a scowl eternally blighted Libby’s face. If not for Arnold’s support, Sylvia doubted she could have coped with her daughter’s wilfulness.
He’d made good progress with Sylvia today, Arnold thought, snuggling between the snow-white sheets she’d so meticulously laundered. He gave a soft whistle, alarmed at how close he’d come to wrecking his plans. He’d been a bit too convincing when he’d told Sylvia of his intention to leave and refused her offer of more money. He had no intention of moving on and had only said that to jolt her, to make her more amenable when he finally proposed. He’d had to do some double-quick back-legging when she’d accepted his word so readily.
He was impatient to wed the woman before some other man fancied his chances with her. That copper who’d come the day after Will had died had been back several times. To see if she needed any help, he’d claimed. Arnold doubted that. And there’d be plenty more like him sniffing around a wealthy widow like Sylvia, despite her plainness. She’d been left a fair parcel of land by Will. It had to be worth a good sum of money, along with the cottage and mill. Will hadn’t been a mean man, but he’d been careful with his cash and he’d made a more than comfortable income.
Sylvia was sure to have some stashed away as well. Hardly a week went by without her selling eggs, butter and cheese, and she wasn’t inclined to splurge it on material for dresses and hats for herself, as some women in her position would have done. More was the pity; she could have done with some prettying up. Still, the less she spent, the more for him.
He could see himself living a right royal life, with Sylvia tending to his needs and young Jack doing most of the work at the mill. The lad was amiable enough and already accepted him as the head of the family now that Will was no longer around.
Libby was the only thorn in his side. He’d not forgiven her for nearly ruining his teeth, nor the way she’d gone for him twice now, scratching and biting. And he’d lay odds that it was she who was responsible for his empty whisky bottle in the hideaway. He’d been gagging for a drink when he’d found it. He’d have given the little bitch a sound clout if he’d caught her at it. He couldn’t complain to Sylvia. She thought he never touched the grog, and she’d not have a bar of him if she knew. The girl wasn’t right in the head. The best place for her was the lunatic asylum, and once he had a ring on her mother’s finger, he’d be in a better position to convince Sylvia of that fact.