It was the end of November before Goldie had the strength to leave her bed. Escorted by Daisy she walked across the room on thin, wobbly legs, grinning with the triumph of the challenge.
‘Good,’ Francis said, smiling himself, for Goldie’s hair was a mass of bobbing, reddish gold curls where her hair was beginning to grow back. ‘Don’t overdo it. You must rest every afternoon until I say otherwise. And you need to gain some weight, so I expect you to eat all your meals.’
Rosie beamed a smile at the girl. ‘Don’t you fret, Dr Matheson. I’ll make sure she eats every morsel.’
‘Can Goldie move out of the sickroom now, Papa?’
‘Haven’t you got some lessons to do, Daisy?’
‘You gave Miss Edgar a day off so she can go into Poole to do some shopping.’
‘So I did. I don’t see why Goldie can’t be moved. I’m sure Rosie has seen to it that her bed is properly aired. But don’t tire her out.’
‘I won’t.’ Daisy sent a loving smile Goldie’s way. ‘I’ll read you my journal, then you can see how we found you in London. I might write a play for when you’re better. Papa gave me an idea for the title, The Amazing Adventures of Daisy Skinner in London. We can pretend to be famous actresses, then.’
With a title like that, Miss Daisy Skinner is bound to be cast as the heroine, Francis thought wryly, as he went down to the drawing room where Pansy was playing the piano. She stopped playing when he entered, gazed up at him and offered him a smile when he kissed the top of her head.
‘Keep playing. That’s a pretty piece.’
‘It’s a sonata by Franz Schubert. Aunt Prudence taught it to me.’
When she finished playing it he sat next to her on the piano stool and murmured, ‘Do you remember this?’ He started to play Maryse’s favourite song, by the same composer.
Her head resting against his shoulder, Pansy began to softly sing, ‘Who is Sylvia? What is she when all her swains commend her . . .’
They gazed at each other when they finished, appreciating this shared moment of closeness. Pansy kissed his cheek when he pulled her against him in a hug. ‘Will we ever get used to Maryse leaving us so cruelly, Papa?’
‘We’ll have to. I’m glad to have you and the girls back, though. I’ve been remiss in my parenting, and for that I’m sorry. Everything came as such a shock and I thought of nothing but my own grief when, of course, you were grieving too.’
‘Dearest Papa. You have been through such a lot. I forgive you . . . we all do.’
‘And Siana,’ he said heavily. ‘Will she forgive me too, do you think?’
‘She may, as long as you haven’t broken her heart completely.’ When Pansy stood and shook the creases from her skirt, Francis knew his daughter had left much unsaid. She was wearing a gown of pink watered taffeta topped by a fur-trimmed velvet jacket. Her hair was in ringlets, her eyes shone and roses bloomed in her cheeks. She was all woman now, as if Maryse’s death had wiped away every trace of her childhood.
‘You look beautiful today. Is something special happening?’
‘Oh, Pa. You know very well that my . . . that you’re to have a visitor today.’
‘This swain of yours . . . he’s waited a long time to declare himself to me.’
‘He wanted to wait until Goldie had recovered, so you could pay proper attention to his suit. He’s also a little . . . shy.’
Though Francis knew exactly who her intended was, he couldn’t help but tease her. ‘I don’t see why you can’t tell me who this mysterious man is. Are you ashamed of him?’
‘Certainly not.’ She shrugged. ‘But he’s uncertain of his status and wants to speak to you himself, so he can convince you of his worthiness.’
‘Pansy, my dear, I trust your judgement in this. I want you to know how sorry I am that I ignored your feelings when I tried to press you into a match with Alder.’
‘You’re my father and sought only to do what you thought was best for me. I can understand that.’ The glance she gave him was full of appeal when they heard the sound of a horse and buggy outside. ‘Please be kind to him, Papa,’ she said, and turned to leave. As he heard her footsteps patter up the staircase there came a knock on the door.
Francis’s eyes widened in shock when he opened it. ‘Giles Dennings?’ Surely not! ‘But I thought . . . ? You’d better come through to my study and take a glass of sherry with me, Giles.’
‘Thank you, Dr Matheson. That’s very kind of you.’
He couldn’t allow it, Francis thought, pouring the golden liquor into glasses and handing one to Giles. He gazed at him over the glass. ‘I’m prepared to give you a fair hearing, Giles, but I’ll tell you straight away, I’m not in favour of a marriage between you.’
Placing the glass back on the table, Giles stiffened. ‘Why is that, sir?’
‘She’s far too young for you.’
‘But Sylvia is only a few years my junior.’
Francis stared at him. ‘Sylvia?’
‘Sylvia Edgar.’
‘You mean you’re here to ask me for the hand of Miss Edgar in marriage?’
‘No, Doctor. I don’t need your permission.’
Francis began to laugh. ‘Forgive me, Giles. I’ve made a blunder. I thought you were here to request the hand of my daughter.’
‘Miss Matheson?’ Giles’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. ‘Good Lord! I’m old enough to be her father. I’m here to collect Miss Edgar and take her into town.’ He picked up the sherry again, sipping it appreciatively. ‘It’s Sylvia’s hand I’m after. If she accepts me I shall be the luckiest man alive and I’m afraid you’ll have to find yourself another governess.’
‘Accept my best wishes, then.’ Francis glanced at the door when there was a tentative knock. ‘Come in.’
Miss Edgar peered inside. She was handsomely turned out in dark blue. Her demure bonnet was trimmed with a posy of silk flowers and she carried a fur muff to match the trim on her jacket.
‘How becoming the ladies of my household appear today,’ Francis murmured, astonished to discover that his jaundiced view of everything had changed, so his surroundings and everyone in them appeared in a quite different light.
Surprise came into her eyes. ‘Thank you, sir. Have you seen Mr Dennings?’ She blushed when she saw her intended standing to one side. ‘Oh! There you are, Giles.’
‘Would you like a glass of sherry to ward off the cold, Miss Edgar?’ Francis offered.
‘No, thank you, sir. I rarely drink alcohol at this time of day.’ Her glance darted towards Giles, her expression slightly schoolmarmish.
Smoothly, Giles informed her, ‘Neither do I. However, on some occasions one cannot avoid being sociable.’ He grinned as he swallowed the last of his drink. ‘Thank you for your best wishes, Doctor. I must be off.’
Francis smiled and nodded to him.
‘Best wishes . . .?’ Miss Edgar was saying curiously as the door closed behind them.
Josh felt as if he was in a muck sweat. Running a finger under his cravat, he lifted each foot and polished the toes of his already immaculate boots on the back of each leg.
His double-breasted frock coat was of the latest style, with gathered sleeves and shaped back panel. Donkey brown in colour, it toned nicely with the fawn of his braided trousers.
His man, Mr Bentley, had advised him on the outfit. ‘Very understated, sir, as befits a successful gentleman of business. We don’t want to appear flamboyant now, do we?’
Who would have thought he’d come to this, proposing marriage? Siana, that’s who. ‘The women will be after you like a flock of seagulls,’ she’d once told him.
Although that wasn’t exactly the way things had been, there had been one or two women to show him the way of things, and several more who’d been attracted by his wealth. None of them could measure up to Pansy Matheson, who was gilt-edged in his book.
Mr Bentley had still been handing out instructions as Josh had left the house. ‘Now don’t you go fidgeting with yourself, sir, for a more turned-out gentleman you couldn’t wish for. You’re a real credit to me, even though I say so myself. Remain polite, but be a bit humble as you state your case, for the young lady is well-bred and her father will want only the best for her. A gentleman doesn’t forget to remove his hat. Hand it with your coat and gloves to the servant in the hall.’
‘What if there isn’t one?’
‘Then be positive and lay them on the hall stand. Have you got your gift for the young lady, sir?’
Josh patted his breast pocket and grinned. This was one surprise Pansy wouldn’t be expecting.
‘Giddy-up, Alder,’ he’d said, and the horse had tossed its head, then given a spirited whinny and high-stepped towards the gate, taking Josh towards his future, he hoped. The beast had been springy with pent-up energy and he’d taken a firm grip on the reins, cautioning, ‘Whoa, boy. Your former master has already given me a tumble I won’t forget. As soon as we’re out in the countryside I’ll let you stretch your legs.’
He’d enjoyed the journey as much as the horse had. Now he stood outside of Francis Matheson’s study, cleaning the dust from his boots on his trousers and feeling extremely nervous.
‘Come in, won’t you?’ Francis called out impatiently, for the second time.
Josh sucked in a deep breath and opened the door. As he removed his hat and placed it on the chair, he groaned. He’d forgotten every one of Mr Bentley’s instructions.
Francis rose quickly to his feet, concern on his face. ‘Are you ill, Josh?’
‘Who me? I’ve never been ill in my life, ’cepting when that damned fool nephew of yours tried to break my neck. Now, his horse is trying to do the same. I named it Alder, after him. It gives me great satisfaction when I have to lay the crop across his contrary arse.’ That’s right, Josh, make a good start by criticizing the man’s nephew.
But Francis just smiled. ‘The horse is a thoroughbred, he’s bound to be mettlesome.’
‘Whereas a non-thoroughbred is just troublesome, aye?’
Francis was not about to be drawn, and merely nodded. Josh cleared his throat and decided to get straight to the point. ‘I have some business to discuss with you, Dr Matheson.’
‘Would you like a glass of sherry first?’
‘No, sir. I’m not partial to the stuff. I might need a brandy afterwards, though.’
‘That bad, is it?’
‘What is?’
‘The business you intend to discuss with me, Josh.’
Josh gave an audible gulp and his words came out in one breathless rush. ‘Ah that . . . it’s about Miss Matheson, I intend to marry her if she’ll have me.’
In the ensuing silence Francis picked up a paperknife and tested the blade against his thumb, saying softly, ‘Do you . . . do you indeed?’
Josh kept his eyes on the knife, wondering if it was sharp. Francis was reputed to have a deft touch when it came to surgery. ‘What I mean is, I’m here to ask for permission to marry your daughter, if you’ll allow me. And if she’ll have me, of course, so much the better.’
Francis looked up then, the expression in his eyes one of amusement. ‘Do you love Pansy, Josh?’
‘Love her? I’ll say I do. Crikey, I get all of a pucker just thinking of her.’
‘Why don’t you sit down, Josh? I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you.’
Josh forgot about his hat until it buckled under his rear. Pulling it out from under him, he gazed ruefully at it, then shrugged. ‘Dammit! Mr Bentley will have a piece of me when I get home. He’s trying to turn me into a gentleman, though I keep telling him he’s flogging a dead horse. I never could get the knack of wearing these things.’
‘You certainly don’t wear them on your backside. Now, about Pansy.’
Josh smiled broadly at him. ‘You know how much I’m worth, Doc. Well, perhaps not, for I’m not really sure of that myself. I know Miss Matheson is far above me, but for all that, I think I’ll be able to make her happy. She’ll want for nothing.’
‘Naturally, I don’t want Pansy to live a life of poverty, but money isn’t everything. I know how hard you’ve worked, Josh. I’ve admired you for that. But my greatest wish is for Pansy to be happy.’
With desperation in his eyes, Josh gazed at him. ‘I’ll do everything in my power to make her happy.’
‘I know, Josh, so there will be no opposition to the match from me.’
The wind seemed to go out of Josh. Suddenly, he remembered the things he’d meant to say. He remembered his gift for Pansy and took the wad of papers from his pocket. ‘Miss Matheson isn’t the type to languish about the house playing the lady. I reckon she’s got a brain on her that would put mine to shame, and it will need exercising.’
Puzzled, Francis nodded, interested in Josh’s reasoning, nevertheless, since it concerned his daughter. If Pansy had been a man he would certainly have encouraged her to attend university and study science.
‘With her having more than a touch of the Countess of Kylchester’s influence trained into her, it got me to thinking she might decide to meddle in a man’s business in years to come . . . no offence meant, of course.’ Josh gulped and dropped the papers on to the desk. ‘So I bought her this as a token of my deep regard. What do you think?’
Francis only just stopped himself from laughing as he unfolded the papers and scrutinized them. He looked up, his smile fading and shaking his head from side to side. ‘You’ve bought Pansy a school?’
‘Only a small one. The main part has two classrooms and has enough pupils enrolled to pay the bills. There’s also a small outbuilding. It’s full of junk, but if I clear it out and fix the roof it will serve as a classroom for some of the young uns from the workhouse. D’you think she’ll like it?’
Francis reached out for the decanter. ‘I think it’s me who needs the brandy.’ He began to laugh then, a loud roaring guffaw that would have woken the dead if the cemetery hadn’t been a couple of miles away. ‘A token, you call it. Most men would give their intended a brooch or a bunch of flowers. Only Josh Skinner could have thought of a gift like this.’
Anxiously, Josh said, ‘But will Miss Matheson like it?’
‘It isn’t exactly a romantic gift, but, knowing Pansy, she—’
‘– will love it,’ Pansy said from the doorway, grinning when she gazed at her father. ‘Well, Papa, will he do?’
‘Most certainly. But you didn’t need my permission, since you are both of age.’
‘I told him that when I suggested to him that we run away together to Gretna Green. But he insisted on doing things his way. Men can be infuriatingly conventional, and I did so much want to put Aunt Prudence’s noise out of joint,’ she fumed. Pansy’s words set Francis laughing all over again after they left, because Josh had compared Pansy to Prudence, and she’d sounded just like her. Then he sobered, wondering if his family would attend Pansy’s wedding, since Pansy had jilted her cousin Alder in favour of Josh.
She’d also incurred the earl’s displeasure by being extremely rude to him. Ryder had written to him at length to say Pansy’s behaviour had appalled him. Pansy had offered no excuses except to avoid his eyes in a most embarrassed way and say, ‘We quarrelled over a family matter, the subject of which I cannot relate to you. I lost my temper and became indiscreet.’
How indiscreet, Ryder had seen fit to inform him of.
Pansy had written a formal letter of apology to the earl, humbly begging his pardon, which was more than had been required of Alder when applied to the crime he’d committed against Josh Skinner.
Pansy was unrepentant, though. ‘I’ve written this letter because the earl is your brother, and because you are my beloved father and you’ve asked it of me,’ she’d said.
Still, Francis was pleased there had been no argument over it, because he had other things on his mind.
Francis having informed the authorities of the suspicious death of Sebastian Groves, as soon as Goldie was ready, the magistrate, Sir Oswald Slessor, came to the house with his clerk to obtain written statements from Goldie and Daisy.
Daisy gave a highly embroidered account of her part in the rescue. She seemed put out by the fact that she probably wouldn’t be called upon to testify at the Old Bailey.
‘We have Zeke to take the witness stand and a statement from Josh Skinner about what happened at the print shop. As long as Mr Skinner’s account of what happened on that day at the shop coincides with yours, the statements will be accepted without you having to appear in court, since you’ve signed them in front of a magistrate.’ Sir Oswald smiled broadly round at them. ‘I imagine the girl and her mother will confess when pressure is brought to bear on them. If they don’t, it’s possible Miss Goldie might be called to take the stand, since she was an eye-witness. However, as Mr Skinner is an upstanding businessman with a considerable amount of property to his name, I’m sure his sworn word will suffice.’
‘I’m scared in case Alice’s Uncle Ned comes for me,’ Goldie said.
‘You don’t have to worry about him, my dear. Her uncle is currently awaiting transportation for the term of his natural life.’
‘Will Betty Groves hang?’ Daisy asked the magistrate with a certain amount of relish.
‘It depends entirely on the judge, my dear. I doubt if the girl will, for she’s young and would have been influenced by her mother. It’s possible they’ll be transported for life to New South Wales or Van Diemen’s Land.’
Daisy gave Francis an accusing look. ‘My sister is in Van Diemen’s Land. She’s been there a long time.’ There was an awkward silence. A sob catching in her throat, Daisy rose to her feet and scurried from the room.
Francis didn’t go to comfort her. In fact, he intended to give the girl a talking-to. It was just one example of Daisy’s constant manipulative behaviour concerning Siana, and he wasn’t about to bow to pressure. He would not insist on Siana’s continued banishment if she wished to return, but he had no intention of inviting her to come back. Her deceit and its consequence was still an open wound inside him.
It was Bryn who was causing him problems, for the boy’s absence was all the more noticeable by mention of his name being avoided. Francis sighed, knowing he’d prevaricated too long, and needed to make a firm decision.
So, later in the day, when Daisy stood in front of him looking angelically penitent, he was more lenient than he’d intended to be.
‘I know you miss your sister, Daisy. So do I. However, you must not embarrass our guests by discussing our personal family matters with them. Siana will be home before too long.’
Undeterred by his stern voice, Daisy gave him a guileless smile. Her blue eyes searched in vain over the letters on his desk, then lit with curiosity on the crested card placed prominently on top of the pile. ‘Papa, you never tell us anything. Have you received a letter from Siana, then?’
‘No. This is an invitation to join my brother at Kylchester for the Christmas festivities.’
‘And shall we go?’
The invitation was for himself and Pansy alone. Gruffly, he said, ‘I haven’t decided.’
‘They’ve only invited you and Pansy, haven’t they?’
She was astute. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘While you were away and we all thought you were drowned, your family never once invited Siana to stay. The earl and countess visited once, but uninvited, and only to inspect Bryn.’
Ah . . . someone had uttered his name, at last.
‘The countess was unbearable. She kept nagging my sister to wear mourning for you, even though Siana didn’t believe you were dead. And she tried to take Maryse and Pansy away. She wanted them to live with her, but they didn’t want to go. In the end they had to. There was always an argument when it was time for them to come home.
‘The countess said she was the one who raised your daughters and they shouldn’t be living with someone from an inferior class. The earl said that since you had regarded Siana as a suitable stepmother for them, then so must they. The countess then went snorting and stomping all over the place and looking down her nose in fury.’ The girl lowered her voice. ‘Siana cried when Maryse and Pansy had to go away with the countess. She is a witch on a broomstick, really.’
‘That’s something a well-mannered girl should not say.’
Although he sympathized with Daisy’s indignation at Prudence’s interference, he tried to keep a stern expression on his face. He was interested in what Daisy was telling him, despite his reluctance to gossip with her. She had seen events through the eyes of a child, but what a perceptive eye she had. Her makeshift journal had born testament to that. ‘Why didn’t Siana believe I was dead?’
‘She said it was hard to explain. She said you were joined by an invisible thread, and she could feel your heart beating inside hers.’ Daisy gave a big sigh and placed her hand against her heart. ‘So romantic, like Romeo and Juliet.’
Another nail in the coffin of his guilt. Then another, for Daisy’s bright blue eyes suddenly impaled him. ‘When is Bryn coming home to us?’
Uncomfortable under her scrutiny, he shifted things around the desk with his finger. ‘I don’t want to discuss Bryn.’
‘I know what happened to Maryse.’
‘Do you, Daisy?’
‘People talk, and they think children don’t understand. And sometimes children don’t, but they remember things. As they grow older they piece those things together. I know I’m horribly precocious because the countess tells me so every time she sees me.’ Daisy’s hand slid across the desk and gently stilled his. ‘We all loved our brother and you loved him too. Siana said love is too precious to be thrown away, so why did Maryse punish us all by choosing to take her life, when we loved her so?’
Tears glinted in Francis’s eyes as he gazed at this girl, so immature, but wise beyond her years. It had taken a great deal of courage for her to stand there in front of him and say what she did. Her question deserved an answer, one he didn’t have.
‘I don’t know, Daisy. Perhaps Maryse had suffered too much and didn’t consider the effect her death would have on others. People who carry out such acts are usually in an altered state of mind, so what seems rational to them, is irrational to others.’
He rose and came around the desk. ‘I don’t feel strong enough to talk fully about this yet, but I do appreciate your concern and have taken note of what you’ve said.’
Her arms came around him in a hug. ‘I do love you so much. I wish you were my real papa. Don’t make Siana choose between you and Bryn. She will do as you ask because she loves you, but part of her will shrivel and die without Bryn. We all miss him, you know.’
He held her for a few moments, a lump gathering in his throat, touched to the core by both her admission, and her attempt to counsel him. Siana, mine, he thought. Why was I such fool, to send you away at a time when we needed each other the most?
Marcus Ibsen said he would send her home. Francis knew that, if he could trust in the man’s power of persuasion, she would be here by the spring. But would she still want to be his wife, or would she move into the heart and home of another?
Siana spent Christmas with the Stowe family.
They ate outdoors, where a pig was roasted on a spit over a pit of hot ashes. It spat and crackled allowing a delicious aroma to escape into the air as they took turns to rotate it. There was a dish stuffed with vegetables to accompany it, and a large pie filled with sliced apples to follow.
The elder Stowe boy had invited a family from the nearby town to join them, for he’d recently asked for their daughter’s hand in marriage.
Siana couldn’t get into the Christmas spirit here. The weather was too warm and she wondered what her children were doing. She constantly missed them all, and pictured them missing her, especially Bryn, whom she longed to have back in her arms. If she’d been alone, she would have broken down and cried for all the lost hours and the horizons of empty ocean between herself and those she loved.
Francine was on her best behaviour. She chuckled and smiled all afternoon until Siana took her into the bedroom to be fed, where she fell asleep against her breast.
‘She’s such a good baby,’ Jean said, gazing down at the infant’s dark, curling hair. ‘I haven’t asked you before because I didn’t think it any of my business. You look so unhappy today. Is there anything I can do?’
‘I’m just homesick. I was thinking of my brother and my children, wondering if they were keeping well and happy. My husband too.’
‘Dr Matheson? He spoke so well of you when he was living here, I can’t imagine him deserting you completely.’
Tears trickled down her cheeks because Christmas had made her loss seem very great. She no longer felt strong, just angry and heartsick, because she’d never believed Francis would do anything so cruel and she was beginning to believe he was right, that she had been responsible for Maryse’s death.
Convinced as Siana was that Francis would one day come for her, nothing would convince her that Bryn deserved to be deprived of the only family he knew and loved. No matter how much she loved her husband, she knew she’d be unable to return to him until that issue was resolved.
‘I deceived Francis, Jean. I caused his daughter to take her own life. At the time, I thought my actions were a solution to a problem. But it just made it worse.’
Jean’s arms came around her, holding her tight as the story poured from her. Finally, Siana fell silent. It had been such a relief to confide in someone, but what would the woman think of her now?
‘I would have done exactly the same thing,’ Jean said slowly. ‘Grief affects people in different ways. Once your husband has thought about it he’ll come to the same conclusion, I’m sure, for I formed the impression he was a man of compassion and good sense.’
Handing her a handkerchief to dry her eyes on, Jean gazed at her. ‘I’m glad you’ve told me. It helps to share troubles. Dry your eyes now, for Bart will get his fiddle out soon, and the boys intend to dance you off your feet before they escort you home.’
Home? This wild, turbulent landscape with its wondrously strange animals and towering plants could never be her home. The native people who’d once lived here had been cruelly dispossessed, those who were not killed, hunted down and removed to a remote island to live. Sometimes, Siana could hear the melancholy voice of their sadness in the keening sigh of the wind. Mothers crying out for lost children, children for their homes and men for the loss of their pride.
Their spirits sometimes seemed to call her into the wilderness. The lure of it was almost irresistible, for she was vulnerable to it. If she answered their calls, instinct told her she’d be lost for ever. So she stayed within the boundary of cleared land around the house, and the well-trodden path to the stream and pool.
Dorset was her home. She closed her eyes, reaching into her mind for a fleeting image of daffodils in a lush green meadow. The air there was a pot-pourri of salt and pine resin, and the wind spun and tumbled the leaves on the beech trees. She reached further into her mind, grabbing images of undulating waves of golden wheat, gnarled and mossy roots pushing from the dark floor of the woods, and the mist rising from a quiet river, the surface dancing with mayflies. Then came a churchyard, quiet except for the wind sighing through the pines. There was a woman standing by a grave, holding a child.
‘Who are you?’ Siana murmured, already knowing it was her mother. When they turned towards her she saw the child in her mother’s arms was green-eyed and dark-haired. He smiled at her, whispering, Mamma.
Then the image was gone, replaced by a seagull gliding on the wind.
Peace filled her as the image left her. Opening her eyes, she gazed down at Francine. The children were alike. Her firstborn, her dearly loved son Ashley, wasn’t dead at all. He lived on in his sister.
Siana knew she’d been given a message. As usual, she didn’t question her gift of the sight, for how could it be explained? She must make the right choice, else everything she’d worked towards since her mother’s death would be for ever denied her.
She understood there would be two paths open to her and she would have to trust in her instincts to guide her.
‘Sleep tight while your mother dances, little one,’ she said. ‘Soon things will change, for a messenger is on the way.’