Page 62 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)
T hamsine leaned out of the coach window as they rounded the bend in the driveway that gave the first view of Hartley Court. It seemed a lifetime since she had fled its solid red brick walls, leaving Ambrose Morton lying in a pool of blood on the parlour floor.
She sighed and glanced at her sister’s ashen face.
She sat beside her husband, her fingers entwined in his.
Roger had said little. He seemed to have gone into shock, unable to grasp the enormity of what now faced him.
Ten-year-old Rachel slept with her head on her mother’s lap.
The older girl, Rebecca, sat beside Thamsine reading a book of sermons.
The journey had been a trial, but the dying woman had been insistent. Jane wanted to end her days at Hartley.
Thamsine’s gloved hand tightened on the sash of the coach door.
Soon there would be another death to mourn.
In the days since Kit’s death, the living had commanded her attention and she had lavished her care on Jane.
She dared not think about Kit. He was dead and beyond her love but Jane needed her.
She knew the high tide of her suffering was yet to come.
With Jane’s death, would it all be unleashed?
She swallowed, forcing herself to think of the more pressing issue of her stepmother Isabelle, Ambrose Morton’s mother, who would be at Hartley Court to meet her.
She could already picture Isabelle’s mean, pinched face, the thin lips dragging down at the corners.
If Isabelle had disliked her before, her hatred would know no bounds when the woman who had tried to murder her son returned, the widow of another man.
She had sent word ahead that they were to be expected but to her surprise, it was not Isabelle who stood on the doorstep but her steward, Stebbings. He stepped forward and opened the door to the coach.
‘Welcome home, Mistress Thamsine,’ he said with a broad smile. Then he flushed. ‘My apologies, Mistress Lovell.’
‘Thank you, Stebbings. Is everything prepared for my sister?’
‘It is. Mistress White has set aside the best bedchamber. Allow me … Mistress Knott … ’ He turned to Jane, assisting her from the coach and then, supporting her, assisted her inside the cool house.
Thamsine let her servants and Roger settle Jane into the bedchamber. She wandered through the rooms, savouring the familiar smell of beeswax and lavender. Everything had been kept well in her absence. She supposed she should be grateful to Isabelle.
Where was Isabelle? She frowned and sent for Stebbings.
‘Where is Mistress Granville?’
Stebbings’ eyes widened. ‘You hadn’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘Mistress Granville has been dead these three months past.’
One should not speak ill of the dead, Thamsine thought, and bit her tongue against the cry of jubilation that rose in her throat.
‘What happened?’
Stebbings’ lips tightened. ‘She was, as you know, rather partial to a little Canary wine in the evening … ’
And the morning, and at lunchtime, Thamsine thought.
‘She took it into her head to walk to Beverstock to see her daughter, Mistress Anne. She went without a hat or cloak and was caught in a heavy rainstorm. We reckon she must have slipped and fallen into a ditch. We didn’t find her until morning and she died within the week.’
‘Where is she buried?’ Thamsine bit back the exultation in her voice.
Stebbings coughed discreetly. ‘As there was no one to make a decision, we had her interred in the family plot at Beverstock.’
Thamsine nodded. Stebbings and her staff had no great love for Isabelle. She would have died unmourned by anyone except possibly her son and daughter. She wondered if Ambrose even knew of his mother’s death. Isabelle had exerted a strong influence over her son. He would feel her loss.
A commotion could be heard on the stairs.
Thamsine flung open the door and a wild figure broke free of the housekeeper and threw herself on the ground at Thamsine’s feet, wrapping her arms around her ankles as if she intended never to let go.
Thamsine looked down at the head of tangled black hair as the housekeeper and the steward both ran forward.
‘It’s all right,’ Thamsine said.
She bent down to touch Annie Morton’s shoulder, afraid if she tried to move she would topple over.
‘Annie, please let go of me. I’m going to fall.’
Annie just tightened her grip.
‘No one is going to hurt you. Give me your hand.’
Annie looked up. Slowly she extended a thin, dirty hand, releasing her vice-like grip on Thamsine’s ankle. Thamsine pulled her upright and the girl snuggled against her, her stick-like arms wrapped around her waist.
‘I’ll have her sent back.’ The steward stepped forward and took Annie’s arm. Annie cowered closer to Thamsine, shaking off his hand.
‘Where’s she been living?’
Stebbings looked embarrassed. ‘Well, ever since … ’ He coughed. ‘After Colonel Morton’s unfortunate accident, he had her sent back to Beverstock. She’s been there ever since.’
‘Well, she’s supposed to have been there but she’s been coming around, looking for you,’ the housekeeper put in. ‘We keep sending her back. They promise to keep her under lock and key but she keeps escaping.’
‘Look at the state she’s in,’ Thamsine said.
She tilted Annie’s face towards the light, showing up scabs and sores, the pitiful thinness and the dirt. No one had cared for the girl, least of all her mother.
‘She looks like a ragamuffin from the poorest streets of London, not a gentleman’s daughter. Stebbings,’ she addressed the steward, ‘send someone to Beverstock to let them know she is here.’
Stebbings nodded.
‘Annie, you can only stay here a little while,’ Thamsine said. ‘Then you must go home.’
Annie shook her head. ‘No,’ she moaned. ‘Not there … ’
‘Go with Mistress White.’ Thamsine pointed out the housekeeper. ‘And you are to have a bath. Mistress White will give you some clean clothes.’
‘Poor girl,’ Mistress White said with a sniff of disapproval as she took Annie’s arm. ‘’Tis shameful the way you’ve been treated. Come with me and I am sure Cook will find some dainties for you.’
But Annie wasn’t listening. She reached out and fingered the black stuff of Thamsine’s gown. ‘Tham, are you sad … ?’ she said.
Thamsine drew the girl to her and stroked the dark head. How could it be possible to feel so much affection for this girl and yet hate her brother so very much?
‘Yes, I am sad,’ she said, disengaging Annie. ‘Someone I loved very much has died.’
‘Is ’Brose dead too?’ Annie’s large, grey eyes filled with tears.
Thamsine felt a cold prickle at the back of her neck. Did Annie think Ambrose had died that night she shot him?
‘No, Annie. Ambrose isn’t dead.’
Tears trickled from Annie’s eyes. ‘Mama is dead. Are you sad because Mama is dead?’
Thamsine swallowed and lied, ‘Yes, I am sad your mother is dead.’
Annie had loved her mother and her brother. She had to respect that.
‘Now, Annie, go with Mistress White.’
Mistress White straightened and held out a hand. ‘Come on, then. Don’t waste Mistress Lovell’s time. I’ll make a lady of you yet!’
As the evening drew on, Thamsine stood beside Roger Knott at the wide bay window looking out onto the terrace, where Roger’s daughters and Annie were locked in rapt concentration in a game involving dolls.
Two young girls and one grown, but with the mental age of a three-year-old.
She thought she had never seen Annie looking so happy.
‘She’s Morton’s sister,’ Roger said as if reading Thamsine’s thoughts. ‘She can’t stay here. If he has word that she’s with you, there’ll be nothing more guaranteed to bring him running than his sister.’
Thamsine shook her head. ‘What can I do, Roger? Stebbings says Beverstock is deserted. There is no one to care for her. In the name of Christian compassion I have to keep her.’
‘She’s addled,’ Roger said. ‘Perhaps an institution where she will be cared for?’
Thamsine looked at him with loathing.
‘You forget, Roger. I spent three days in Bedlam. She’s not mad, or bad, just different. She didn’t ask to be dropped by her nursemaid. If God was merciful she should be a beautiful young woman, maybe married with a family of her own. I’ll not turn her away. She’s welcome to stay.’
‘She’ll bring you trouble, Thamsine,’ Roger said.
‘Well, that is my concern, not yours, Roger,’ she said and turned away.