‘Never mind, darling, you have a family now,’ Camille said, giving her a hug.
‘You do indeed,’ Adèle agreed. ‘We love you and this little baby. What are you going to call him?’
‘I can’t decide. Should it be Jack? Certainly not Randall, or that would remind us forever of this dratted war. What was your father called?’ she asked Camille.
She smiled. ‘Unlike my mother, he was English, and called Thomas.’
‘Oh, I like that. Thomas it is, then. Although I shall probably call him Tommy.’
1944
It felt strange to be back in England, her nervous tension still very evident, churning her stomach. At least Brenda no longer needed to speak French, and according to the latest news, France was now in the process of being liberated. De Gaulle had led a procession of the Free French down the Champs-Élysées. The Allies were also starting to arrive, including the British, the American and the Canadians. The war at last seemed to be drawing to an end. Would that help her to resolve her own problem?
The warmth of the big farm kitchen offered a small degree of comfort. The familiarity of the stove, the clutter of old chairs, Tiddles the cat rubbing against her leg, and the chink of the old flowered tea pot and mugs they’d used when she was but a girl were all still in evidence. As was Mrs Harding, the housekeeper, who pretty well ran this house. Busy rolling out pastry, she glanced up as Brenda entered, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘By heck, it looks like a bag o’ muck has just walked in.’
Brenda chuckled, accepting this comment as typical evidence of the cook-housekeeper’s Lancashire sense of humour. She had always been good to work for. ‘I dare say I do after such a long journey in this dreadful weather.’
Mrs Harding’s faded old eyes softened. ‘Eeh, and you’re soaked to the skin, chuck.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Oh, that would be lovely, thank you,’ Brenda warmly responded. She could remember enjoying the cook’s homemade biscuits kept in a jar on the dresser, a treat she would also welcome right now, judging by the ache in her belly. Brenda moved to seat herself at the big pine table but Hugh stepped quickly forward to block her way.
‘Take off your filthy boots, then come upstairs with me,’ he ordered in brisk, no-nonsense tones. ‘You said we needed to talk.’
Brenda made no attempt to argue but did as she was told. Setting her boots on the mat by the back door, she dutifully followed him in her stockinged feet. But, expecting to be led into the drawing room, she was startled to be shown instead into Sir Randolph’s study. Parking himself in the large chair behind the desk, he turned to glower at her with narrowed eyes, arms firmly folded across his broad chest. He looked very like his elder brother, save for the sour expression on his handsome face, which Brenda found most disconcerting.
‘What were you hoping to achieve by coming here?’ he snarled, not even offering her a seat. ‘Considering you are illegitimate, you were most fortunate to be given a job, thanks to the kindness of my mother. You then lured my brother into your bed and ran off with him. Had you not behaved so stupidly, he would still have been alive. So why on earth would I allow you to stay, in view of how you completely destroyed his life?’
Brenda stood rigid before him, still clutching her heavy bag, her wet hair dripping down the neck of her blouse. A shiver ran down her spine as she struggled to keep her temper in check. ‘We fell in love. What is so wrong with that? Your father found us kissing out in the woods, not in bed together. It was his decision to banish us from the house, and Jack’s that I go with him to France. Since I loved him, why would I not agree? We were very happy together, and I still do love him with all my heart. Losing him has been utterly devastating.’
Losing her darling child had been equally dreadful, but she was reluctant to speak of that right now. This did not seem quite the moment to explain all that had happened to her over these past years, and why exactly she had returned. If Hugh didn’t believe in her marriage or her devotion to his brother, why would he trust in anything she told him? And asking him questions while he was in such a foul mood wouldn’t work either, even though she desperately needed answers.
‘Jack would still be with us if he hadn’t joined the Resistance movement. What on earth possessed him to be so damned stupid?’
Brenda drew in a breath to calm the flare of irritation lit by this dreadful remark, holding fast to her courage. ‘In case it has missed your attention, France was taken over by the Germans back in June 1940. Being half French, as are you, why would he not join the Resistance? Jack was extremely brave and honourable, doing what was right for his mother, her friends and family, and the country.’ Lifting her chin, she met his furious glare with pride in her eyes.
He was silent for some seconds as he met her gaze, then grumpily remarked, ‘Jack should have left France long before the Nazis arrived.’
‘His mother wanted him to return home too, but he was reluctant to abandon her as she wasn’t too well. She’s a lovely lady, so why would he do that when she needed our care?’
‘She could have come with you. My father wrote to her countless times pressing her to do so.’
‘We also tried on numerous occasions to persuade her, but she declined. Camille is very much a daughter of France, and that is where she feels she belongs. Once the Germans occupied the country, it was not easy getting out. And as Jack’s widow, I cared for her after his death.’
‘Sadly, both my parents have now departed this life, so if you see this place as a future home you are very much mistaken.’
Horror unfolded within her. ‘Are you saying your mother is dead? Oh no, that’s dreadful.’ Wasn’t finding Camille the very reason she’d come? Striving to remain calm, Brenda struggled to decide how much she should tell him. Before she managed to reach a decision, a knock sounded at the door and the butler entered carrying a tray of tea, cakes and biscuits. Her stomach churned. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, whether it was one day or two. Maybe even longer.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said, taking the cup and saucer with a hand that trembled slightly.
Relieving Brenda of her bag, he brought up a chair. ‘Mrs Harding says to tell you that she is warming some soup, which you can have when you’re ready.’
‘Oh, do thank her for me,’ Brenda said, giving him a grateful smile.
‘That will be all, Carter,’ Hugh snapped.
‘Sir.’ Giving a slight bow, the butler tactfully withdrew.
Brenda took a very welcome sip of tea and a quick nibble of one of Mrs Harding’s delicious ginger biscuits, striving to keep her nerves in check and hold on tight to her fading courage.
There was silence for some moments, then he gave a snort of derision. ‘So where’s the proof of this alleged wedding?’
‘If you mean by way of a marriage certificate, all papers were taken from me, being British.’
Slamming his fists on the desk, Hugh leaned closer, his jaw tight as his teeth ground together. ‘I do not believe a word you say. Had my brother truly married you he would have told me so, despite our father’s disapproval. As I say, Papa is no longer with us either, but I still need proof.’
‘You have my deepest sympathy for your loss,’ Brenda told him with some depth of emotion. ‘I fully understand how you must feel. It has taken me years to come to terms with my own grief, and