But there were other problems.
He shook out the Manchester Evening News and scowled over yet another report depicting misery and gloom, the entire country complaining about rationing and poverty. This war was costing a fortune, both in men’s lives and coin of the realm. His own finances were suffering along with everyone else’s. There’d been a time when whatever the Stuart family touched had turned to gold, or brass at least, and plenty of it. Now, the biscuit factory was rapidly going downhill thanks to food shortages, and the best workers having joined up. Not to mention his father’s stubborn determination to remain in the Victorian age and never update anything.
Bearing in mind the state of austerity the country was in, it was astonishing they were also facing a huge inheritance tax payment, following his father’s death. Sir Randolph should have thought things through more carefully and prepared for this possibility. Sadly, he’d been entirely selfish, spending money on gambling, horse racing and grand cars, as if there was no tomorrow. An obsessive, and utterly controlling aristocrat.
How would they even survive as a consequence not only of war issues, but this huge amount of death duty?
And having lost everyone who mattered to him, Hugh’s appetite to acquire the necessary interest and energy to run the family estate and business had entirely disappeared, let alone the driving ambition he’d once possessed. He’d once been bursting with ideas and the desire to expand. But even increasing the low flour quota allowed due to rationing, could only happen if they acquired further outlets, which he really had no interest in doing, his mind now obsessed with debts.
Admittedly, they were probably much better off than this girl, but she really had no right to pretend to be his brother’s widow, simply to get her hands on family money. She was just a greedy little madam. Jack would surely have told him if he had married her? Yet he did probably love her.
He rang the bell for Carter. The butler quickly entered, again giving a slight bow. ‘Are you requiring a glass of whisky, sir, before you retire?’
‘That would be excellent. Oh, and tell that young girl she can stay for a few days, until she has made the necessary arrangements for her new future back in Manchester, although she’ll need to make herself useful in return for the free accommodation offered.’
Carter’s face tightened a little as he politely responded. ‘Very good, sir, I will inform her of that fact. I’m sure she will be most helpful, as she always was.’
*
Desolation still threatened to overwhelm her. But maintaining her courage, a skill she’d acquired over the years of war, Brenda savoured with gratitude a simple but delicious dish of home-made soup and a bread roll for supper, before climbing up to the attic room where she’d resided years ago.
It appeared that Hugh was in charge now. Not an encouraging prospect. But why had the conversation between them been so angry and difficult, his tone sharp with prejudice against her, not least because she was illegitimate? He was arrogantly treating her as if she was a greedy little scullery maid. The advice she’d received from her late mother-in-law had been to take care not to inflame her husband’s temper. His son appeared to be very much a chip off the old block, and vehemently defending herself wasn’t proving to be easy. Brenda did not want a penny off him, but she had to consider her own son’s future, once she’d found him safe and well and brought him home.
But it seemed that yet again all her efforts had been to no avail.
One moment she’d felt she had all the riches in the world: the love of her life and a child on the way. Now all of that happiness had gone and the pain in her heart made her feel weak with agony. Dropping into bed with exhaustion, she fell asleep within minutes. It was then that the nightmares once again surfaced.
France, 1941
In theory, as an enemy alien, Brenda was required to go to the Mairie every day to sign in. But the thought of presenting her British passport to the German officers now in control of the city hall filled her with fear. She really had no wish to reveal her identity, or to be searched by anybody. Thanks to Jack, her French was now reasonably proficient, and Brenda did her utmost to give the impression she was of native origin, even making sure she never wore any of the clothes she’d brought with her from England.
However, she was all too aware that as an English woman she presented something of a danger to Camille and her cousin. Anyone found harbouring British nationals would be liable to arrest, or worse.
‘I wish I could find some form of employment to justify being stuck here,’ she said to her mother-in-law one evening. It was over a month now since baby Tommy had been born and she felt quite fit and capable of working. Being January, winter was upon them and the cost of food and fuel was increasing daily, assuming they were able to find any.
‘Your job is to care for your child,’ Camille smilingly told her as she rocked her grandchild in her arms before handing him over for his nightly bath.
Determined to at least pay her way, Brenda looked for work day after day, enquiring about jobs in hospitals, canteens and various factories. Unfortunately, none seemed impressed by her lack of skills. ‘I may not be a nurse but I can cook and clean,’ she insisted after yet another refusal.
‘We’ll let you know,’ the stern-faced manager told her, holding open the door to show her out. As always, there were several people milling around, or sitting in the waiting room, probably equally desperate for employment. Reaching the street outside the hospital, she suddenly found a man at her elbow.
‘Are you looking for a job?’ he asked, speaking in fairly rapid French.
‘I am, yes.’
He nodded. ‘I might be able to help.’
‘Really? That would be wonderful.’
His full lips widened into an appealing smile. ‘You can call me Étienne, or Monsieur Bresson if you prefer. I can offer you good money and accommodation too, if necessary.’
‘What kind of work do you have to offer, and what skills would I need?’ Brenda prepared herself for the usual string of questions, but his response stunned her. ‘You speak French quite well for an English girl.’
‘What makes you think that I am?’ she asked, keeping her tone light, even as her voice trembled and a chill settled within her.
‘I heard you speaking to the manager, and your accent does have a slight British twang to it,’ he said, his dark eyes sparkling with humour.
So despite her best efforts, she was still obviously British, which was no doubt the real reason she couldn’t find employment. Making no comment, Brenda gave a little shrug and began to walk away, only to find him again at her side.
‘I’m aware that finding a job if you are British is not easy, but I can help. I provide work for many ladies with foreign passports. Come, I’ll introduce you to them. Very few skills are needed, as they will teach you everything you need to know.’
Unable to resist the offer since he seemed so helpful, and obviously held no prejudice against her nationality, Brenda dutifully followed. He led her along the street then down an alley to a tall, four-storey building tucked