‘I’ll send a lad up first thing in the morning. I know the very one. Good hard worker, he’ll be, and knows what he’s about. Master said that you’ll be needing a girl to do the rough work as well.’
Marianne nodded her head.
For a man who less than a handful of hours ago had barely been conscious, her new employer seemed to have made a remarkable recovery.
‘And perhaps if Mr Denshaw could have a manservant, especially whilst he is so…so awkwardly placed with his wound?’ Marianne suggested delicately.
The mill manager scratched his head. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I don’t think he’d care for that. He doesn’t like all them fancy ways. Mind, I could send up a couple of lads, if you were to send word, to give you a hand if it were a matter of lifting him or owt like that?’
‘Yes…thank you.’
He meant well, Marianne knew, but that wasn’t what she’d had in mind at all. With the nurse dismissed, she was now going to have to nurse her employer, and if what she had experienced earlier was anything to go by, the Master of Bellfield was not going to change his ways to accommodate her female sensibilities.
‘T’master also said to tell you that you can have the use of the housekeeper’s rooms, fifteen guineas wages a year and a scuttle full of coal every day, all found.’
Fifteen guineas! And all found! Marianne nodded her head. Those were generous terms indeed.
THE day’s bright sunshine had faded into evening darkness, and beneath the full moon which Marianne could see from the kitchen window the yard was glazed with white frosting.
True to his word, the mill manager had sent up a sturdy-looking youth who had spent what was left of the afternoon chopping fire kindling and filling enough coal scuttles to fuel every fire in the house.
At four o’clock Marianne had gone out to him to take him some bread and cheese. He seemed a decent lad, shy, and not quick with his words, but hard-working. He had told her his name was Ben. He had further added that his cousin Hannah would be coming up in the morning, to see if she might suit for the rough work in the kitchen.
A cheerful-looking individual had also arrived, announcing that he was from the laundry, and Marianne had somehow made time to bundle up and list as much of the grubby linen as she could.
She had even had time to run up the stairs to the attic floor, to seek out the rooms the mill manager had referred to as the housekeeper’s rooms. It had been easy enough to establish which they were, and Marianne had decided the minute she saw them that neither she nor the baby would be occupying them until she had given them a good scrub through and got some fresh ticking to cover the mattress. For tonight she planned to sleep in the kitchen again, where it was warm and clean.
The house’s nurseries were also on the attic floor, and Marianne had been drawn to them. Once they would have rung with the childish laughter of the young boy and girl whom, so local gossip said, had been driven away by the cruelty of the man who had been stepfather to one and guardian to the other.
The rooms were cold and abandoned, with distemper flaking off the sloping walls where they rose to meet the ceiling. Heavy protective bars guarded the windows, and there was a large brass fireguard in front of the fire, the kind on which a children’s nanny would have dried their outside clothes, and perhaps as a treat made toast for nursery tea.
One thing that had impressed her about the house was the fact that the nursery floor had a proper bathroom, with a flushing lavatory and a big bath.
Now, though, she was busy in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the baby whilst she worked busily.
Although she had been upstairs several times, on each occasion the Master of Bellfield had been sleeping, so Marianne had not disturbed him. Now the kitchen was full of the rich smell of the chicken soup she had made for the invalid, and the cat, who had proudly presented her with three dead mice already, was sitting purposefully in front of the range.
As she bustled about, Marianne hummed softly under her breath, mentally making lists of all that she had to do. There was the warming pan to be made ready for the master’s bed. Thanks to Ben, there was now a fire burning cheerfully in the bedroom, and tomorrow she would send Ben down to the mill to ask Mr Gledhill if he had any idea where she might find the boiler that should provide hot water for the bathrooms. She suspected it would be in the cellars, but she was reluctant to go down and investigate, knowing that it was by the door that led to them that the cat sat, waiting for her prey. The thought of mice running over her feet as she explored the cellars’ darkness made her shudder.
That meant that she must heat water on the range, both to clean the master’s wound and for him to shave with, should he choose to do so.
It had caused her several moments’ disquiet to discover that nowhere in the linen cupboard was there a sign of any kind of male night attire. There must, however, be a draper’s shop in the town, and they would be sure to be able to supply some, she decided firmly. Whether or not Mr Denshaw would wear them was, of course, another matter.
She let the cat out and, covering the soup and leaving it to simmer, gathered up everything she needed to wash and bandage her employer’s injury.
This time when she knocked on the door and turned the door handle the Master of Bellfield was not only awake, he was also sitting up, leaning back against the pillows and frowning as he stared out of the uncurtained windows.
‘Who gave orders for a fire to be lit?’ he demanded brusquely.
‘I did,’ Marianne told him. ‘When a person has received a wound of the magnitude of yours, then it is important that they are kept warm. I have brought you some water and some clean towels in case you wish to…to refresh yourself, before I bring up your supper. But first I must check your…your injury.’
‘My injury can look after itself.’
Marianne stood her ground. ‘I am relieved that you feel recovered enough to think so, sir, but I would rather check.’
‘Very well, then, but I warn you that my belly is empty, and I am in no mood to be fussed over like a mewling babe in arms.’
Marianne ignored him, dragging a chair over to the side of the bed instead and then laying a clean cloth on it.
‘What is that for?’
‘I thought that you could rest your leg on it whilst I cleaned the wound, so as not to dampen the sheets,’ Marianne told him calmly.
‘You want me to place my leg on the chair, do you?’
‘If you would be so kind, sir, yes.’
So far Marianne had managed to keep her gaze fixed on the wallpaper above his head, and thus avoid having to look at his naked chest, but now, as he moved, the sheet slipped down to reveal more of his torso, at the same time as he pushed his naked leg free of the bedding to rest it on the chair.
Marianne’s throat went dry. On this side of the bed at least there was nothing covering him except the shadows of the bed, which mercifully covered those parts of him she should not see. But in order to reach the site of his injury she would have to lean over him, and then…
What was the matter with her? She had attended other injured men, and nursed a dying husband to his death, sponging his whole fever-soaked body over and over again through those long hours.
But this man was different. This man touched something within her womanhood that she had no power to control. Marianne looked towards the door. It was too late for flight now. She had given her word and must stay, no matter what the cost to herself.
Taking a deep breath,