Just a few days ago at breakfast she’d unsuspectingly opened the letter from Westwood, finally admitting the truth. From her spontaneous gasp of dismay the children had learned something was amiss. Faye had been tempted to shield them from the dreadful news. But what use was procrastination when they must know immediately that savings had to be made.
‘I’m going to fetch my new bonnet and stitch some ribbon on it.’ Claire skipped towards the door.
‘Bill Perkins won’t be going, so you’re wasting your time wearing it for him,’ Michael ribbed.
‘I’m not bothered about him anyway...’ his sister retorted.
‘No bickering, if you please,’ Faye reprimanded wryly.
Claire had developed a crush on Bill Perkins after the young farmer rescued her from a ditch. Following a heavy bout of rain she’d lost her footing and slipped down into the sludge. The fellow had a fiancée, but always stopped to pass the time of day with them all.
‘I have been thinking about that trip to town we spoke of.’ Faye’s thoughts had jumped from nice Bill Perkins to another worthy gentleman: a faceless, nameless person her sister—God willing—was yet to meet.
‘Must we go to London for my debut?’ Claire asked with a pronounced lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’ll be an expensive trip and I’m not sure I want to bother.’ A private smile curved her lips. ‘I might find a husband hereabouts.’
‘Your dowry is still safe and as you are so pretty you will need no costly embellishment like some of the plain misses.’ Faye tried to encourage her sister with a jocular comment. But the praise was justified. Claire was indeed a beauty and regularly drew attention from the lusty youths in Wilverton, the small town about a half-mile distant. Claire had never shown interest in having a local beau before. Yet, oddly, Faye had just seen her sister look like the cat with the cream when talking of finding a mate in the neighbourhood.
It was said that Claire resembled her; Faye believed that her half-sister took after Deborah Shawcross in looks. But they rarely spoke about her late father’s second wife. Even before Deborah absconded to Ireland to join her lover the woman had been an embarrassment.
‘You should have your Season in London, because I know you will have a wonderful time and meet a splendid fellow and fall in love.’ Faye’s confident tone barely lifted Claire’s frown. But it amused Michael and he made much of patting at his yawning mouth, chortling.
‘Aunt Agatha has invited us to stay with her in Hammersmith,’ Faye continued. ‘I’ll write and let her know that we would be pleased to accept her hospitality in the spring.’
‘I’d sooner stay here,’ Michael piped up.
‘You will be safely out of the way at school, young man.’
‘Might I go and stay with Stanley Scott?’
‘I don’t think so, Michael,’ Faye said apologetically. ‘The cost of the fare to Scotland is rather a lot.’ Her brother had received an invitation from his school chum’s parents to holiday with them in Edinburgh until the autumn term.
‘Shall I ask him to come here?’ Michael asked, but not very optimistically.
‘You know we don’t really have the room for guests.’ Faye gave her brother a rueful smile. Mulberry House was small—nothing like the castle in which the Scotts lived—but, that apart, another mouth to feed would be an additional financial burden. Despite her logic and prudence Faye felt mean denying her brother a friend for the holidays.
‘Now if we are to spend an hour or two at the fair later I must get on.’ Faye briskly clapped her hands. ‘I want to catch the post and the shopkeepers in Wilverton must be paid. Mr Gideon warned of rain this evening; we’ll want to be home from the fair before then.’ Their housekeeper’s husband was invariably accurate with his weather forecast.
Having sealed the note to her aunt about preparations for Claire’s debut, Faye counted out the money owed to merchants and put it into her reticule. She was determined to carry on paying bills on time. But news of her reduced circumstances would eventually circulate and she hated the idea of being tattled over or pitied. The Gideons were aware of what had occurred and were as fiercely loyal to Faye and her half-siblings as they had been to her father. But it was an odd truth that no matter how conscientiously confidences were guarded, rumours spread.
* * *
A ride into town on Mr Gideon’s dog cart was always a revelation. As they moved along at a steady pace the elderly fellow kept up a one-sided conversation past the clay pipe clenched between his teeth. Not that Faye was unwilling to add a comment; it was hard to get a word in edgeways. Mr Gideon had employment with several neighbours and was up to date with what went on in the hamlets that encircled Mulberry House, the Shawcrosses’ residence for over one hundred years. By the time the elderly mare pulling the dog cart was drawn to a halt at Wilverton Green’s turnpike, Faye had learned that there was a bad case of scarlatina in Moreton, to the south, that had resulted in one burial so far, and that twins had been born last week in Fairley, to the east. Having expressed her gladness that mother and babies were all doing well, Faye sprang nimbly down to the dusty ground.
‘Shall I wait for you to finish your business and take you back, Miss Shawcross? It be no trouble.’ Bert Gideon had removed his pipe to make that enquiry.
‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I shall have time enough to walk home, thank you.’ Faye shook her light cotton skirts to remove the creases from them and retied the strings of her bonnet. She glanced up at the angle of the sun, judging it to be close to noon. A ride back would have been helpful as she’d promised the others an excursion in a few hours’ time, but she didn’t want to delay Mr Gideon getting to his next job.
‘Don’t be forgetting now that rain’s due.’ Bert clucked his tongue at the mare.
‘Not before we’ve returned from the fair, I hope,’ Faye said, half to herself.
Mr Gideon raised a hand in farewell as the vehicle creaked away and Faye set off to do her errands.
* * *
‘And a very good day to you, Miss Shawcross.’
‘And to you, sir. I have come to settle up and place my order for next week, Mr Bullman.’ Had she imagined a look of relief in the butcher’s eyes as he’d pounced on the cash in her hand?
‘I have some mutton for stewing that you might like for a change and some beef suet that’ll make you a nice dumpling.’ Mr Bullman wiped his bloodied hands on his apron before pocketing his cash.
Had he sounded different...pitying? Faye noticed that he’d certainly collected up the notes she’d put down with unusual zeal. She glanced at his expression and, yes, he did seem to be avoiding her eyes.
‘I won’t have the mutton, thank you. I’ll take my usual order and an extra two pork chops, if you please,’ Faye said crisply.
‘So Mr Collins is back and paying a visit, is he?’ The butcher sounded jolly. ‘I recall you told me your fiancé’s partial to a chop for dinner.’
‘He isn’t calling until next week. I’ll take the chops with the kidneys in them, please. Those will go nicely with fresh beans from the garden and some baked potatoes.’
‘Of course, Miss Shawcross. I’ll have the boy deliver the usual order and two extra chops on Thursday.’
Outside the shop Faye paused, giving herself a talking to. Mr Bullman was a good soul and she was being too sensitive because of her guilt and regrets over allowing Mr Westwood free rein with her money. She glanced back into the shop and saw the butcher deep in conversation with his wife. There was nothing unusual about that, but the way the couple darted surreptitious glances her way caused Faye’s heart to sink. She sighed and walked on. So, news of her losses had circulated, but she wouldn’t answer questions about it.
A