Книга - Always In My Heart

Always In My Heart
Freda Lightfoot


Brenda Stuart returns to her late husband’s home devastated by his loss only to find herself accused of bestowing favours upon the Germans. Life has been difficult for her over the war, having been held in an internment camp in France simply because of her nationality. Thankful that her son at least was safe in the care of his grandmother, she now finds that she has lost him too, and her life is in turmoil.Prue, her beloved sister-in-law, is also a war widow but has now fallen in love with an Italian PoW who works on the family estate. Once the war ends they hope to marry but she has reckoned without the disapproval of her family, or the nation.The two friends support each other in an attempt to resolve their problems and rebuild their lives. They even try starting a business, but it does not prove easy.







Also by Freda Lightfoot: (#ulink_c9364bd1-3fcc-54b0-ad99-7aac81f384c5)

Historical Sagas

Lakeland Lily

The Bobbin Girls

The Favourite Child

Kitty Little

For All Our Tomorrows

Home is Where the Heart Is

Gracie’s Sin

Daisy’s Secret

Ruby McBride

Dancing on Deansgate

Watch for the Talleyman

Polly’s Pride

Polly’s War

House of Angels

Angels at War

The Promise

My Lady Deceiver

The Luckpenny Series

Luckypenny Land

Wishing Water

Larkrigg Fell

Poorhouse Lane Series

The Girl from Poorhouse Lane

The Woman from Heartbreak

House

Champion Street Market Series

Putting on the Style

Fools Fall in Love

That’ll Be the Day

Candy Kisses

Who’s Sorry Now

Lonely Teardrops

Women’s Contemporary Fiction

Trapped

Historical Romances

Madeiran Legacy

Whispering Shadows

Rhapsody Creek

Proud Alliance

Outrageous Fortune

Biographical Historical

Hostage Queen

Reluctant Queen

The Queen and the Courtesan

The Duchess of Drury Lane

Lady of Passion


Born in Lancashire, FREDA LIGHTFOOT has been a teacher and a bookseller, and in a mad moment even tried her hand at the ‘good life’. A prolific and much-loved saga writer, Freda’s work is inspired by memories of her Lancashire childhood and her passion for history. For more information about Freda, visit her website: www.fredalightfoot.co.uk (http://www.fredalightfoot.co.uk)








Contents

Cover (#u48a2cd0a-04bb-5c1b-a4d7-f593ec6b1482)

Also by Freda Lightfoot (#ulink_8cfcf7f3-07ad-5274-b924-e15a1c0cf5f6)

About the Author (#ud7a1afc8-c3ac-59b5-bb7e-5e849daf4137)

Title Page (#u7aad86d8-980d-5cf5-9984-14bc57cc695e)

One (#ulink_fd173c0c-2e4f-5b34-b173-d9685500716a)

Two (#ulink_e1d497ea-6955-5c5d-9ae6-72edd50f2f2b)

Three (#ulink_8afd2296-250b-527e-b96f-078342d403c0)

Four (#ulink_7ab2d060-e403-51fa-aaf8-8cef47fc2ef5)

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Copyright


One (#ulink_88944b01-0c9c-5fe1-a482-db150600ae0d)

1944

Rain pounded upon the windows as the small bus wound its way along narrow lanes. The sound of its grinding gears as it lurched around a bend and began to climb steeply upwards stirred Brenda from a deep sleep. Blinking herself awake, she gazed out at the scramble of sharp peaks, jutting rocks and smooth green-humped hills, disappointed they were not lit by the warmth of September sunshine. Yet she felt some relief to have at last reached the Pennines. The journey had been long and difficult. She still shivered at the memory of being halted and searched by a German guard at the foot of the Pyrenees in Spain. A terrifying moment! Now, after years of danger she was at last safe; in a bus driving mile upon mile over beautiful open moors cloaked in purple heather.

Eventually the vehicle stopped and the driver called out, ‘Trowbridge Hall.’ Hitching her heavy bag high on to her shoulder, Brenda climbed out of the warmth of the bus into the chill damp of the valley. When first she’d set off from France she’d felt dizzy with anticipation, filled with hope. But much as she had longed to reach her destination, now a nervous tension was setting in. She could remember all too well the scowls, furious arguments and strong tone of disapproval on the day she’d been thrown out of the manor house all those years ago.

Today it felt strangely silent as Brenda walked down the rutted track, the only sound that of her boots squelching in the mud, a clogging mist swirling about her. Thankfully it had at last stopped raining. Turning a corner, she paused to gaze up at the tall chimneys, mullioned windows and grey stone walls of this grand house. For a moment her nervousness faded even if the mist did not. When at a low ebb during her recent troubles she would often bring to mind the majesty of these rolling hills, and the autumn glory of the scabious, goldenrod and blue harebells that clustered the verges. The memory of this place had at times helped to keep her sane.

Her heartbeat quickened as she recalled coming to work here back in the spring of 1939. That was the day she and Jack had first met, and despite her being no more than a mere scullery maid and he the son of a wealthy land owner, they’d fallen in love almost at first sight. At just seventeen she’d been young and eager for a new life, utterly captivated by his good looks, his gentle kindness, and the way his blue-grey eyes smiled at her. Whenever her day’s work ended and she’d take a walk for a breath of fresh air, Jack would be sitting on a wall or leaning against a tree waiting for her.

‘I thought I’d show you around,’ he’d said with a twinkling smile the first time she’d found him there. The thought had thrilled her.

‘Oh, that would be lovely.’ She’d felt herself blushing even as her insides tingled with excitement.

They’d stepped out along the path into the wood, the dog at his heels as Jack explained how he didn’t want her to get lost. ‘It’s not a good idea to venture too far on your own as it’s all too easy to lose your way in these woods,’ he’d warned.

‘I confess I am more accustomed to the busy streets of Manchester,’ Brenda had admitted, gazing in wonder at the bluebells in bloom. It was May and she could hear the rippling chatter of fieldfares celebrating the coming of warmer weather. ‘Or at least the Castlefield part of the city. I’m more used to walking along canal towpaths than in woodlands. Never really been out much in the countryside before, but it is so beautiful here I’d love to explore it.’

‘Then take care if you set out for a walk to always leave markers, such as a small pile of stones at every turn in the path to mark your way. We call them cairns. Then you can retrace your steps by following them on your return.’

‘What a wonderful idea. Thank you, I’ll remember that.’

‘And if you should ever get lost, follow a stream downhill towards the river, then walk north along the riverbank back to the house. You can judge the direction by checking the green moss that grows on the northern side of the trees. It certainly does here in the Pennines. But it would be safer and much more fun, don’t you think, if we were to walk out together? And Kit does love a good walk,’ he’d said, introducing her to the farm collie.

Meeting his gaze, she knew in that moment they were meant for each other, and his desire for them to walk out together had little to do with the dog. The expression in his eyes was utterly captivating, reaching to the heart of her.

After that, it seemed perfectly natural for them to meet up every single evening. And when he eventually stole a kiss she’d responded with eagerness, loving it when he almost lifted her off her feet to gather her in his arms. Explosions of pleasure had shot through her, almost as if she’d been waiting her entire life for this moment.

Fond as Brenda was of the city of Manchester where she’d been raised in an orphanage by nuns and still had many friends, she instantly fell in love with the beauty of Saddleworth, and the dramatic and rugged Pennine hills and moorland. She soon came to think of herself as a country girl, if working class and a bit plain and plump with fluffy brown hair. Jack, however, always regarded her as gorgeously curvaceous, and adored the twinkle in her downward-sloping brown eyes. It was certainly true that she was rather well endowed, but liked to think that her round face generally appeared cheerful, even if there was sometimes a flutter of nerves behind her eyes. How she’d loved it when he’d whispered such compliments as he kissed her. She smiled now at the memory.

They’d naturally tried to keep their feelings and meetings secret, only too aware that his family would not approve. They’d carefully avoided visiting the local villages of Trowbridge, Uppermill and Greenfield together in case people Jack knew spotted them. Much safer to remain high in the hills where few people roamed.

But then one afternoon Jack’s father, Sir Randolph, caught them together locked in the kind of clinch that clearly revealed their love for each other. Sadly, he was an ice-cold, aloof sort of man. Perhaps living as he did in this fine house with a large estate and money to answer his every need, caused him to be bossy and self-opinionated.

‘Girl, return to the kitchen where you belong,’ he’d roared. She’d spun on her heels to scurry away as fast as she could, tripping over tree roots and stones in her anxiety to escape his fury. Jack had stoutly remained where he was, clearly preparing himself for a lecture.

Brenda had found herself instantly dismissed. Jack was ordered to go to France to stay with his French mother, who’d returned to Paris some months previously on a visit to her family. She showed no sign of returning any time soon, which did not surprise Brenda, bearing in mind she had such a controlling husband. Brenda had been sorry to see her go, as it was this lovely lady who had offered her the job in the first place. Lady Stuart had been a regular visitor to the orphanage and very friendly with the nuns who’d brought Brenda up.

Jack made no protest to this plan, as he adored his mother, but instead of leaving Brenda behind he’d suggested she go with him. Brenda had been unable to speak a word of French at the time, yet loving him as she did, how could she resist the temptation?

Her time in France had felt like a real adventure to her. Memories she would nurture forever in her heart. She’d worked hard to learn the language, and happily helped Jack to care for his dear mother who was not at all well.

When war broke out they’d quickly married and enjoyed such a happy time together, until the dreadful effects of bombs and fighting took their toll, robbing her of the love of her life. Brenda’s heart still bled at the pain of her loss.

Now she was quite alone, and the events that had followed his death were a period in her life she desperately strived to block out. Returning to her late husband’s home had been a difficult decision to make, but so important. It was vital that she find her son and prayed this would provide the answers she needed. After all her efforts to resolve the issue had failed, this seemed like the only solution left.

There was no one around to welcome her, all doors closed and curtains drawn. Perhaps dear old Kit, no doubt too old now to be out working with the flock, might offer a welcome, unless he too had forgotten her. As Brenda hitched up her bag and set off again along the track, he must have recognised the sound of her footsteps for he was suddenly scampering towards her, his wittering greeting a positive warble of doggy ecstasy.

‘Hello, old boy. So you do remember me, even after all this time. How wonderful.’ Brenda went down on one knee to rub the collie’s ears, chuckling at the way his whole body seemed to wag with joy, his tongue caressing every inch of her face. Fighting back tears she smiled as she stroked him. Then hearing the crunch of gravel and the sound of heavy boots approaching, her smile quickly evaporated. Rising slowly to her feet, Brenda strengthened her resolve, as she had learned to do throughout the years of war. Surely her father-in-law could do no worse to her than what she’d already been forced to endure.

‘Good lord, so it’s you, girl.’

With relief Brenda saw that it was Jack’s brother, if sounding every bit as cold and arrogant as his father. Stiffening her spine, she took a breath. ‘Good to see you again, Hugh.’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Brenda faced him with a shot of her well-tuned courage. ‘I believe as Jack’s wife, or rather his widow, I do have that right.’

He gave a snort of disbelief. ‘You’re claiming to have married him?’

She blinked, stunned by this response. ‘You surely knew that we married late in 1939?’ Perhaps Jack had never mentioned their marriage because he was fearful of being cut off from his family completely, in view of his estrangement from his father. Camille was constantly cautioning her son about Sir Randolph’s temper and possible reaction.

Hugh glowered at her. ‘Jack never wrote to tell us about any damn wedding, so why would I believe you?’

‘Why would you not?’

‘Because you’re a feisty little madam. Always were.’

‘Please, we need to talk.’

Lifting his head to glare up at the grey sky as rain again began to fall, he marched to a side door and flung it open. ‘Very well, you can stay tonight, and explain exactly what did happen to my brother.’

Stifling a sigh, Brenda went to pick up her heavy bag then followed him into the house along the passage towards the kitchen, which was no doubt where he thought she belonged. Every step she’d taken in recent years seemed to have led to yet more trauma. Making decisions had never been easy in the terrifying world following Jack’s death, and despite believing she’d made the right ones, it had all gone terribly wrong.


Two (#ulink_f7a28f4a-ee4d-5533-bcb5-34917fbe876c)

France, 1940

Brenda stood washing dishes at the sink in the kitchen of her mother-in-law’s elegant apartment, quite close to the Jardin des Tuileries. Surrounded by gilt mirrors, chandeliers, glorious armoires and huge arched windows, she spent every day cleaning, washing and cooking, rarely setting foot outside except to buy food at a local market. Ever since Jack’s death a strange sense of detachment had enveloped her, leaving her largely oblivious to whatever was happening in the world. It felt as if she was living in some kind of frozen bubble, so devastated at losing him that she could barely think, let alone eat or sleep. Camille, his dear mother, was equally distraught and had largely confined herself to her room. Brenda continued to care for her, not only out of love for her husband, but felt she could never neglect this lovely lady who’d become almost like a mother to her too.

‘I thought you might like an egg custard with your afternoon tea,’ Brenda said to her now as she set a tray on the small coffee table by her chair.

‘Oh, what a lovely girl you are.’ Camille’s pale face creased with a smile in a valiant attempt to disguise the bleakness of grief. ‘I wouldn’t have the first idea how to make one of those tarts, even though it was a favourite treat of Jack’s.’

‘Mine too,’ Brenda said, with a slight tremor to her voice. ‘Let’s sit and enjoy it together, then I’ll run a bath for you before dinner. I’ve managed to find us some fish, if only a small piece of cod. But we can liven it up with some rice and tomatoes.’ There was a serious shortage of food these days, although the smartly uniformed German military were able to fully indulge their own appetites for fine meals, beer, women and dancing, no doubt viewed as a reward for their victory.

‘You are so amazingly resilient,’ Camille said as Brenda switched on the small gas fire to warm up the cool bedroom. ‘But you mustn’t work too hard, my dear. You and that little one you are carrying need rest, so do take an afternoon nap each day.’

Sleep was not something Brenda felt in need of right now. Whenever she closed her eyes, her mind would vividly replay all she’d learned about the manner of his death. Reliving how he must have run for cover when he’d heard guns going off all around him. Was his memory of her his last thought on this earth? Brenda would prefer to think he died instantly, not lying on the ground in pain and anguish, waiting for the end to close in upon him. Terrified of such nightmares, she found that keeping busy was the only solution. Retiring to her bed only when exhaustion overwhelmed her, Brenda could manage to sleep more deeply and avoid them. It also gave her a reason to go on with life.

‘Exercise is good for me,’ she smilingly replied, settling herself in the armchair opposite. In addition, she was doing her utmost to persuade Camille to eat more, as she was increasingly thin, a sad fragility about her. She’d never been particularly robust. Despite only being in her early fifties she’d aged considerably since her son’s death, her golden blonde hair turning silver grey almost overnight.

‘Did you hear any news while you were out shopping today?’ Camille politely enquired, her tone of voice flat as she sliced up the tart.

‘When I bought our bread this morning the boulanger told me that although the southern part of France around the spa town of Vichy is seen as a zone libre, Marshal Pétain, who is in control, still insists upon cooperating with Hitler. He apparently believes the state has greater rights than the people. So the area may not be as free as he claims it to be.’

Camille’s pale-blue eyes narrowed as she considered this. ‘That may well be the case. The man does have strong fascist sympathies.’

‘The boulanger also said I should take care, as there’s a growing resentment among some French that the British haven’t done enough to help prevent the German invasion.’

‘An attitude which will make them anti-British as well as anti-Nazi. Perhaps you should go back to England while you can, dear girl, to be safe.’

‘Would you come with me?’

The older woman’s eyes frosted over as she avoided meeting Brenda’s gaze. ‘As you know, I have no wish to return to my over-controlling husband. I was born and brought up here in France. This is my home.’

They both fell silent following this familiar response, concentrating on enjoying an unexpected treat, the eggs made available thanks to a neighbour who kept chickens. Were it not for her fondness for this dear lady, and the fact she was expecting Jack’s child, Brenda knew she would have returned to Manchester long since. She missed it badly, and her many dear friends, particularly Cathie whom she’d known for most of her life, as well as Jack’s sister Prue. There were times when she ached to hear a northern voice cracking jokes with their deliciously dry sense of humour. But here she was, stuck in France.

Thousands of Parisians had already fled the city. Just days before the invasion, at Camille’s insistence she and Jack had tried to leave. They’d found the Gare de Lyon packed out. There were hundreds of people carrying mountains of luggage, desperate to get on a train and escape the threat of occupation. There were women wheeling babies in prams, young men barging about, and children and dogs running everywhere. Then a station porter had called out, ‘Il n’y a pas de trains.’ As there were no trains, with a resigned sigh she and Jack had drifted back to the apartment.

As summer progressed Brenda noticed many neighbours who had escaped returned home, having suffered from starvation, bombing raids and severe losses to their families or belongings out on the open roads. Some were ordered back by the Germans, yet other people were still desperately striving to get away. And who could blame them? France was in complete turmoil: shops and restaurants closed, clothes, shoes and even furniture littering the streets. Chaos reigned as the Germans now occupied and ruled most of the country.

Brenda’s mind flipped back to the day in June when the enemy had first entered the city. It was a moment in history that would never be forgotten. Jack had held her close, his arm tight about her shoulders as they stood together watching the rumble of tanks, guns and thousands of soldiers stream along the streets, the crowds mingling around them eerily silent.

‘We can’t allow them to get away with this,’ he’d murmured through gritted teeth. ‘We need to drive them out.’

‘How can we possibly do that?’ she’d asked. ‘These German soldiers look extremely tough and determined, and very strictly disciplined.’

‘We should make life as difficult as possible for them. If they request information or assistance for any reason we could pretend not to understand, send them in a different direction, or tell them the wrong train time.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Believe me when I say there will be huge objections and resistance to their attempt to control the French.’

That night they’d made love with more passion than ever before, feeling the need to overcome fear and depression by putting some happiness back into their lives. It was a time Brenda would always remember, the moon shining upon them as if to glorify their love.

Jack spent all of the next day out with friends. The phoney war was over and their lives had changed forever. A Resistance movement did indeed spring up, intended to provide the Allies with intelligence, attack the Germans at every opportunity, as well as assist any Allied soldiers or airmen in need of escape. Many such groups emerged across all occupied territory.

Having a French mother, Jack showed far more compassion for the French than he did for the Nazis, and gladly joined the group in Paris. How brave he was. He used the code-name Randall, a slight variation on his father’s name, and quickly became involved in many dangerous projects. He did a great deal of good for the cause. Fearful though she’d been for his safety, Brenda had felt enormous admiration for his courage. He was a man of honour, so not for a moment would she have attempted to stop him. She would spend a largely sleepless night awaiting his safe return. Then, tragically, one morning she was visited by a colleague who sadly informed her that while engaged in a valiant attempt by the local Resistance group to blow up a tank, he’d been shot dead by the enemy. She’d been utterly devastated.

As always, pain tightened her throat at the thought, her mouth feeling dry and rancid now that he was gone forever from her life. She was quite alone, locked in her own private world. If only…

‘I’ve had a letter from my cousin Adèle,’ Camille said, thankfully interrupting these distressing memories. ‘She asks if she can come on a visit, as she’s quite alone now that she’s a widow. Her poor husband died of a heart attack around the same time we lost Jack. I shall write and say that she would be most welcome, don’t you think?’

‘Of course. What a splendid idea.’

Camille’s cousin arrived just a few days later. Smartly dressed in a green coat with padded shoulders and a big fur collar, a wide-brimmed velvet hat and matching gloves, she looked very much an aristocrat. She was small and neat in stature but big of heart, with a pert mouth, chestnut-brown bobbed hair, and caring dark eyes that gleamed out at the world from behind gold-rimmed spectacles. Brenda saw her arrival as a good thing. The cousins had long been close friends and were clearly both in need of company to help cope with their grief.

Perhaps the poor lady also felt a certain fear in living alone, as did everyone these days.

If Adèle decided to stay on, Brenda thought she might try once more to return home to England, although she really had no idea how that could come about. In the meantime she must concentrate upon keeping in good health. Her pregnancy seemed endless, and due to the shortage of food, not at all easy. But she could not wait to hold Jack’s child in her arms.

*

The situation worsened considerably in the months following Jack’s death. Paris became a different place. Coupons were needed for bread, meat, groceries, clothes, coal, everything. And they became increasingly hungry and cold. Each day Brenda would join other local Parisians in the public squares to search for any scraps of wood she could find to burn. Since the apartment had no open fire or chimney and they’d run out of gas, she made a brazier from an old tin that provided a small amount of heat, the smoke dispensed through a pipe that ran out of a nearby window.

Every street, including the beautiful Plâce de Concorde, the Eiffel tower and all public buildings, bristled with swastika flags. There were posters depicting John Bull as a killer, among many other anti-British images. Signs that gave directions in German with barely a word in French visible. And the sound of goose-stepping boots was everywhere.

On visiting the British Embassy, Brenda found that it was indeed closed. Even the skeleton staff present at the start of the occupation had departed south. According to reports the borders into Spain were also kept largely barricaded. Trains to England were still not available. Sending a letter to England was also a problem as they were generally blocked. It was very evident that finding a way out of France would be almost impossible.

She felt trapped.

Many other women were too: dancers, singers, nurses and governesses, rich ladies who loved to spend their time travelling around Europe. Even French widows who had married Englishmen were likewise looked upon as outcasts. The German hatred of the British was all too evident. People without the right documentation or who were Jewish tended to hide away, desperate to avoid being imprisoned or shipped to Germany. Some would be arrested simply for listening to the BBC. A dreadful prospect.

Brenda gave birth to a son on 27 November, less than a month from her own birthday, which helped to ease the dark pit of anguish devouring her. The two ladies took good care of her and all went well. How fortunate she was. She would sit and gaze in wonder at his tiny fingers and toes, the soft pale baby-blue eyes, and the way his sweet lips pursed or smacked together whenever he was hungry. He was utterly adorable. She spent every moment of every day bathing, feeding and nursing him, and tucking the little fellow into his crib cuddled up with the silver-grey fluffy monkey she’d bought for him just before his birth.

Now it was Adèle doing all the cooking, cleaning and shopping, running up and down stairs, fetching and carrying, without a word of complaint. Even Camille did what she could to help, despite her rich, aristocratic heritage and fragility.

‘I do appreciate the care you’ve both given me. Being illegitimate, I was born in a home for unmarried mothers,’ Brenda said, giving a wry smile. ‘So I have no family of my own.’

‘Goodness, I didn’t know that,’ Adèle said, looking slightly surprised by this news.

‘The nuns were extremely good to her. Did you ever find out who your mother was?’ Camille asked.

Brenda shook her head. ‘I don’t even know her name. I was given the surname Noel by the nuns because I was born just five days before Christmas.’ She really had no wish to find her mother, and still nursed a deep resentment at having been abandoned at birth. It was a most cruel and unfeeling thing for any mother to do. Brenda certainly had no intention of ever abandoning her own child. He was already the joy of her life.

‘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.’


Three (#ulink_e4e4f486-2ab8-596a-b3bf-5b3e1c014fbb)

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 it was the same for Camille. When did each of them die?’

‘Papa died of a heart attack less than a month ago, Mama some time in 1941, or so I believe.’

‘Do you know where she was living at the time?’ Brenda instantly asked, her heart thudding.

‘I assume she was still resident in Paris.’

‘No, she’d left by then. Her cousin Adèle had come to join her and the pair of them proved to be a great support for each other. But when the situation grew more dangerous in Paris they decided to move to her cousin’s home somewhere in the Loire Valley. Do you have her address?’ Now Brenda awaited his answer with a tremor in her heart. Wasn’t this the reason she’d returned to Trowbridge Hall, hoping her precious son would already be here waiting for her? But if not, she could at least find out where Adèle lived.

‘Never heard of the woman. But then I know little about the French side of my mother’s family. That’s enough talk for now,’ he said, and opening the study door, Hugh flicked his hand to order her back downstairs. ‘You can stay in your old room for tonight. We’ll speak again tomorrow.’

Brenda’s heart sank to her soaking-wet feet, and keeping her head down so that he could not see the tears in her eyes, she walked out of the study.

*

Taking himself off to the drawing room, Hugh felt an odd stir of guilt within him. His brother was indeed a brave man, and they’d been quite close. Was his reluctance to accept this girl’s possible marriage with Jack really because of her illegitimacy and low status, or because he’d lost all hope of a marriage for himself? Their father hadn’t listened to Hugh’s desire to join the army, insisting he become a farmer, as that was a reserve occupation. Even Susanna, his darling fiancée, had been against him joining the forces, quite happy with him being a farmer too, as it was much safer. An attitude which made it all the more tragic that while visiting her parents back in London, she’d died along with them when their home had been hit by a V-1 flying bomb just a few weeks ago. A lovely and perfectly innocent lady who wouldn’t hurt a soul was now gone from his life. How cruel and heartless war was.

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.





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