pantry for your supper. I’m sure you’re
parched. Put the kettle on the range and it’ll boil in no time. And don’t forget to stoke it with wood every morning. It’s a hungry beast, if I remember rightly. Now, got to be
off, I’m afraid. We’ve lost a ewe, you see. Gone over a gulley, we suspect. David said you’re a pretty self-sufficient kind of gel, but I’ll drop in on you tomorrow when
you’ve got your bearings. I’m Laura-Jane Marchmont, by the way’ – she thrust out her hand to Greta – ‘but everyone calls me LJ. You should too.
Goodnight.’
The door slammed and she was gone.
Greta shook her head in confusion, sighed and then sank into the threadbare but comfortable armchair in front of the fire. She was hungry and desperate for a cup of tea, but first she needed to
sit down for a few minutes and recover from the ordeal of her day.
She stared into the fire, pondering on the woman who had just left. Whatever she had expected Taffy’s mother to be, it was not Laura-Jane Marchmont. In truth, she’d imagined an
unsophisticated country widow with plump, ruddy cheeks and child-bearing hips. She glanced round her new home and began to take full note of her surroundings. The sitting room was snug, with a
charming beamed ceiling and a large inglenook fireplace taking up an entire wall. The furnishings were minimal: just the armchair, an occasional table and a crooked shelf stacked untidily with
books. She pushed open a latched door and walked down two stone steps into the small kitchen. There was a sink, a Welsh dresser filled with mismatched crockery, a scrubbed pine table with two
chairs and a pantry, in which she discovered a loaf of fresh bread, a slab of cheese, butter, some tins of soup and half a dozen apples. She opened the back door and found the icebox masquerading
as a lavatory to her left.
A creaking staircase led off from the kitchen to a door at the top, beyond which was the bedroom. The low-ceilinged room was almost entirely taken up by a sturdy wrought-iron bed covered in a
cheerful patchwork quilt. An oil lamp cast a warming, shadowy glow. Greta looked longingly at the bed but knew that, for the baby’s sake as much as her own, she needed to eat before she
slept.
After a supper of bread, soup and cheese in front of the fire, she yawned. She washed as best she could in the kitchen sink, realising she’d have to boil the kettle in future if she wanted
warm water. Then, shivering, she picked up her suitcases and finally made her way up the staircase.
Pulling her nightdress over her head, and adding a jumper on top of that, she pulled back the quilt and sank gratefully into the comfortable bed. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to wash
over her. The silence, after her noisy London room, was deafening. Eventually, exhaustion overtook her and she fell into a dreamless slumber.
5
Greta woke the following morning to the sound of two pigeons cooing outside her bedroom window. Feeling disoriented, she reached for her watch and saw that it was past ten
o’clock. She rose from the bed, drew the curtains back and peered out of the window.
The sky was a soft blue and the frost of the night before had been melted away by the weak winter sun, leaving a heavy dew. Below her, there was a gently sloping valley, its sides planted with a
dense wood, the huge trees now bare of leaves. The sound of rushing water told her a stream must be close by. Across from the river that bisected the floor of the valley she could see undulating
fields sloping upwards, populated with small white dots which must be sheep. And away to her left, presiding over the valley, stood a low red-brick house surrounded by sweeping lawns and tiers of
stone terraces. Its many mullioned windows glinted in the sun and she could see smoke coming from two of the four majestic chimneys. She assumed this must be Marchmont Hall. To the right of the
house there were barns and other outbuildings.
The sight of
parched. Put the kettle on the range and it’ll boil in no time. And don’t forget to stoke it with wood every morning. It’s a hungry beast, if I remember rightly. Now, got to be
off, I’m afraid. We’ve lost a ewe, you see. Gone over a gulley, we suspect. David said you’re a pretty self-sufficient kind of gel, but I’ll drop in on you tomorrow when
you’ve got your bearings. I’m Laura-Jane Marchmont, by the way’ – she thrust out her hand to Greta – ‘but everyone calls me LJ. You should too.
Goodnight.’
The door slammed and she was gone.
Greta shook her head in confusion, sighed and then sank into the threadbare but comfortable armchair in front of the fire. She was hungry and desperate for a cup of tea, but first she needed to
sit down for a few minutes and recover from the ordeal of her day.
She stared into the fire, pondering on the woman who had just left. Whatever she had expected Taffy’s mother to be, it was not Laura-Jane Marchmont. In truth, she’d imagined an
unsophisticated country widow with plump, ruddy cheeks and child-bearing hips. She glanced round her new home and began to take full note of her surroundings. The sitting room was snug, with a
charming beamed ceiling and a large inglenook fireplace taking up an entire wall. The furnishings were minimal: just the armchair, an occasional table and a crooked shelf stacked untidily with
books. She pushed open a latched door and walked down two stone steps into the small kitchen. There was a sink, a Welsh dresser filled with mismatched crockery, a scrubbed pine table with two
chairs and a pantry, in which she discovered a loaf of fresh bread, a slab of cheese, butter, some tins of soup and half a dozen apples. She opened the back door and found the icebox masquerading
as a lavatory to her left.
A creaking staircase led off from the kitchen to a door at the top, beyond which was the bedroom. The low-ceilinged room was almost entirely taken up by a sturdy wrought-iron bed covered in a
cheerful patchwork quilt. An oil lamp cast a warming, shadowy glow. Greta looked longingly at the bed but knew that, for the baby’s sake as much as her own, she needed to eat before she
slept.
After a supper of bread, soup and cheese in front of the fire, she yawned. She washed as best she could in the kitchen sink, realising she’d have to boil the kettle in future if she wanted
warm water. Then, shivering, she picked up her suitcases and finally made her way up the staircase.
Pulling her nightdress over her head, and adding a jumper on top of that, she pulled back the quilt and sank gratefully into the comfortable bed. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to wash
over her. The silence, after her noisy London room, was deafening. Eventually, exhaustion overtook her and she fell into a dreamless slumber.
5
Greta woke the following morning to the sound of two pigeons cooing outside her bedroom window. Feeling disoriented, she reached for her watch and saw that it was past ten
o’clock. She rose from the bed, drew the curtains back and peered out of the window.
The sky was a soft blue and the frost of the night before had been melted away by the weak winter sun, leaving a heavy dew. Below her, there was a gently sloping valley, its sides planted with a
dense wood, the huge trees now bare of leaves. The sound of rushing water told her a stream must be close by. Across from the river that bisected the floor of the valley she could see undulating
fields sloping upwards, populated with small white dots which must be sheep. And away to her left, presiding over the valley, stood a low red-brick house surrounded by sweeping lawns and tiers of
stone terraces. Its many mullioned windows glinted in the sun and she could see smoke coming from two of the four majestic chimneys. She assumed this must be Marchmont Hall. To the right of the
house there were barns and other outbuildings.
The sight of
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