despair.
“May I see the letter again?” he asked.
She fumbled in her reticule and brought out the folded piece of paper with its broken seal. She pushed it along the table to Thomas, still folded, as if she herself could not bear to look at it for the umpteenth time.
The letter was written in uneven script, in a hand that was not well educated. The address at the top of the page was River Cottage, Bridge Street, Hungerford. It was dated June 2, 1781, less than three months after Michael Farrell’s death. It read:
Dear Capt. Farrell,
Seeing how several weeks have passed since you last payed me in respect of your charge and since I have had no reply to my previous letters, I must assume that no more moneys will be forthcoming. I therefore regret to inform you that the child is now in the care of the parish workhouse and will remain there for as long as you choose him to be there.
I am, sir, your obedient servant,
Dora Pargiter (Widow)
The parish workhouse was no place for a grown man, let alone a small boy with perhaps a disability from where Hunter’s needle had stabbed him during the failed abortion, thought Thomas. He understood that the notion of her son in such a hellhole was a terrible burden for Lydia. She turned to him suddenly, her face gripped by a scowl.
“How could any woman do that, Thomas?” she blurted. “How could she turn out a little child whom she had nursed for the past three years?”
The young doctor shook his head. “Money makes people act in strange ways,” he replied. “But we do not know the full facts. Let us reserve judgment until we speak with this Widow Pargiter.”
Lydia knew his words were wise, and her features relaxed a little, as if she had been thrown a thread of hope.
“Perhaps she did not carry out her threat,” she muttered, then louder she added: “Perhaps she kept him after all!” Her eyes were suddenly bright with the thought that the widow might have relented and Thomas did not wish to dull them.
“Perhaps, my love,” he told her calmly. He brushed her flushed cheek with his finger. “But we will have to wait and see.”
The sun had not yet set, but already Amos Kidd had gone to bed. After downing a bowl of vegetable potage he had taken to his rest. He told his wife he would rise even earlier than usual to tend to his roses. It was something that the young doctor from the Colonies had said, something about nature giving warning signs. Nothing must happen to his beloved blooms. He must be there to protect them. He was their guardian—against wind, heat, frost, flood, greenfly—he would be there for them. So he would be up early, just to see that nothing could harm them.
The heat still draped itself languidly about every surface and although the cottage was cool, Susannah Kidd had unlaced her corset and taken off her skirt, so that she sat in her shift and petticoat. Easing herself into a chair, she stretched out her legs in front of her, planting her small, bare feet down on the flags. Pressed against the stones, she felt the thrill of the coolness dart up through her whole body. She shivered with delight.
The knife-grinder was standing at the window. He had been watching her sensuous dance through a heady haze of liquor for the past few minutes and hoped that he would not be turned away. After all, she had been so very welcoming at their first meeting. The pout of her lips and the look in her eye had told him he would be well received should he choose to call again.
He bent down, picked up a pebble, and tossed it in through the open casement. It bounced once and landed by Susannah’s feet. She let out a muted gasp and sat upright. Turning to the window, she saw a head swathed in a red scarf, teeth pearly white against tanned skin. Flying up from her chair, she hurried over to the man who had sharpened her scissors.
“Be gone with you!” she scolded him. “What do you think you are doing?” Her eyes shot to the bedroom door, but the
“May I see the letter again?” he asked.
She fumbled in her reticule and brought out the folded piece of paper with its broken seal. She pushed it along the table to Thomas, still folded, as if she herself could not bear to look at it for the umpteenth time.
The letter was written in uneven script, in a hand that was not well educated. The address at the top of the page was River Cottage, Bridge Street, Hungerford. It was dated June 2, 1781, less than three months after Michael Farrell’s death. It read:
Dear Capt. Farrell,
Seeing how several weeks have passed since you last payed me in respect of your charge and since I have had no reply to my previous letters, I must assume that no more moneys will be forthcoming. I therefore regret to inform you that the child is now in the care of the parish workhouse and will remain there for as long as you choose him to be there.
I am, sir, your obedient servant,
Dora Pargiter (Widow)
The parish workhouse was no place for a grown man, let alone a small boy with perhaps a disability from where Hunter’s needle had stabbed him during the failed abortion, thought Thomas. He understood that the notion of her son in such a hellhole was a terrible burden for Lydia. She turned to him suddenly, her face gripped by a scowl.
“How could any woman do that, Thomas?” she blurted. “How could she turn out a little child whom she had nursed for the past three years?”
The young doctor shook his head. “Money makes people act in strange ways,” he replied. “But we do not know the full facts. Let us reserve judgment until we speak with this Widow Pargiter.”
Lydia knew his words were wise, and her features relaxed a little, as if she had been thrown a thread of hope.
“Perhaps she did not carry out her threat,” she muttered, then louder she added: “Perhaps she kept him after all!” Her eyes were suddenly bright with the thought that the widow might have relented and Thomas did not wish to dull them.
“Perhaps, my love,” he told her calmly. He brushed her flushed cheek with his finger. “But we will have to wait and see.”
The sun had not yet set, but already Amos Kidd had gone to bed. After downing a bowl of vegetable potage he had taken to his rest. He told his wife he would rise even earlier than usual to tend to his roses. It was something that the young doctor from the Colonies had said, something about nature giving warning signs. Nothing must happen to his beloved blooms. He must be there to protect them. He was their guardian—against wind, heat, frost, flood, greenfly—he would be there for them. So he would be up early, just to see that nothing could harm them.
The heat still draped itself languidly about every surface and although the cottage was cool, Susannah Kidd had unlaced her corset and taken off her skirt, so that she sat in her shift and petticoat. Easing herself into a chair, she stretched out her legs in front of her, planting her small, bare feet down on the flags. Pressed against the stones, she felt the thrill of the coolness dart up through her whole body. She shivered with delight.
The knife-grinder was standing at the window. He had been watching her sensuous dance through a heady haze of liquor for the past few minutes and hoped that he would not be turned away. After all, she had been so very welcoming at their first meeting. The pout of her lips and the look in her eye had told him he would be well received should he choose to call again.
He bent down, picked up a pebble, and tossed it in through the open casement. It bounced once and landed by Susannah’s feet. She let out a muted gasp and sat upright. Turning to the window, she saw a head swathed in a red scarf, teeth pearly white against tanned skin. Flying up from her chair, she hurried over to the man who had sharpened her scissors.
“Be gone with you!” she scolded him. “What do you think you are doing?” Her eyes shot to the bedroom door, but the
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