Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood

13: Broom Cottage

Peter was determined to pretend that nothing had happened the day before, that he had not made an utter fool of himself and as good as told Phyllida that he loved her. He chirped away at breakfast, therefore, as if he had not the least care in the world. Charu’s indefatigable chattering helped things along, and Peter was very glad of it, for Taylor, although he condescended to eat his meals with them, clearly felt that his place was in the stable yard, so he slunk into the parlour at the last minute, ate in swift silence and then slunk out again.

It was Phyllida who was silent this morning, and it was only when Peter remembered how momentous a day this was for her that he felt ashamed of himself. He had thought only of his own blunder and his feelings, and what must she be thinking today? This was the day when she might discover whether her son was alive or dead.

They left Charu to enjoy the delights of the drapery and set off in the carriage, following the directions provided by the hotelier. The inn’s horses were sluggish, so they moved at walking pace through the countryside. Since Peter was to play the part of man of business today, rather than footman, he was properly attired as a gentleman and rode inside the carriage with Miss Beasley. His enthusiasm for conversation over breakfast had quite deserted him, so they sat in silence, and he could not even be sure it was a comfortable silence. He had detected no change in her demeanour towards him, but surely he had embarrassed and insulted her by speaking so openly. Besides, it was not the act of a gentleman to talk of love when he was in no position to offer marriage.

After almost an hour of painful silence, and stopping three times for directions, they reached the small village where the orphanage had now settled. Broom Cottage was rather a surprise. It was not the sort of cottage that any farm labourer would call home, rather something that a wealthy family might use as a dower house, or a home for the eldest son. It was considerably larger than Whitfield Villa, with fresh paint on the shutters and sparkling glass in the windows.

Surrounding it were substantial grounds and every inch seemed to be given over to the production of food — vegetable beds, orchards laden with fruit, a pond with ducks and geese, a herbarium and at the back, pasturage for cows.

“Well, this is all very orderly,” Miss Beasley said, peering out of the carriage. “This is not at all what I expected.”

“You thought it would be disorderly?” Peter said, amused.

“Not exactly, but… the old orphanage was very dreary and regimented, and this feels like a good place to raise children.”

“It reminds me of Linch’s cottage at Langridge Hall.”

“Precisely! Although this is on a larger scale, even a dovecot over there, do you see? I am sure there will be a piggery somewhere.”

“Bound to be,” Peter said. “What self-respecting orphanage would be without its piggery? I wonder if there is a dairy, too, and a brewery? Miss Beasley, are you quite sure you wish to wait here? I shall still do all the talking, but—”

“No, no. I shall entertain myself by watching the apple picking.” She gestured to where a group of children, the boys in trousers and smocks, the girls wearing aprons, were engaged in picking apples from a tree at the side of the house.

Peter nodded, and descended from the carriage. Making his way to the front door, he rang a large bell hanging from a hook on one side. Engraved in the lintel were the words ‘St Thomas Orphanage’ and below it ‘Work hard. Help others. Trust in God.’

The very words Miss Beasley had embroidered onto the token given to her son. That was curious. Another aproned girl opened the door and ushered Peter inside. The hall smelled strongly of lavender and beeswax, and the simple wooden furniture gleamed with polish.

A man in the Geneva bands of a clergyman rushed out from an inner room, coat tails flying. “Good day, good day, good day. Are you here for Thomas Lively? You are a little early, but I will have him fetched for you at once.”

“No, I am not here for that, and I have no appointment,” Peter said with what he hoped was a genial smile. “I apologise for descending upon you without warning, but I wish to enquire about a child who was left here some years ago. A young woman was left in dire straits and was obliged to leave her child here.”

They had agreed that he would recount the original story, of a widow needing to take employment, but the deception made him uncomfortable, so he told only so much of it as was true.

The clergyman nodded. “Of course. We have all the records. The mother… she was unable to come herself? But it is often so. A mother is forced to give up her child and later makes a new life for herself, a happy life, a fulfilled life, but naturally she never forgets the child she lost. And she has spoken of it to you and you wish to set her mind at ease, by bringing good news to your friend. And if it should chance that there is no good news, as sometimes happens despite all our endeavours, then she need never know of it. That is admirable. Do come through to the office. My name is Holt, by the way. Curate to the parish of St Thomas, and master here.”

“Peter Winslade, formerly of Low Hill, near Leeds and currently residing with my cousin at Cloverstone Manor, in Shropshire.”

Mr Holt gave him a searching glance. “Now then, Mr Winslade, do you have a name for the child? We do try to keep the name, if one is supplied, but sometimes a foundling is left with no indication. And the date, of course.”

“His mother named him Christian Barnaby, and as to the date, it would have been April of twenty-one years ago.”

“Christian Barnaby…”

The clergyman gazed at him wide-eyed, and Peter’s heart sank. The child had died, then. That was a blow. But he recognised the name. That was interesting.

“Christian Barnaby…” he said again. “You are acquainted, then, with Mrs Barnaby? With his mother?”

A difficult question to answer honestly. “I have been asked by a friend to make this enquiry.”

“You are from Shropshire, you say?”

That was a puzzling leap. “I moved there about a month ago, yes.”

“So you know Mrs Barnaby. She came from Shropshire, too.”

“Mr Holt, I wish only to know what became of the boy… whether he lived or died, principally.”

The clergyman exhaled slowly, then rose and walked to the window. “There is a lady in the carriage. Is it Mrs Barnaby?”

Peter rose too, angry now. “I do not see what the child’s mother has to do with this. It is a simple enough question, Mr Holt. A child was left here twenty-one years ago, bearing the name Christian Barnaby. Is he alive or is he dead?”

“Forgive me! He is alive… very much alive, but… I must tell you all. A glass of Madeira, sir?”

Peter accepted the drink and sat in the chair indicated.

“He came to us with a token, which is a commonplace with our children,” Holt said. “A family may have too many children to cope with, or a woman finds herself with child and no husband, so the babe is left with us, with a token, so that his family may reclaim him later. But Christian’s token was not the usual carved toy or polished stone — his was a piece of embroidery, with the words ‘Work hard. Help others. Trust in God.’ Those words were so inspirational to all of us here that we had them carved over the front door. Did you notice them?”

Peter nodded.

“Also embroidered on that square of linen were the words ‘Floreat Salopia’. Let Shropshire flourish. A strange inscription to leave with a foundling child in Harrogate, would you not agree? But a year later, on Lady Day, a sum of money was transferred to us from a bank in Shrewsbury. Every year thereafter, another sum was transferred from Shrewsbury. Which is in Shropshire, is it not? Do you see now why the name Barnaby resonates with us so greatly? Why I am so interested in Shropshire?”

Again Peter nodded. It was a development they should have foreseen, he felt, and created a more devious story to hide their true intentions. Yet neither he nor Miss Beasley had liked to deceive, so they had agreed to stick to the truth as much as possible, and now they were properly caught out. Holt knew who Miss Beasley was.

Holt went on, “Perhaps it was presumptuous, but we concluded that Mrs Barnaby perhaps had not forgotten her babe and wished to help him. And she did, Mr Winslade. That benevolence helped him and all the children here. With that money, we were able to move here, to the clean air and fertile soil of the countryside. On the assumption that our benefactress was Christian’s mother, we took her words to heart. We encouraged the children to work hard, to help others and to trust in God. And when they left our care and went into service, or to become apprentices, they carried that motto with them. They worked hard for their masters. They trusted in God. And they sent a part of their wages here to the orphanage to help those left behind. Mrs Barnaby’s money, and her wise words, have enabled us to establish a community here which is sufficient unto itself. We grow or raise virtually all our own food, Mr Winslade. We make our own clothes and furniture. We keep the house and outbuildings in good repair. And we raise hard-working, God-fearing subjects of the King who are a credit to us and to the great kindness of the lady whose goodness aided us for all those years.”

“That is wonderful,” Peter said, and meant it. “We all, if we can afford it, give to various charitable enterprises in the hope of relieving poverty and perhaps giving a helping hand to those unable to help themselves, but it is rare to hear of charity turned to such good account. I believe the credit for it must also be laid at your door, sir. You have had the management of this orphanage.”

“I hope I have been of some use, it is true, and certainly my predecessor, who was in charge when Christian was left with us, had different ideas. He was more concerned with the children’s moral welfare, and kept them at their prayers and Bible readings for hours. But my wife and I never had children of our own, so we decided we would raise our orphans exactly as if they were our own flesh and blood, and let them run about in the fresh air and engage in healthful pursuits like digging vegetable beds.”

“And raising pigs?” Peter ventured with a smile. “I feel sure you have a pig or two somewhere about the place.”

“Three in a pen at the bottom of the orchard, and they will keep us in bacon and ham for the whole winter,” Holt said, laughing. “You see, we are very well placed now, thanks to Mrs Barnaby. I do not ask you to tell me any secrets, Mr Winslade. But if you know the lady, you may tell her that we no longer need her benevolence. She helped to build the ship during all those years, but we are well afloat now and need her generosity no longer. She may turn her charity in a different direction if she is so minded.”

~~~~~

Phyllida watched Peter enter the house in a curious mixture of terror and exhilaration. Soon she would know. Perhaps her son was dead, and she could set the past behind her, and perhaps he was alive and she could rejoice in that, but either way she would know for sure and the debilitating uncertainty would be gone.

For a while she watched the children. The boys were perched on ladders, reaching at precarious angles to pluck every last fruit, while the girls caught them in their outspread aprons and then put them carefully in baskets. A woman came out to check on them after a while, and the girls bobbed neat curtsies to her and then returned to their task. It was a pleasant, wholesome scene, and Phyllida wondered if her son had taken his turn up the ladders. It would have been some years ago, for none of these children were much above ten or twelve. Presumably they went into employment as soon as they were able. She hoped her son had found congenial work. Twenty-one! A man grown now, and perhaps he had a sweetheart. Perhaps he was even married with a babe of his own.

Eventually Peter emerged from the house again. He was smiling! Good news, then. A clergyman saw him off from the door, but thankfully did not accompany him to the carriage. Peter opened the door, climbed inside, setting the carriage swaying, rapped on the roof and Taylor set the horses in motion. The clergyman, still standing in the open door, waved cheerfully.

“He is alive and well,” Peter said at once in a low voice, although there was little danger of Taylor overhearing.

Phyllida exhaled slowly, relief washing over her. “Thank God!”

As they drove, he told her everything that the clergyman had said. Her son had gone into a good apprenticeship, seemingly, and had done very well for himself. And her money was no longer needed! That was a surprise.

“It may be employed where it will be of more use, for the orphanage has finances enough now,” Peter said. “He made much of your contribution, and said they could not have moved to that house without it, but perhaps he exaggerates. I daresay they have other donors now, and no longer need your small mite.”

“Yes, I am sure that is so,” she said. “Did he tell you what he is doing? My boy?”

“Christian Barnaby. They kept the name you gave him. I told him what we agreed, that we have no wish to disrupt his life in any way, and would leave it up to Mr Holt to decide whether to tell him of our visit or not. I have left my Shropshire address with him, so he can write if he feels the urge.”

For the whole journey back to Harrogate, they talked of the orphanage and of Christian. How wonderful to give him his proper name at last! She had never been confident that the name she had chosen would be retained, and if he had died— But he lived and had his right name, and somehow the world seemed a better place for knowing that.

“Would you want to see him?” Peter had said at one point, as they crawled through the busy streets. “If there was a way for you to see him, perhaps without him knowing, would you be pleased?”

She thought about that for a moment. “I do not need to see him,” she said at length. “I believe I could go home now and know nothing more about him. I wanted to know if he had survived, that is all. But I should be pleased, I think, to know what he looks like, to have an image in my mind to carry back home with me.” She sighed. “And yet, it would cause me once again to lament my lack of artistic capability. If I could draw even passably well, I should be able to take his likeness, and then I should have some little piece of him to carry home with me, for remembrance. Minds fail, after all. The only reason I remember what Aunt Margery looked like is because she had her portrait taken once.”

“It is a pity Susannah is not with us,” Peter said. “She is a talented artist.”

“Oh yes, but Dr Broughton is the one for faces. He draws all his patients, you know, and one feels as if one knows them. It is in the eyes, I think. He is very good with eyes. He took a likeness of Mrs Cokely before she died, and then had it framed. It is such a comfort to poor Lucy. There now, I am babbling, I believe. It is relief, I think, that it all went off so well and he is alive and… and all the things I feared have not come to pass.”

“I like your babbling,” he said equably.

“You are such a kind friend to me, Peter,” she said quietly, lowering her head so that he should not see the tears glittering in her eyes. “I should never have come here but for you, and now I shall be able to go home and not worry about my boy… about Christian any more. And apart from you, no one knows the truth.”

All afternoon, as they sat in the parlour in the Half Moon, they talked of him, although there was nothing new to be said. Charu came in once or twice, laden with parcels, before dashing out again. She had found two more draperies, three millineries and a haberdasher, and was in transports over them all. But when she had gone they turned back to the only subject Phyllida could think about, and Peter very kindly listened and agreed with every comment and made not the least complaint.

At length, Charu ran out of shops to visit, or perhaps they had run out of goods to sell to her, for she returned to the hotel for good, and all talk of Christian was at an end. She chattered on about her purchases when the hotel servants began to lay out the dinner on the table, and even as Taylor crept in to his place and picked up his soup spoon, she was still talking about a bonnet she had seen which she wished to describe to Lucy Cokely.

Then the door opened and the hotelier stepped inside, his expression puzzled. “There is someone to see you, sir,” he said to Peter. “From Beckford’s, the coach builder. Is there a problem with your carriage? For we have our own people—”

“Nothin’ wrong wi’ it,” Taylor said.

“Oh. Then…”

“I will talk to him and see what he wants,” Peter said, rising from his seat.

Before he could take a step, a young man came in, both tall and broad, good looking, oddly eager. Phyllida caught her breath in shock — his features were so familiar! So like her father! Peter must have heard her gasp, for he turned to look at her momentarily. “Let us talk outside.”

It was too late. The young man looked past him to scan the room, saw Taylor and Charu, passed on. Saw Phyllida and stopped, his face lightening into a beatific smile.

“You came at last!” he said eagerly. “I never gave up hope that one day my mother would come for me.”

Charu gave a squeak of surprise. Taylor dropped his spoon with a clatter.