Daughter of Dark River Farm (23 page)

‘No!’

He stared at my face a moment longer, gauging my honesty before subsiding, and sitting down opposite me.

‘Well then?’

He was a stranger. I couldn’t tell him about my experience with Colonel Drewe, even if I’d felt able to discuss my worries for Amy’s future, which I couldn’t. I didn’t need to, in any case; those worries were echoed in the way he had risked so much to snatch her from her mother. That I could imagine it more vividly than he could was not something to be discussed, and made little difference anyway.

‘My family turned me out,’ I said at last. ‘The lady at Dark River Farm, Frances Adams, took me into her home, and made me her daughter. I feel I have a real home now.’ I glanced at the bedroom door again, feeling tears prickling at my eyes. ‘I want the same thing for Amy, Mr Markham. It’s just…not fair.’

‘Why did your family disown you?’ His voice was softer now, and I believed he had accepted my reason.

‘I can’t tell you. It’s not important, anyway.’ I took a sip of tea and that helped to steady my voice. ‘But you can trust me. It wasn’t anything dishonest. I’m not a liar or a thief, like the Wingfields.’

‘And you wouldn’t take payment for what you’re doing?’

‘No. Well,’ I hesitated, ‘perhaps just the cost of the train tickets to Blackpool. I have the money to get to Devon myself; I was going back there today anyway, but—’

‘I’ll give you the money,’ he said, a little gruffly. ‘Don’t think I’m mean. I just know that if you weren’t genuine about helping you’d more than likely demand some kind of…recompense for your trouble, shall we say?’

‘I promise you, Mr Markham, I only want to help. Truly.’

‘When would you leave?’

‘The sooner the better. But first I think we should try and smarten her up a little bit. Would you allow me to bathe her and wash her hair?’ His lower lip trembled and clamped his top teeth into it to stop it. I looked away. ‘I’ll be very gentle,’ I said quietly. When I looked back, he had himself under control again, and was nodding.

‘I’ll fetch the few things I’ve managed to get for her off the market,’ he said. ‘A few shirts and things on the thrift stalls is all.’

‘That will be enough,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could come in and explain to her what’s happening, so she’s not frightened?’

To my surprise Amy sat still for me, not even moving when I accidentally tugged at a tangle and yanked her head back, and that happened more than once; it was obvious her hair had not been brushed for a long time. The only time she reacted was when I reached out to take the spoon from her so I could work her too-thin little arms into the sleeve of her blouse. The shriek ripped through the room and brought Frank running, his face pale.

‘It’s all right,’ I said quickly, relinquishing my hold on the spoon. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Markham. She’s not hurt.’

‘’Poon!’ Amy said, clutching it to her chest and looking at me with such a look of betrayal I found it hard not to laugh. Frank’s face too, flickered into a smile, and he crouched beside his daughter.

‘Sweetheart, the lady isn’t going to take it away; she just wants to look at it. Will you let her see how pretty it is?’

Amy’s face rose to mine, her eyes brimming with tears, but she held the spoon out to me. I took it, swallowing a rush of emotion that made my voice husky. ‘Thank you.’ I wasn’t sure if I was grateful to Amy or Frank, or just for the chance to help these two mismatched and lost people. Neither did I know how I’d feel when it was time to part them.

We attracted no untoward attention at the railway station. Frank was well known in the town, and drew some interest at being seen with a young woman and a little girl, but he fixed a broad smile on his face and introduced us as family from the West Country. I was just preparing myself for the saddest of goodbyes, when I saw he was holding a ticket for himself. He saw me glance at it, and shrugged.

‘It’s not that I don’t trust you,’ he began, a little embarrassed, but I smiled.

‘I’d expect nothing less.’ I looked down at Amy, barely recognisable as the shaggy-haired child of this morning. She held my hand without hesitation; I wanted to believe it was because she trusted me already, but the realistic part of me knew she’d spent her entire young life being handed from person to person, and I was simply another in a long line of strangers into whose care she had been put. I saw Frank gently brush at the newly washed, dead-straight hair that hung beneath her bonnet, and looked away. The parting, when it eventually came, would hurt a great deal, but it wouldn’t be Amy who felt the pain.

‘It’s number eighty-four.’

We stood at the top of an impossibly long street in Great Marton, on the outskirts of Blackpool. It looked as if the road would lead all the way through the heart of the city, right out to the coast, if we followed it; even though it was perfectly straight I couldn’t see the end.

‘The road’s miles long,’ I said, looking down at Amy doubtfully. Will she be able to walk all that way?’

‘It’s only halfway down,’ he said, and I wondered how many times he’d been back here, eyeing the wealth that would have been his were it not for ancient family feuds. ‘On the left of the street. She’ll be fine.’ He crouched beside her, holding her arm with his one good hand. ‘You be good, little one, and maybe you’ll have a fine bedroom of your own tonight. Lots of toys. Would you like that?’

She nodded, but gripped her spoon tightly, as if reassuring herself that, no matter how many new toys she might somehow be given, she would always have that one.

‘Why is she so attached to it?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. Shiny, I suppose. She had it when I found her, and when I tried to take it off her, to put it in my own pocket so she wouldn’t lose it, she yelled to split the roof, just like she did with you.’ He smiled and straightened, but as he turned away I could see his jaw quilt with suppressed emotion. ‘I’ll be waiting down there, in the park.’ He pointed. ‘I’ll look after your case so’s you can carry Amy’s. Take as much time as you need, only…’ he cleared his throat ‘…come and tell me. Whatever happens.’

‘I will.’

He bent to pick up my suitcase, and I waited to see if he would actually say goodbye to his daughter, but when it became clear he wouldn’t I took a firmer hold on Amy’s hand, and drew her away down the street.

I still didn’t know what I was going to say. I had been wracking my brains on the train journey, to no avail, and it was only as we passed a small Anglican church, set back from the road, that an idea took hold. I bent and checked Amy’s appearance, then led her to the door of the church. It was empty, but the back door stood open and, going through it into the small churchyard at the rear of the church, away from the road, I saw the vicar pulling up weeds from around an old, heavily leaning headstone.

‘Excuse me,’ I called. The vicar turned and straightened, eyeing the two of us with curiosity. Amy’s hair colour and mine were both so vivid, yet very different. It was unlikely we were mother and daughter so it was best not to pretend we were.

‘How can I help?’ He threw the pile of weeds he’d been clutching onto a heap by the church wall, and wiped his hands on his trousers as he came over, prior to offering a handshake.

‘I was wondering if you might know of a generous family,’ I began, and saw his face cloud. ‘I’m not looking for money, but for a safe home for my…my sister’s little girl.’

‘Where’s her real home?’ He bent and looked closely at Amy, presumably searching for any sign of fear or ill-treatment. I was glad for his concern—it boded well—but hoped Amy wouldn’t choose this moment to react poorly to strangers, or to break her customary silence and blurt out the truth. And I also hoped, fervently, that the kindly, middle-aged man wouldn’t try to have a closer look at the silver spoon.

‘Her mother, my sister, is unwell, and her father…’ I let myself tail off, hoping he would make the logical assumption without making me lie. I found it hard enough to spin a tale to a man of the cloth, but I didn’t want to invoke a dark fate by speaking of death, not here in this churchyard.

‘And have you no other family?’

‘None, sir. I am about to leave for Flanders. Red Cross, you know. And my sister is terrified her child will be taken to an orphanage. She will be well again soon, we hope, and able to care for her daughter.’ Again, I allowed doubt to enter my voice, and the vicar’s expression clouded as he reached the conclusion I’d been hoping for.

He pursed his lips. ‘A generous family, you say?’

‘Generous-hearted, I should have said.’

‘What brings you to this street?’

I floundered then, but decided to push my luck a little farther. ‘My sister told me of a well-off family who she once worked for, and told me Great Marton was where they lived, but I’m afraid I’m not certain where to begin looking. Since we have no reason to believe they would take Amy anyway, I thought it best, when I saw your church, to see if you knew of
any
home where Amy might be safe and comfortable for a little while.’

His local curiosity was piqued. ‘What family?’

I pretended to stumble over the name; I didn’t want to put the words into his mouth. ‘I’m afraid it’s been a difficult time… I think perhaps it was MacKenzie?’

‘McKrevie?’

I found it hard not to smile with relief. ‘Oh. Yes, perhaps that was it.’

The vicar frowned. ‘Well, I’d never thought of them as generous-
hearted
, as such, but they do contribute financially to the upkeep of the church. Although—’ he brightened slightly ‘—Mr McKrevie’s two granddaughters are in town presently. They’re both certainly kind enough to sweeten the old…uh…’ He stopped, blushing slightly. ‘They live at number eighty-four. The big house with the courtyard, and the sycamores by the gate.’

I knew it was pushing things too far to hope he might agree to accompany me, so I said the next best thing. ‘Could I ask your name, sir, so they know I’ve spoken to you?’

‘You can tell them Father Steven sent you. And good luck, young lady. Young
ladies
.’ He doffed an imaginary cap, and I smiled.

‘Thank you so much, Father Steven.’

Armed now with a story, and the name of a respectable referee, I rang the bell of number eighty-four, and waited with a thundering heart.

Chapter Thirteen

‘There’s no Mrs McKrevie,’ the butler told me, eyeing Amy with ill-concealed curiosity.

‘Mr McKrevie then?’

‘Which one?’

I thought back, and somehow came up with the name: ‘Mr Ballentyne McKrevie?’

After a moment I was shown to the sitting room of the large, though certainly not Oaklands-sized house. It was more like the type of house in which I’d grown up—a respectable and fairly impressive town house. The furniture was plain, which I liked, but there were no feminine touches that I could see, which meant I couldn’t hope for a woman’s sympathy. My story suddenly rested on very thin ice. I had no time to think up another, however; the door opened and a tall, thin man came in. His face was craggy and lined, and his eyes, sitting above puffy pockets, gleamed with sharp intelligence.

I stood up immediately, keeping the still-silent Amy’s hand firmly in mine. Behind Mr McKrevie I saw two girls, one around Evie’s age, one perhaps sixteen. They were both pretty, but the younger girl, black-haired and blue-eyed, had a liveliness about her that was evident from the outset; she didn’t sit politely, like the other one, but drifted about the room, paying little attention to either Amy or myself, or, indeed, the man I guessed was her grandfather.

He opened his mouth to speak to me, then, distracted and irritated, turned to her. ‘For crying out loud, girl, sit down!’ His accent was strongly Scottish, and although it was nothing like Archie’s gentle accent it gave me an unexpectedly sharp pain.

‘Sorry, Grandfather,’ the girl said, and came to sit beside her sister, who was looking from me to Amy as if trying to guess what I would say before I said it.

I brought the story out again, seeing the younger sister soften as I hinted at Amy’s tragic circumstances, and made sure to mention Father Steven. ‘He said you were very generous-hearted, and always contributed to the upkeep of the church,’ I half lied.

‘Did he now? And that makes you think you can just walk in and drop your wee cast-off here?’

‘She’s not mine,’ I repeated calmly. ‘I’m just trying to do someone a service.’

‘What did you say her parents were called?’

I faltered, then decided on names I’d remember, so I wouldn’t trip myself up later. ‘Her mother’s Evie, and her father’s William.’

‘Can you prove you knew these people? Have you any photographs of you with them? Or with her? How do I know you haven’t just snatched her off the street?’

To what purpose?
I wanted to ask, but didn’t. ‘No, I have no photographs with me, I’m sorry.’

‘Grandfather, it’s only for a little while,’ the younger girl said. ‘We have the room to spare, and she wouldn’t be any trouble, I’m sure.’

‘She wouldn’t,’ I said eagerly, shooting her a grateful look. ‘And Evie would collect her just as soon as she recovered.’

‘Open the child’s bag,’ McKrevie said.

My patience with his games was growing short; either he would consider taking the child under his roof or he wouldn’t. ‘May I ask why?’

‘I want to see what kind of provision your sister has made for her daughter,’ he said bluntly. ‘If there’s care taken over what she’s provided, I might believe your tale.’

I swallowed an angry retort. After all I was the liar here. He was perfectly right to disbelieve me. But I could see now why Frank had known Amy would not be welcome here. He knew his father’s reputation well. I opened Amy’s small bag, and McKrevie hooked it towards him with his foot. He pulled out the few, clearly old and ill-fitting blouses, dresses and items of footwear, laying them surprisingly neatly on the floor beside him. I watched, with growing despair, as I saw exactly what he was seeing.

‘None of these will fit that girl properly,’ he said at last. ‘You’ve just picked these off a market stall.’

‘I haven’t!’ That, at least, was the truth.

‘Grandfather, the little girl’s sweet,’ said the older girl. ‘And look, she’s very well behaved.’