The Journey (13 page)

Raising the beater, she brought it down against the rug so hard that it danced on the clothes-line; another good hard wallop, and the dust flew in all directions, not as much as when she had first brought the rug out, but enough to give her a coughing fit, and send the startled magpie off to the skies.

“Cowardly creative!” she called after it. “Mind, if I had wings, I’d be off too.” Oh, and she would an’ all! Away above the chimney-tops ever so high, she would raise her head and flap her wings fast and furious until she was across the oceans, then she’d keep going until she reached some tropical paradise. But she wouldn’t go alone, oh no. Wherever she went, she would take her darling son with her.

From the office window upstairs, the tall, elegant woman watched Lucy as she worked; the Squire’s secretary could hear Lucy’s voice raised in song, but that wasn’t unusual, because during her working day, whether inside or out, Lucy’s melodious singing could be heard all over Haskell House. “You’re a good soul, Lucy Baker,” Miss McGuire murmured, putting down her fountain-pen. “Hardworking and happy as the day is long.”

As she watched Lucy hoist the rug from the line and drop it to the ground, she was taken by surprise when the girl suddenly looked up to see her there. “I won’t be long,” she called out. “I’m finished just now.”

Lucy quickened her steps toward the house, the hot breeze playing with the hem of her skirt, her feet bare as the day she was born; with the rug carried in her arms, like a mother might carry a bairn, she made a fetching sight.

When a moment or two later, Lucy burst into the kitchen, Miss McGuire was waiting for her. “For the life of me, Lucy, I don’t know why you beat the rug when you could use that new vacuum cleaner. It
was
bought to suck up the dirt and dust from the floor, after all, and to save the staff here from heavy work.”

“I
do
use it,” Lucy protested, “but it’s not very good. Sometimes things get stuck in it and it won’t work, and then old Jake has to see to it, and while he’s doing that I still have to beat the rugs.” She prodded the one in her arms. “This one is no good at all. It’s got long fringes and they go flying up into the workings and then it’s the devil’s own job to free them. It’s much quicker just to give it a sound beating on the clothes-line.”

The Squire’s secretary tended to agree, but did not say so. Instead she looked down at Lucy’s bare feet. Small and neat, they were covered in a film of dust, and there was the tiniest leaf sticking out between the toes. “Never mind the rug,” she retorted. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me why you aren’t wearing your boots?” Exasperated at the times she had asked the young woman to always wear her boots for fear of hurting herself on the harsh ground, she groaned. “Just look at your poor feet, Lucy … covered in dust and picking up all the debris from the ground. One of these days you’re bound to get an injury. I’ve asked you so many times to wear your work-boots, I’m worn out with it.”

Lucy looked down at her feet. “I’m a mucky pup, I know,” she conceded, wiggling her toes to be rid of the leaf, “but I feel so uncomfortable with the boots on. I’m sorry, Miss McGuire. I’ll try to wear them, I promise.”

“And how many times have you said that?” The secretary rolled her eyes. “And how many times have I seen you running about in your bare feet? It isn’t as though you’re a child, Lucy. You’re a grown woman of nearly thirty, for heaven’s sake, and you have a little one to think of. What would happen if something fell on your feet and broke them? How would you go on then, eh?”

“I know, and I’m really sorry,” Lucy repeated. “I promise I’ll try to keep the shoes on.” Lucy hated wearing shoes of any kind, almost as much as she hated cold porridge.

“Mind you do then.” The secretary was a kindly sort. She had little to do with the housekeeper’s staff here at the House, but she had always had a soft spot for Lucy.

“Anyway, enough of this. It’s time you went home,” she told Lucy now. “There hasn’t been a day in the past fortnight when you’ve left on time.”

“That’s ’cause I like to finish all my work before I go,” Lucy explained.

“I know that, all too well,” came the reply. “But you must leave time for yourself … and the child.” The secretary tried hard not to be shocked by the young woman’s situation as an unmarried mother. The Squire never listened to gossip so he remained ignorant of Jamie’s existence; however, some of the other staff were aware of her status and shunned Lucy because of it.

“Oh, I do!” Lucy answered eagerly. “When I’m not working here, I spend every passing minute with him.” A look of sheer joy lit her face. “You can’t know how much I love him. No one can.”

Dorothy was fond enough of Lucy to tell her, “I’m sure I
do
know how much you love him. All I’m saying is this: it’s no wonder you still haven’t found a man to take care of you and the child, what with you working all hours, and here you are already twenty-nine years of age. Most young women are safely married and settled in their own home at that age.” This didn’t apply to her either, she acknowledge sadly.

When she saw the downcast look on Lucy’s face she was mortified. “I’ve spoken out of turn, my dear. I didn’t mean to be cruel. It’s just that you’re such a lovely young woman and I do care what happens to you. I’d hate to think you were destined to spend your life all alone.”

“It’s all right, Miss McGuire, I don’t mind.” But she did, and now her thoughts were filled with memories of a dark-eyed man who had quickly come into her life and filled her days with fun, and then just as quickly gone out of her life, without so much as a how’s your father!

But she had not forgotten him. She never would. Especially when he’d left her with child, and it had caused so much trouble at home that she was made to leave in disgrace—and soon after, her mother and father split up and went their separate ways. And now she had no family at all, save for her little boy, who was everything to her.

“Go on then! Be off with you, before the housekeeper finds you another job to do. And don’t worry. I’ll let her know you’ve gone.”

The woman’s voice invaded her thoughts, and when she looked up, the kindly secretary was already on her way down the long corridor.

Dragging the rug through the kitchen, Lucy got it to the drawing room, where she rolled it out before the big fireplace. “All done for another day.” Sometimes Lucy sang, and sometimes like now, she talked to herself, and then there was the time when she got caught dancing on the sofa-table and almost got her marching orders from the housekeeper.

It was the same at home. Often Bridget would say, “For the love of God, will ye sit still and be quiet!” But she couldn’t. There was too much life in her, and it wasn’t her fault.

Without wasting any more time, Lucy ran to the cupboard where her two pairs of shoes were lined up: black lace-up boots for work, and daintier shoes with ankle-straps for going home in. Taking out the ankle-strap shoes, she put them on and, flicking her long hair out of her eyes, she hurried out of the back door, her voice raised in song and her feet skipping as she went.

By the kennels at the side of the house, Lucy stopped to pet the hounds. She had a marvellous way with animals; whenever they had the chance, the squire’s hounds would follow her everywhere, and while everyone else would stay clear of the bull in its pen, Lucy could often be seen defying instructions to lean over the gate and stroke its nose.

Lucy was halfway down the hill when she stopped to take off her shoes. The grass looked so warm, lush and inviting in the evening heat. Tying the ankle straps together, she slung the shoes over her shoulder and went on in bare feet.

She was almost at the brook when she saw the figure of a man coming toward her. It wasn’t the Squire, or he’d have his dogs with him, and it wasn’t Barney Davidson from Overhill Farm, because he was smaller-built.

She often spoke with Barney when he was out on the hills with his sheep or doing other work on the land. She liked him; he had a kind, caring manner, and was easy to talk with. In fact, if he wasn’t married and she wasn’t still completely infatuated with Frank, she could have fallen for him herself.

While Lucy grew increasingly curious about the man approaching from the bottom of the hill, he was also straining his eyes to see if it really was Lucy drawing ever closer, though when he saw that familiar wave of long hair flowing in the breeze and the cheeky swagger of her long limbs, he knew it was her and began to run. “LUCY!” The wind carried his voice across the valley. “LUCY BAKER, IT’S ME! IT’S YOUR SWEETHEART COME HOME!”

Hearing the voice, but unable to decipher the words, Lucy stopped and stared. With the sun directly in her face she couldn’t see his features. But she saw the long, confident strides as he ran to her, and when he dropped the kitbag from his back, there was something disturbingly familiar about the way he moved. Slowly but surely, realization dawned. “Frankie? My Frankie?” She whispered his name; was it really him? Excitement coursed through her, but she didn’t call out or run forward. She didn’t dare trust her own judgment.

By the time he got closer for her to recognize him, she took to her heels and ran to meet him. When he caught her in his arms and swung her high in the air, she laughed and cried with sheer joy. “Oh Frankie, I thought I’d never see you again!” She looked into his dark eyes and thought she would never again be so happy.

“I told you I’d be back.” Breathless, he set her down. “I’ve never forgotten you, Lucy. Every day, every minute we’ve been apart, I’ve thought of this day.”

Caught up in the excitement of the moment, he kissed her long and hard, and held the kiss until Lucy thought she would suffocate.

“Stop!” Flattening her hands against his chest she remembered how he had walked out on her. “What makes you think you can waltz back into my life and just pick up where you left off? You signed up and sailed away without a by your leave, and now you’re back with the same damned cheek of it!”

Lucy had not forgotten the humiliation, the pain of it all, and then the despair. It had been a bad business for her, and then she found out she was with child and had to suffer in silence until she could hide the secret no longer. Her pregnancy—which caused a great scandal in the neighborhood—created rows and repercussions between her parents, and in the end she witnessed the break-up of her family, and that was as much Frank’s fault as her own.

For a long time things had gone from bad to worse, and still she had hoped he might return. But he never did—until now. And though she was thrilled beyond words to see him, she couldn’t help but chide him. “You let me down good and proper, Frankie Trent!”

When he now looked desolate, she instantly forgave him and taking off at the run, shouted, “If you want me, you’ll have to catch me!”

And catch her he did; on the little slope just above the stream. He threw himself bodily at her, and together the two of them went rolling down the hill, until they landed up right next to the brook. She cupped a handful of water and chucked it at him while he lay helpless with laughter.

“You’re a bloody lunatic!” he screeched, and she couldn’t speak for spluttering. Her heart was leaping about inside her like a salmon: after all this time, when she had given up any hope of ever seeing him again,
Frank Trent was back.

It was too wonderful for words. Her baby’s father was home to make a proper life for them. They would be a family at last, and if Lucy could have jumped over the moon right then and there, she would have done.

Wrapping his strong sailor’s arms about her slim waist, he inched her toward the soft rich grass that lined the stream’s edge, and right there, with the clean, fresh water lapping over their bare feet, he laid her down and took her with a kind of animal hunger; not tenderly, not gently or cruelly, but the only way he knew how, driven by lust and the overriding greed to be satisfied. This was his third partner of the day, his fourth coupling, and for a little while, his passion subsided.

“That was so good, Lucy,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to be with you like that.”

But Lucy had not yet heard the words she yearned to hear. “Do you love me?” she asked hesitantly. “
Really
love me?” Somehow she couldn’t be sure, even now.

He laughed. “That’s a silly question.” And then, as though to dismiss the thought, he kissed her mouth. “Didn’t I just show you how much I love you?”

Lucy drew away. “But you didn’t
say
it. All the time we were making love, you never once said you loved me.”

“I did! I’m sure I did.” Bloody women, he thought. Are they never satisfied?

“Say it now.” Lucy needed convincing.

“What? Say
what?
” Anger trembled in his voice.

“That you love me … say it!”

“Jesus, but you’re a persistent bugger.” Suddenly amused, he grinned down on her. “But then you always were a spirited devil. It’s what I liked most about you.”

“Say it then.” Melting to him, Lucy traced his lips with the tip of her finger. “If you don’t say it, I’ll know you’re not serious about us.”

Twice he opened his mouth to say it, but telling a woman that he loved her did not come easy, mainly because his idea of love and hers were not the same. Where she might think of something precious to them both—a sharing, giving emotion, with a deep-down need, to build a life together—he was a cold, selfish man who saw his own needs to be of paramount importance.

Now, as he looked into that small, upturned face with the appealing brown eyes and the sunlight dancing off her long unkempt hair, he had to appease her. “Silly bitch, o’ course I love you!” Snatching her to him, he held her there for what seemed an age; until she drew away, to divulge a secret which shocked him to the core.