Katie’s Hero (3 page)

Katie tried to slow her breathing down to a normal rhythm. She received her cup of tea carefully, hoping that his lordship didn’t notice that the cup jingled against the saucer as she lifted it up to take a sip. She tried the fruitcake too, and found that there wasn’t really any fruit in it at all. It was dust and ashes. She was a little surprised — she had been led to believe that people ate better in the country, and Farrenden Estate was a working farm, for goodness sake.

Like a curious schoolboy, Michael reached out and picked up Mrs. Mallory’s hat. Katie watched him as he turned it around in his long, slim hands, admiring it from every angle. He rapped the top of it with his knuckles, and it made an audible “knock, knock” sound.

“Thought so,” he said.

Mrs. Mallory snatched it back. “Michael, don’t spoil that. I’d have a devil of a job getting them to issue me a replacement.”

Katie smiled. She relaxed enough to look around the room. It was big and square, with a high ceiling. Bookshelves lined one wall, and Michael’s antique desk stood over on one side. A pair of tall, double doors had been left open beyond the desk, and she could see through to the next room. There was a bed in there, and she realized it must be where his lordship slept, though it had obviously been a drawing room or billiard room before. It looked as if a hand basin had been installed in there, too. It must have been an inconvenience to him, reorganizing his entire life around his disability.

As if he saw where she was looking, Michael spoke up sharply. “The children are not to run amok in my private chambers. They are to be kept quiet at all times, Miss Rafferty. This is my study, as you see, and from here, I run the estate. I expect complete acquiescence to my wishes and to my rules. I have written them down in a list, if you will care to familiarize yourself with them.”

He reached into the inside of his jacket pocket and fetched out a piece of foolscap, folded into four, to hand to Katie.

She unfolded it, gingerly. It was handwritten in black ink, in a stern hand: The children are not allowed to play games in the hall, on the stairs or along the balcony. Sliding down the banisters is strictly forbidden. The children are to remain quiet and respectful at all times. The children must use the kitchen door when coming and going from school. Homework must be completed before supper, or supper and other privileges will be withdrawn.

Katie could only conclude that Michael hadn’t encountered many children in the first twenty-six years of his life.

After tea, Mrs. Jessop finally showed Katie to her room, which she was careful to praise to the older woman. There was a narrow bed with a navy blue coverlet, and a little table with a tiny lamp. The floorboards were dark, covered with a rug made of braided strips of fabric beside the bed. There was a mirror, thank goodness. But the curtains were a bit musty, and there didn’t seem to be anywhere for Katie to hang her clothes, except for one peg on the back of the door. When she sat down on the edge of the bed it didn’t give at all — a concrete slab would have had more bounce. The room was a bit depressing after the grandeur of the rest of the house, but it was a vast improvement on a London Underground Station.

Mrs. Jessop announced it was time for her to head home, and so it was Katie who showed Mrs. Mallory to the door.

The older woman hesitated before setting off for the long walk back to the village. “I hope you’ll be happy here, dear, and that your first impressions of Michael aren’t too bad.”

“Oh ma’am, he hates himself and everyone else in the world,” Katie said, keeping her voice low in case he was listening.

“He’s been through a lot,” Mrs. Mallory said. “The accident changed him out of all recognition.”

“Why doesn’t he have a nurse?”

“He did, when he first came home, but she was a bit of a tartar, and as soon as he could manage on his own, he sacked the old trout. He barely tolerates Jessop. You concentrate on getting into his good books, dear. It will do him good to have someone young in the house. Goodbye, and good luck.”

Katie sighed. A bitter, broken man for an employer. A musty room with a concrete bed. A list of rules to memorize before Friday.

Worse than that. Much worse, was the unspoken connection between her and Michael Farrenden. She needed to forget that terrible night in the Tube station. She wanted to start afresh. She’d hoped — desperately — never to have to think about that time again. But she had seen that flicker of recognition on his face. And it forced memories back into her mind that she would much rather forget.

Oh God, yes, she remembered. She remembered the pain, and the fear, and the feel of his RAF jacket against her face. She remembered squeezing his hand, and his telling her she was a brave girl. She remembered the athletic way he had disappeared from her life, forever, she had assumed.

Katie consoled herself with the thought that she didn’t have to speak to him again until tomorrow, when they would discuss the arrangements for the children. Her room was not in the attic, but at least it was upstairs, and having those stairs between her and Michael Farrenden gave her a great feeling of security.

A man in a wheelchair couldn’t climb stairs, she presumed.

The last thing she did before going to bed was to re-read Tom’s latest letter. Tom O’Brien, who danced so well, talked so well, and kissed so well … Katie didn’t understand why he’d written at all since they had parted on fighting terms. She had told him that she never wanted to see him again in her life. She should burn his letter instead of reading it again, but she didn’t.

To my sweetheart, Katie,

Damn cheek! Still calling her his sweetheart!

I am writing to tell you that my father passed away three weeks ago now.

That had been a shock. Mr. O’Brien from the general store was a tough old boot. Katie didn’t think he’d had a day’s illness in his life. Mr. O’Brien, dead?

It was his heart.

It seemed very unlikely that he had one, Katie thought, remembering the callous way the O’Brien family had treated her when they found out that Tom had got her pregnant.

So, there’ve been a few changes here. I’ve taken over the shop, for one thing, and it’s got me thinking about you and me.

Katie sighed. Here it comes.

You’re a fine girl, and I’ve been missing you. Why have you not come back to Ireland?

I told you, Tom. I never want to lay eyes on you again.

You must have had the child by now. Why have you not come back to take up the threads of your old life?

Her old life? Katie couldn’t believe his insensitivity. He
knew
her mam and her dad had been disappointed when she started carrying on with Tom. They’d had such high hopes for her. He knew that she had lied to them about the nursing job in England, and that they had guessed the reason why. He knew that her sisters had been told never to mention Katie’s name in the house again.

I was wondering if the baby was a boy or a girl? Did he look like me? I suppose you didn’t give him my name, did you?

Katie bit her lip. She didn’t want to read any of this anymore.

Anyway, if you could see your way to coming back, we could put the past behind us. You could help me run the shop. It’s a lot of work, but we could be happy. I miss you so much. I think it will all work out just fine.

Never.

Love and kisses from Tom.

Katie gave a sort of gasp as if she couldn’t breathe. If he had any idea how she felt about his love and his kisses now! How she cursed the day she met him at the dance at the railway hotel, and how bitterly she wished she had not caught his eye.

There was no fire in the grate in Katie’s bedroom, but she lit a candle so she could burn the offensive letter. She took it over near the fireplace, and set light to it there so it wouldn’t make too much of a mess. It crumbled into little flakes of blackened ash, and when it was gone, Katie went and lay on the bed and cried herself to sleep.

Katie woke early, too jittery to sleep any longer. She dressed in a plain skirt and a hand-knitted twin set. She considered putting on the little string of artificial pearls that Tom had bought for her, but she decided that was too showy for today. She wanted to look capable and efficient. She wanted to look like the type of young woman who could cope with anything this war flung at her. She brushed out her hair, and clipped it up at the sides. She reached for her lipstick. Red — the red badge of courage, people called it — and if ever there were a day when she needed some of that, it was today. She practiced her smile.

“Good morning, your lordship,” she repeated aloud until she could say it without faltering or sounding fake. She squared her shoulders and went downstairs.

She headed for the kitchen, where there was no sign of anyone, to her great relief. She made herself a quick breakfast and washed it down with weak tea.

Mrs. Jessop arrived in a headscarf and a large, old-fashioned overcoat. She spent ages taking off her outer garments, placing them on the coat stand and finally donning her floral housecoat.

“How long has his lordship been in a wheelchair?” Katie asked.

“Five months, nearly six.” Mrs. Jessop went over to the enormous butler’s sink and began washing up Katie’s cup and saucer, tutting in disapproval. “He bailed out of his plane. Landed on somebody’s roof. Broke his back.”

It was brutal sounding, when put like that. Katie shivered. “Poor man,” she murmured, though Lord Farrenden was so proud and haughty it hardly seemed right to feel sorry for him.

“That’s what everyone calls him these days,” Mrs. Jessop observed, in an acid tone of voice. “
Poor man
— as if it was part of his title! You have no idea how he was before. Such a charmer. Loads of girlfriends. The parties he used to hold here — champagne on ice, streamers in the hallway, dancing until four in the morning. He loved dancing. He was good at it, too — along with everything else he did. Flying, shooting, skiing in Switzerland. He could ride a horse better than anyone in the county. Nobody would have called him
poor man
then.”

Katie gulped. “No.”

Mrs. Jessop shook her head. “Now look at him. Sits in his study. Doesn’t want to go anywhere. Doesn’t want to see anyone. Doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Perhaps when the children arrive … ” Katie began.

“He’s not used to youngsters. He was an only child.”

Katie’s heart sank.

Mrs. Jessop began preparing a breakfast tray for Michael. A boiled egg, some rounds of toast, kept warm under a shiny metal lid. The cutlery was real silver, buffed up on a polishing cloth. Jessop arranged the butter knife reverentially and laid a clean white napkin beside it. She put a tiny quantity of marmalade in a cut glass dish and placed a camellia flower beside it.

“Is there something I can help with?” Katie asked.

“No. I doubt you would have any idea how a gentleman likes things done. Amuse yourself while I take this to his lordship and help him dress. Lunch will be at twelve, and this afternoon we’ll make the necessary preparations for the children.” Mrs. Jessop pursed her lips.

Clearly, Mrs. Jessop wasn’t looking forward to the evacuees’ arrival.

Katie gave a mute, obedient nod.

Then Mrs. Jessop picked up the tray and disappeared in the direction of his lordship’s rooms.

A whole morning of freedom
, thought Katie, and she was on her feet the instant the old woman was out of the way.

She hurried upstairs and dashed off a dutiful, distant letter to her parents, telling them she was well looked after and settling in — just to salve her conscience. It was only fair to let them know she had a new place to stay. She grabbed her hat and coat and decided to walk down to the village to put it in the post straight away. But she’d longed for a chance to explore the house, and knowing that Mrs. Jessop and his lordship were out of the way made wandering the halls all the more tempting.

Katie slipped down the corridor that led to the front of the house and walked quietly across the checkered floor of the entrance hall.

She opened the first door she came to, a well-appointed reception room with a view across the drive. She moved to stand by the huge fireplace and stared up at the massive oil painting above it of a magnificent horse, almost life size, in a stiff, dressage pose. Katie studied its sleek chestnut haunches and cropped tail, marveling at the painter’s skill.

The edge of the room was lined with large sofas with curved polished legs, but not much other furniture. She supposed she could be in a waiting room where guests gathered before heading through the double doors on the other side.

She padded quietly across the carpet to see if those doors led anywhere exciting, hoping that she wouldn’t find them locked. The doors were tall and narrow, each one intricately paneled. She put her hand on one of the crystal doorknobs, and turned it. It creaked open and she looked inside.

She gasped with pleasure and surprise. It was a real ballroom with a beautiful parquet floor and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Along one wall hung tall windows, curved at the top, at regular intervals, each letting in a shaft of sunlight. On the other side — echoing the windows — were tall, gilt-framed mirrors as elegant as the windows. Drawn in by the sheer loveliness, she took a few tentative steps into the room before she noticed the ceiling. A domed, painted ceiling depicted the heavens, again with shafts of light coming down. She turned slowly and gazed in wonder. The colors were vivid and spectacular — a bright blue sky with delicate white clouds where baby angels peeped down.

What a delight it must have been to dance here! This place put the railway hotel in the shade, for sure. Katie turned around and around, her feet spinning easily on the mellow golden floor. She allowed herself to imagine the music — a string quartet perhaps, playing something light and flirtatious. She could hear the sound of the guests’ laughter, champagne glasses tinkling during toasts, and the rustle of silk taffeta. The men, handsome and witty, all looking out for a pretty girl who’d let them write their name on her dance card.