Mermaids Singing (17 page)

‘I’ll need you to help me look after her. But most of all, the child needs her mother. She keeps calling for her again and again. It’s driving me mad.’

Kitty could hear Leonie’s muffled sobs coming from the night nursery. ‘Shall I go to her then, Miss Lane?’

‘Yes. No, first we must get a message to Bella and tell her she must come home. Can I trust you, Kitty?’

‘I’d do anything for her ladyship and Miss Leonie.’

‘Sir Desmond won’t have it, but we’ve got to bring Bella home before it’s too late.’ Wringing her hands, Maria began pacing the floor; her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. ‘This is a judgement on me, a dreadful judgement on the way I’ve lived, and Bella will never forgive me if anything happens to Leonie. I’ve done terrible things in my life but I can’t stand by and see the poor child suffer.’

‘What can I do?’ Kitty asked, watching helplessly.

Stopping in her tracks, Maria gripped Kitty by the shoulders, her eyes blazing. ‘I’ve always said I’d like to see him go to hell, but there’s only one person I know who would dare go against Sir Desmond. I want you to slip out of the house without anyone seeing you and take a message to Mr Rackham.’

Clutching the hastily scrawled note in her hand, Kitty crept through the entrance hall. James was busy polishing the brass door furniture and her heart sank; there was no way she could get past him without being seen. Hearing the patter of footsteps running down the main staircase, Kitty dodged behind a marble column.

‘James!’ Jane leaned over the banisters. ‘Miss Iris wants the carriage brought round right away.’

Passing within a few feet of Kitty, James sauntered over to speak to Jane. Peeping round the column, Kitty saw them head to head and, thanking her lucky stars that James was sweet on Jane, she slipped out of the house unseen.

It was raining and Kitty had come out as she was, without even a shawl to protect her from the weather. Barely noticing the chill of the rain soaking through her clothes, Kitty ran all the way to Rackham’s lodging, only to be told by his landlady that he was not at home. Refusing to be fobbed off, Kitty stood her ground until the woman grudgingly admitted that she might find him at his club in Pall Mall.

Soaked to the skin by the time she reached Rackham’s club, Kitty argued fiercely with the doorman, who refused to let her in or even to take a message to Mr Rackham. Driven by desperation and the memory of Leonie’s pitiful, feverish cries for her mother, Kitty butted him in the stomach and barged into the cloistered quiet of the vestibule. Leapt upon by a couple of footmen, Kitty opened her mouth and screamed Rackham’s name over and over again, biting, kicking and scratching as they tried to eject her from the premises. They had got her as far as the double doors when she saw Rackham coming towards them.

Breaking free, Kitty ran to him. ‘Mr Rackham, you got to help.’

‘Do you know this young person, Sir?’ The affronted doorman grabbed Kitty by the scruff of the neck.

‘It’s all right, Hobson. I’ll deal with this.’ Rackham hooked his arm around Kitty’s shoulders and guided her out of the building. ‘Now then, young Kitty. What’s wrong?’

Kitty thrust the note from Maria into his hand. ‘You got to come, Sir. Miss Leonie’s mortal sick with measles and my lady’s been sent off to the country.’

Rackham’s black brows drew together in a frown. ‘She didn’t go willingly?’

‘Sir Desmond forced her to go and he wouldn’t let her take Miss Leonie. Now the poor little mite is off her head with fever and calling for her mummy.’ Shivering violently and barely able to control her chattering teeth, Kitty grabbed him by the hand. ‘We got to bring her ladyship back to London afore it’s too late. Are you going to help, Sir, or are you going to stand there asking bleeding silly questions?’

Bella shivered, huddling closer to the fire in the inglenook. It was, she thought dismally, large enough to roast a whole ox, but the flames curling around the damp logs sent most of their heat up the chimney, barely taking the chill off the oak-panelled room. Her feet were numbed with cold; chilblains made her legs itch and burn at the same time. Sleet was hurling itself against the leaded panes of the windows and a handful of ice came down the chimney, sputtering in the flames and sending a cloud of smoke into the room. Coughing and jumping to her feet, Bella paced the floor, wrapping her arms around herself in a futile effort to keep warm. Pausing by the window, she gazed out through the hailstorm to the mist-shrouded salt marshes, disappearing into the sea. Dusk was beginning to gobble up the land and sea alike, adding to the sense of isolation and the inescapable prison of her circumstances.

Bella longed to draw the curtains, shutting out the dismal scene, but that would plunge the room into almost complete darkness. She would have to wait until Mrs Quelch, the cook-general, came to light the paraffin lamps.

Perching on the window seat for a moment, Bella tried to work out how long she had been at Mableton Manor. It must be two or, maybe, three months since that fateful night when Desmond had accused her of having an affair with Rackham. She was certain that Iris was partly to blame, but it must have been Rackham who had sewn the seeds of doubt in Desmond’s jealous mind. He had been hell-bent on engineering her downfall from the start and he had used Iris as a pawn in his foul game.

Bella shuddered, remembering Desmond’s uncontrolled fury that had been both terrible and terrifying. He had ranted and raged at her, calling her all the filthy names that he could think of, until she had collapsed on the floor of her bedroom with her hands over her ears. Then he had beaten her, viciously and unmercifully until she had lost consciousness. Next morning, when Bella had summoned up the strength to ring for Maria, it was Iris who came to her room. Even now, she could remember the vicious look, and cruel words, that Iris had used to tear her character to shreds. Bella had tried to defend herself, but it had been like dealing with a mad woman. She shuddered at the memory.

‘Pack your bags,’ Iris had said finally, with a triumphant curl of her thin lips. ‘My father has seen sense at last and he’s packing you off to our country estate in the wilds of Essex. I hope you rot there, you cunning bitch.’

With that, Iris had swept from the room, locking the door behind her. Bella remembered struggling with the laces on her corsets and the pain of her bruised ribs. She could almost laugh at it now; how foolish she had been to worry about dressing herself nicely when her whole world was about to be torn apart. After what had seemed like an hour, the door had opened and Jane had sidled in, carrying a breakfast tray. She had kept her gaze firmly fixed on the floor, answering Bella’s demands to have Maria sent to her by shaking her head and running from the room.

Bella had thrown the plate of toast at the door, watching a dribble of butter run down the cream paintwork with childish satisfaction. She remembered picking up the coffeepot, tempted to toss it as well, but she had been thirsty and she had drunk two cupfuls before she began to feel drowsy and light-headed. The next thing she knew, she was slumped against the leather squabs of the carriage, her head was aching and her mouth dry. She had realised, as the fog in her brain cleared, that Desmond must have drugged the coffee. She had tried to make the coachman stop but he had kept the horses going at a spanking pace. The landscape outside the carriage windows had been unfamiliar. The awful truth had slowly come upon her that Desmond was sending her away, without Maria and, to her horror, without Leonie.

Bella choked back a sob, thinking about Leonie, her baby, her beautiful child. At three years old she was too young to understand what was going on around her. All she would know was that Mama had gone away. Mama had left her. Bella braced her shoulders and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She must not give way to morbid thoughts. At least Maria was with Leonie; surely Desmond would not have been so cruel as to put someone else in charge of the nursery? She shivered and began pacing the floor again. Desmond, when angered, was capable of anything.

Without much hope of it being answered, she tugged at the bell pull. Quelch and his wife, the only living-in servants, were a surly, ignorant pair, who had obviously been instructed to treat their mistress more like a prisoner than the respected wife of their employer.

Taking a turn around the room, Bella stared with distaste at her surroundings. How she hated this awful house, this oubliette to which Desmond had condemned her without trial and without pity. Built in the seventeenth century, it might have been beautiful then but now it was a neglected old hag. The ill-fitting windows let in the damp salt air and, when the wind was in a certain direction, the chimneys smoked dismally. There was no gas and no electricity. The musty smell of damp rot permeated Bella’s clothes and every morning her shoes bloomed with grey mould. In her mind, the whole house reeked of neglect and despair, mirroring her own depression.

She must do something; inactivity was killing her. Making up her mind, Bella went to the desk beneath the sombre oil painting of one of Desmond’s ancestors, and sat down. Taking a sheet of headed paper, she dipped a pen in the inkwell, and sat chewing the tip. How would she begin it this time? She racked her brains, trying to think of yet another beginning to a letter to Desmond, begging him to let her come home. Not that he would reply; he had not replied to any of the letters, sometimes two or three a week, that she had sent. Heaving a sigh, she felt as though she was beginning to lose her mind, stuck here in the country with no one but the morose caretakers for company. There were a couple of women who came in daily from the village to do the cleaning, but they were simple souls with little conversation. In fact, they must have been instructed to avoid her, since they scuttled off whenever she approached them.

Bella was still trying to think of something that would move Desmond to end her enforced exile, when the door opened and Mrs Quelch ambled in carrying a tray of food.

‘It’s a long walk from the kitchen and my bunions are playing up in this cold weather,’ Mrs Quelch grumbled, slamming the tray down on the table by the fire. ‘Better eat up quick, before it gets cold.’

‘Please light the lamps before you go, Mrs Quelch,’ Bella said, rising to her feet. ‘And the log basket is nearly empty.’

Ignoring Mrs Quelch’s mumbling retort, Bella went to the table and sat down, willing herself to lift the cover on the dish, but at the same time, dreading what she would find. She was starving, but Mrs Quelch was not an inspired cook. The mutton stew that was served almost daily might have been almost palatable when hot, but when cold, congealing with globules of grey fat floating on the surface, it was barely fit to feed to a dog. Bella had lost so much weight that her dresses were all too big for her and she had no need for corsets to nip in her waist.

Shuffling her feet, Mrs Quelch lit the lamps and left the room, still grumbling beneath her breath. Lifting the cover on the dish, Bella replaced it quickly. Perhaps Desmond intended to starve her to death in this dreadful place. She broke the hunk of bread into small pieces and crammed them into her mouth, washing them down with a glass of water. She was still hungry but nauseated at the thought of eating yet another of Mrs Quelch’s vile meals. She shivered, hugging her shawl closer around her shoulders. How long would Desmond keep up this dreadful punishment? Being a virtual prisoner in this miserable place was bad enough, but being separated from Leonie was unbearable. If only she could get word to Edward, Bella was certain that he would not stand for her being treated in this cruel way.

Plans for escaping and getting back to London had been formulating in her mind for weeks, and then discarded because of their impracticality. Mableton Manor was too isolated for Bella to make a getaway on foot. The narrow country lanes networked alongside the salt marshes, and to take a wrong turn would be a fatal mistake. The only horse in the stables was an ageing carthorse that Quelch harnessed to the dog cart for his monthly trip to Maldon which, as far as Bella could gather, was seven or eight miles away. If she had calculated correctly, tomorrow would be the day that he set off to do whatever business he had in the town.

The log basket was empty and the fire was burning away to white ash. Quelch had not yet brought in the firewood and Bella was about to tug at the bell pull when, without knocking, he came shambling into the room carrying a wicker basket full of green, moss-covered logs. He tossed a couple on the fire and they hissed and steamed, spitting out sparks and belching smoke.

‘Quelch,’ Bella said, adopting a firm manner, despite the fact that she was inwardly quaking, ‘I will be accompanying you when you go into Maldon tomorrow.’

Quelch tipped the rest of the logs into the basket and turned his head to stare at her, his weathered face an expressionless map of lines and furrows. ‘Not possible.’

Bella took a deep breath and summoned up all her acting skill. ‘Of course it’s possible. You will do as I bid or I will tell my husband.’

‘The master gave orders that you weren’t to go nowhere,’ Quelch said, scowling. ‘I take orders from Sir Desmond.’

‘And in his absence you take orders from your mistress. Have the dog cart at the front door at eight o’clock sharp unless, of course, you want me to report your behaviour to my husband.’

Having left London at the end of the summer, with no time to pack more than a few necessities, Bella had no winter clothes to combat the bitter wind that blew across the saltings straight from the Urals. It was snowing quite heavily by the time they reached the outskirts of the town. She was so cold that she had lost all feeling in her extremities and, although Mrs Quelch had been prevailed upon to find an old umbrella, Bella’s thin jacket was wet through and her skirts were crusted with snow, clinging damply around her legs, as she climbed down from the cart outside the Blue Boar Inn.

Quelch handed the reins to an ostler. ‘I’ll be out directly,’ he said, jerking his head to Bella to follow him.

Unable to feel her feet, Bella hobbled into the warm interior of the inn. She hesitated in the doorway as the smell of hot coffee, mingled with delicious aromas from the kitchen, assailed her nostrils. Faint with cold and hunger, she swayed dizzily.