Marrying the Mistress. Juliet Landon

      ‘The manor house has been half-ruined for centuries since the plague killed everyone off, but we manage to live in half of it.’

      ‘And there’s no chance of returning to Brid?’

      ‘My brothers were nine and eleven, and I was fourteen when we went into hiding, old enough to be arrested as substitutes for my father’s crimes. It’s a risk we daren’t take, Prue. Not even after all these years.’

      ‘So that’s when you came looking for work in York. I see.’

      ‘While I still looked half-respectable. Sewing was one of the things I could do to earn money. You must have seen in me something you could use.’

      ‘Yes. Your skills, and the fabrics you brought in each month.’ Picking up a bobbin of tacking-cotton, she pulled off a length and snipped it with her teeth. ‘I’ve never asked where it came from, Helene, and I don’t intend to ask now. If I don’t know, I can’t tell any lies, can I? Where did I put my needle?’

      ‘On your wrist.’ She wore a piece of padded velvet like a pincushion around her wrist. With Pierre, our French émigré relative acting as a go-between, and me not asking any questions about the source of his merchandise, everything he obtained for us was passed straight into the dressmaking business, the only one in York at that time to sell fabrics and designs too. The money from the bales of muslins and lace made it a lucrative trade that allowed me to supplement the poor wage I had earned and to take money and goods back to my family. Had it not been for Pierre and his French connections, we would certainly have starved. Prue must have known how the precious goods were obtained, and our customers must have guessed. My only thought was how to keep myself and my family alive.

      ‘Yes…well,’ she went on, threading her needle in one quick move and rolling a knot between finger and thumb, ‘you’ve been a godsend to me, Helene love. Not just the fabrics, though I’ll not deny they’ve done a lot to help things along. Your business ability, for one thing. Your looks, for another. Your style. Your knowledge of French too. And I know how hard it’s been for you, though I don’t know what your ma would say about how hard you’ve had to work. Does she know?’

      ‘That I’ve had to sell myself?’

      ‘Mmm,’ she said, rippling the needle through the gathers.

      ‘No, Prue. She doesn’t. The boys do, and Pierre. But beggars cannot be choosers, can they?’

      ‘No, love. You’ve had to grow up rather fast, haven’t you? But it’s not made you bitter, has it?’ The needle delved and pulled up, finding its own rhythm.

      ‘Yes, it has,’ I said.

      The needle stopped in mid-air as she looked up at me. ‘Then don’t let it,’ she said. ‘Regretting is a waste of time. What’s done is done. You have a man, and a child, and a partnership in this, and youth, beauty, and more common sense than most women of your age. So, you’ve got responsibilities.’ The needle began again. ‘Well, most of us have, one way or another. Nothing stays the same, Helene. Believe me.’

      ‘I do believe you,’ I whispered.

      Things would not stay the same. For one thing, I was determined that my infant would not suffer the same deprivations I’d suffered. Little did I know then how his future would pass out of my hands with such finality, nor did I fully appreciate the wisdom of Prue’s advice about my bitterness.

      Lowering Jamie to the ground, I took him by the hand and led him back to the warm kitchen where the piles of food were being sorted by cook’s eager hands. He stroked the hare’s soft fur and spoke into its huge reproachful eyes. ‘Sorry, hare,’ he whispered. I showed him the intricate pattern of the pheasant’s feathers and the long banded tail that I would save for the millinery girls. ‘I want to see Uncaburl,’ said Jamie, sadly.

      ‘Yes, love. But you saw Uncle Burl only last week, and the snow is very deep. I don’t think our horses would like it.’

      He barely understood. ‘We could go to see Nana Damzell, then?’

      Damzell Follethorpe was my mother, who had not seen him for over a month and Jamie now able to talk so well, I dared not take the risk, with Winterson being a Justice of the Peace and Jamie so willing to chatter about all he knew. ‘Soon, darling,’ I said.

      ‘She’d like some of this, wouldn’t she, Mama?’

      ‘Yes, love, she certainly would.’ The same thought had passed through my mind too, but I could not see how to get it there.

      Mrs Neape, my cook, understandably not wishing to see the supplies dwindle so soon, had the answer. ‘Don’t you worry, young man,’ she said. ‘This lot will stay frozen solid down in the cellar for weeks. Then you can take some of it to Bridlington to your Nana Damzell.’

      It was where all my household believed my family to be living, about forty miles away on the coast. Foss Beck was less than half that distance, and the only person ever to accompany us there was Jamie’s formidable nurse, Mrs Goode, who would not have disclosed the smallest detail of my secret. She had once been a man’s mistress, too. ‘As soon as the snow begins to melt,’ I promised, ‘we shall go. What shall we take her?’

      ‘Eggs. She likes duck eggs, Mama.’

      That would be like taking coals to Newcastle. They had hens, ducks and geese roaming freely, and no shortage of eggs. But bread would be a problem.

      ‘Tell me when you’re going and I’ll make you some of my meat pies,’ said Mrs Neape, hoisting the side of lamb on to her padded shoulder. She would not, however, see any need to send loaves of bread.

      With little improvement in the weather, the reading of Linas’s will was delayed for almost three weeks and, even then, several of the family were missing, so Mr Brierley told me, owing to the impassable roads. It was he who called to say that he hoped I would not mind hearing at second hand what concerned me, since that was how several of the others would receive news of their endowments too.

      What they were endowed with I have no idea, never having shown much interest in what Linas owned, or whether he relied on his wealthy father for an allowance, as many sons did. Even when they were twins, second sons rarely prospered as well as their elder siblings in the property stakes, although I had no doubt that Linas would never have been left wanting. As his mistress, I was probably the most expensive of his few extravagances, albeit not as costly as some I’ve heard of. I had, after all, reorganised my own business after Jamie’s birth, and thank heaven for my foresight, Mr Brierley having no outstandingly good news to offer me that day.

      At first, I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

      That Linas wanted me to continue living on Blake Street came as a great relief, though no real surprise. Mr Brierley’s assurance was quite clear that the house would be made available to me for as long as I wanted it. But when he kept his balding head bent while unnecessarily sorting papers out across the polished table, I guessed that he was seeking not figures, but a kind way to break the news. It came very quietly and deliberately.

      ‘As for pecuniary endowments, Miss Follet,’ he said, glancing up at last, ‘that’s money, you understand…’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Mr Monkton has left you the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds per annum for the rest of your life.’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Er…yes. That’s all.’

      I stared at him, frowning, puzzled. ‘All? Three hundred and fifty?’

      His finger pointed at the yellow page. ‘Yes. That was his wish.’

      ‘But how am I supposed to manage on that? Has he left no provision for our son?’

      ‘Certainly. Master James Frederick Linas Monkton has been left, you will be pleased to hear, a substantial trust fund, to remain in the hands and to be administered by his sole guardian,