Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Pam Weaver

About the Publisher

Muntham Court, 1920

Agatha stretched herself luxuriantly and lifted her face towards the early morning sun. Ah, she thought, this is the life. She was on the veranda and still in her nightgown and negligee, but she didn’t care. After yesterday, it was unlikely that anyone would call on her, not at this time of the morning anyway.

Following the evening celebrations the day before, Muntham Court was peaceful and quiet. Inside the house, a team of staff were busy cleaning and putting everything back in order, but she couldn’t hear them. The only sounds came from the doves – or was it pigeons (she would never get used to living in the country) – cooing on the rooftop and the odd bleat from one of the sheep in the field opposite the long drive.

Agatha smiled to herself. She had done it. Her mother said everything was lost but it wasn’t. She had secured her position in society at last and she couldn’t help feeling more than a little smug about it. She had it all. The big house, money, status . . . Of course it had come at a cost, but all that stress had ceased the moment she’d given birth to Charles’s baby. Her confinement and the birth had been straightforward, but he would never know. Better that he thought she had had a protracted and difficult delivery. Who would tell him anything different? They wouldn’t dare. She allowed herself a sly smile. No one could touch her now.

She opened her eyes as Faulkner came out of the house with the breakfast tray. She was eating light today. She’d refused anything cooked. She had to get her figure back, so it was simply toast, marmalade and a pot of tea – Earl Grey, of course. She loved the flavour made distinct by oil of bergamot, a type of orange; its connection with the one-time prime minister, Charles Grey, gave her a chance to show off her knowledge. ‘It was gifted to him by the Chinese, don’t you know. You may have heard of him. He was the prime minister who presided over the abolition of slavery in the British Empire.’

The butler laid the tray on the table and Agatha noted the tremble of his gnarled hands. He must be way past retirement age. It didn’t look good, keeping on someone so obviously past his prime. She must remember to ask Charles what the family did with ‘old retainers’. ‘Thank you, Faulkner.’

‘Madam,’ he said, turning back unsteadily.

Agatha reached for a cigarette. ‘Is my husband in the breakfast room?’

‘I’m sorry, madam. The master left for London early this morning. He said he’d be back at the weekend, I believe.’

Reaching for the cigarette lighter, Agatha dismissed him. ‘Thank you, Faulkner.’

As soon as the old man had gone, she poured herself some tea and relaxed again. Thank goodness she was alone. Now she could enjoy her lazy day. She yawned. A lazy and peaceful day.

The sound of a baby’s cry came floating across the lawn. Agatha looked up to see the nurse striding towards the house with the child in her arms. What the hell was she doing? She sat up straight and waited until the woman reached the patio. ‘What do you want?’ she said harshly.

The nurse, all smiles, glanced down at the squawking baby in her arms and said in a singsong voice, ‘We thought we would come and see Mummy, didn’t we?’

Agatha laid her cigarette on the ashtray and reached for her toast. ‘Well, now you’ve seen me, you can go back,’ she said without looking up.

The nurse blinked in surprise. ‘Wouldn’t madam like to hold her baby?’

‘No she would not,’ Agatha said coldly. ‘I employed you, Nurse Cowdray, to look after her.’

‘Madam is obviously tired after the birth. We’ll come back later in the afternoon.’

‘No, Nurse, you shall not,’ Agatha said firmly. ‘You feed her, you bathe her and you see that her things are washed; in short, she is your responsibility.’

‘But surely . . .’ Nurse Cowdray spluttered.

‘But nothing,’ Agatha snapped. ‘Now, will you please take the baby back to the cottage and remain there for the rest of the day.’ She pulled her negligee over her bound breasts but already the milk was seeping from her nipples. Damn the woman for bringing the child so near to her. The last thing she wanted was lactating mammary glands. She flushed with embarrassment. Thank the Lord that old fool Faulkner wasn’t still around to see it.

‘Mrs Shepherd,’ Nurse Cowdray began again, ‘it’s really important for mother and baby to bond with each other in the early days. I know you’d rather not feed her yourself’ – she had seen Agatha shudder at the thought – ‘but it really is no trouble to bring her up to the house for a little cuddle. That’s why I thought—’

Agatha drew herself up. ‘And I thought I had made myself perfectly clear at your interview, Nurse Cowdray. You are paid to look after the baby. You are the one to comfort it. When I want the child in the house, I shall send someone to tell you. Until then, will you please go back to the cottage and do your job!’

Visibly shocked, the nurse turned on her heel and walked back across the grass. With not one ounce of regret, Agatha shook the napkin out and laid it in her lap. For the next few minutes, she ate her toast and sipped her tea.

When she had finished, she leaned back in the chair. She would have to go back into the house in a minute. Already the leaking milk was drying into a stiff globule on her nightgown. She supposed it must have been her body’s reaction to hearing the baby’s cry. There was a slight sound in the doorway. Irritated, Agatha opened her eyes. A little soon-to-be three-year-old was hovering by the French doors, one foot on the patio and the other inside the sitting room. Agatha sat up. ‘Hello, sweetheart. What are you doing here?’