‘What do you know?’

‘More than most. Her mother always thought herself better than others and it sounds like her daughter is no better.’

‘’Ow do you know ’er mother?’

‘She was Lady Brockenshaw’s maid when I was the housekeeper. I lost my job and home because of her.’

‘Father said you lost your job because the place was sold.’

‘What did he know? No, there was more to it than that. Take a stone away from the base of a wall and the whole house is at risk of falling. That was how it was back then. If her mother had behaved . . . if she had kept herself to herself rather than step outside her role. If she had not played loose and caused havoc . . . the Brockenshaws may have stayed.’ She stiffened, as if facing a memory she had dwelt on too long. ‘And I would have remained the housekeeper, with a place of my own. But she didn’t, everything went wrong and I had to lower myself and ask your worthless father for help.’

‘Grace seemed upset. She said someone is spreading lies about ’er family. Did you see ’er in there? Did she mean you?’

A faint smile teased his aunt’s lips. ‘I told no lies. If she is going to accuse me of being a liar, then I think it’s about time the rest of the parish knows too.’

‘About what?’

‘I will tell you on our walk home.’ She turned her grey eyes on him.’ I think the time has come to take the Kellows down a peg or two, Alfred,’ she said, coldly. ‘They say blood will out and I think it is time the Petherbridges did a bit of blood-letting of our own.’

Chapter Five

Grace watched her parents from the doorway. A week had passed since her visit to Bosvenna Manor and Grace had been too cowardly to confront them about it. To do so would feel a betrayal, that she had believed a stranger rather than the character of her father. Yet Grace could not forget the old woman’s accusations, which gnawed at her heart every hour of the day.

Her brother and sister, Ben and Ann, had gone to bed, leaving her parents to chase the evening chill away by feeding the fire with seasoned logs. They are in love, thought Grace, she could see it in their eyes. A woman did not fall in love with a man who’d forced himself on her. It was a lie. A vicious lie.

She rested her head against the doorframe and listened to their muted conversation, interspersed by a question or soft laughter. Grace smiled. They were talking about her sister, Mary, who had married the previous year and set up a new home in the village. From their conversation they believed she might be with child.

Grace had spent every night of her childhood falling asleep to her parents’ comforting voices. The sound always made her feel safe and secure. She was their firstborn, the child that had turned them into parents. They had learnt from her and, in turn, she had learnt from them. They taught her right from wrong and to tell the truth, lessons the old woman could benefit from. Her parents looked up, noticing her for the first time hovering in the shadows.

‘I thought you had gone to bed,’ said her mother, a little concerned.

‘I am about to.’ Grace offered them a shaky smile. ‘Goodnight.’

Her parents echoed her, as they always did when she bid them goodnight. It was a reassuring habit of theirs, which, for the past week, had failed to soothe her concerns.

* * *

Trehale’s church service was always well attended. For the hardworking rural labourers, it was an anchor to mark the end of a busy week, providing both spiritual comfort and a reason to dress in their best clothes. The opportunity to socialise was the biggest draw and as soon as the service ended, the congregation poured from the church vestibule into the sunshine. They gathered in small groups along the narrow path that separated the grey stone building from the graves that surrounded it, their heads nodding and the occasional bout of laughter rising into the air.

Grace hung back and waited for the church to empty. The old woman’s spiteful words continued to haunt her. She had barely slept since the unexpected encounter and she needed to put an end to it. Discovering the month her parents were married, would be a good place to start. If her mother was already carrying her, then she must have been raped, for she was a good woman with high morals and would never lie with a man before marriage. Grace felt more confident at the thought. Her father was a good man with high morals too, he would never force himself on her mother.

Grace left the empty pew and slipped, unseen, into the back room where she knew the parish records were kept. The heavy bound book was easy to locate and Grace quickly hauled it out from the cupboard, knelt down and placed it on the floor in front of her. Its leather bound cover was cracked and worn, but it remained sturdy and well bound, protecting the written detail of every birth, baptism, marriage and death of the parish for the past hundred years. Grace slowly opened it and began to search its neatly written pages. It did not take long to find what she was looking for. The names lifted off the page as if to attract her attention — Janey Ann Carhart, spinster, and Daniel John Kellow, bachelor.

Her throat tightened when she saw the date of their marriage. The old woman was right; her mother was carrying her when they had married. Grace felt sick. She had always thought her parents had married for love. Now it appeared that her mother was forced into marriage because of her. She closed the book and stared at her trembling fingers on the scarred leather cover. Did it really matter how their marriage had begun? They loved each other now and just because an old woman overheard them, it didn’t mean that her father had forced himself on her mother.

Grace heard footsteps outside. She quietly rose to her feet and replaced the register where she had found it. She carefully closed the cupboard door, wincing at the sound of the soft click it made when it shut. She peered round the door to see who had entered the church. It was only the vicar. She watched him tend to a candle in the far corner, oblivious to her presence. It was a good time to escape, so she did so, silently slipping out from her hiding place to join the others.

The sun was blinding as Grace stepped outside. Shielding her eyes, she searched for her mother and sister. Instead her gaze settled on Alfred. His presence puzzled her as he never attended church and she hadn’t seen him during the service. Grace’s eyes darted to his companion and her heart lurched. Standing beside him was the old woman herself and both were staring at someone. She anxiously followed their gazes. They were looking at her mother. A prickle of fear raced up Grace’s spine. The woman was planning something and, whatever it was, Grace felt this was not the place to do it. She hastily weaved through the gossiping villagers to reach her mother.

‘Ah, Miss Kellow!’ said Bob Fern, from Willow Cottage. ‘Davey is looking for employment. Will you put in a good word with your father?’

Grace nodded absently. ‘Yes, Bob. I am sure he would be happy to employ him.’ She pressed on, leaving the carpenter beaming.

‘Good morning, Miss Kellow,’ called a woman’s voice. ‘A lovely service today.’

‘Yes, lovely,’ muttered Grace, not caring where the greeting had come from. She arrived at her mother’s side at the same time as Alfred and the old woman.

‘Your daughter thinks she is too high and mighty for my nephew,’ the former housekeeper challenged her mother.

Her mother turned and paled when she saw who had spoken. ‘Miss Petherbridge. It’s been a long time.’

‘You don’t appear pleased to see me.’

Her mother offered her a friendly smile. ‘It was a surprise, no more. What brings you to Trehale?’

‘To see you. Alfred is my nephew.’

Her mother’s smile faded. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Your daughter thinks herself too high and mighty for my nephew,’ the old woman repeated.

‘I’m sorry if Alfred feels despondent, but if Grace doesn’t wish to be courted by him, then we should respect her decision.’

Miss Petherbridge raked her mother with a withering gaze. ‘You haven’t changed, Carhart. I see now where your daughter gets her airs from. You always thought you were better than everyone else. Well I have news for the both of you. Alfred no longer wants anything to do with her. Your daughter is not worthy of him.’

‘I am a Kellow now and I don’t need to listen to this.’ Her mother, who was gentle, polite and never involved in an altercation, had an edge to her voice that carried and stopped the conversations around them. They were now the centre of attention. Grace felt her mother hook her arm through hers and begin to guide her away. Grace looked over her shoulder at the former housekeeper as her younger sister hurried after them.

‘You haven’t told her, have you?’ Miss Petherbridge called after her.

‘Don’t listen to her,’ her mother ordered, jerking Grace forward to keep pace with her.

‘Tell me what?’ asked Grace. Her steps faltered, unwilling to leave, yet unsure whether to stay.

‘Who your real father is!’ called out Miss Petherbridge. Grace stopped, forcing her mother to do the same. The old woman approached them.

Grace stared at her, confused. She felt her mother tug on her arm again, but she shook her off.

‘What do you mean?’

Miss Petherbridge lifted her chin and studied her down the length of her nose. ‘Your mother was raped by a Brockenshaw.’ Her hard grey eyes lit up at Grace’s reaction. It goaded her on. ‘She was rutted like a pig and you are the end result.’ She raked Grace’s body with a disdainful sweep of her eyes. ‘You think you’re special. Too good for the likes of my family. Well you are wrong, young lady. You carry the shame of violence and degradation,’ her eyes lifted to her auburn hair, ‘and your ancestry is on view for all to see.’

My father is not my real father?

Grace was aware of movement around her as people drew forward to listen. It felt as if they were sucking the air from her as she found it hard to breathe. Her mother stepped in front of her to protect her. She would set the woman right and deny her vicious lies. Grace braced herself, confident that the woman must be mad. Her mother did not speak at first, but only stared at the old woman, her body trembling as if she was cold.

‘I hoped to see some kindness in your eyes,’ her mother finally said. ‘Something I could reach out to.’ She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘But I see nothing.’

Miss Petherbridge did not reply.