Mary Nichols - Winning the War Hero's Heart

‘He would not have believed you.’

‘No, you are probably right, but be careful in future, Miss Wayland. Do not go out unaccompanied.’

‘Oh, it is nothing but bluster. I doubt he would harm me.’ Now the man had gone she was full of bravado. It would not do to let Viscount Cavenham see how afraid she had been.

‘I am not so sure. Where were you going?’

‘To see Mrs Watson.’

‘A happy coincidence. I was on my way there myself. We will go together.’ He picked up the reins of his horse and walked beside her to the widow’s cottage.

Mrs Watson was put in a fluster when she saw who had accompanied Helen and bowed and kept apologising for her poor home, until Miles smiled to put her at her ease and said he had come to talk to Mr Byers, whom he had spotted working in the garden, but he would enjoy a cup of camomile tea when he came back. And with that he was gone.

Relieved of his presence, Mrs Watson relaxed and bade Helen be seated by the hearth. The little boy was playing on the floor and Helen knelt down to play with him. ‘How are you managing?’ she asked the child’s mother, picking up a crudely carved harlequin on a stick and tickling the boy with it. He chortled happily.

‘Oh, we do well enough. I am thankful I still have my job in the laundry and Jack Byers has put the garden to rights as far as he was able. The Viscount gave him money to buy vegetable seeds in place of those I lost. Jack has sown them and planted new currant bushes for next year, but there will be no fruit this year. The guinea his lordship gave me is all but done and I cannot pay him. He is working for board and lodging.’

‘I expect he thinks it is better than nothing.’

‘Miss Wayland, you didn’t ought to have writ what you did about the Earl. I didn’t know you wrote a newspaper until Jack told me or I wouldn’t have said what I did. It looks as if I were complaining and that weren’t so. We could all be in trouble.’

‘It’s only me that’s in trouble, Mrs Watson. The Earl is determined to close me down.’

‘It don’t do no good to go agin’ him. What d’you do it for any road?’

‘Because someone has to tell the truth and wake everyone up to what’s been going on for generations. My father did it and I carry on in his memory.’

‘And yet you be on good terms with the Viscount.’

‘That’s only good manners—underneath is a different matter; he is like his father; arrogance is bred in him. Besides, I am also in trouble with the firebrands who would stir up unrest if they could.’ She got up off her knees and scooped Eddie up to sit with him in the chair by the hearth. She loved all small children and this one was particularly fetching with his fair curls, blue eyes and chubby limbs, notwithstanding his clothes were patched and worn, probably bought second-hand from the market.

Mrs Watson put a cup of tea on the corner of the table where she could reach it. ‘Seems to me you be in trouble all round,’ she said. ‘You will need the good offices of the Viscount before you’re done.’

Helen did not tell her that the gentleman had already used his good offices to help her. She could see him through the window. He was talking earnestly to Jack Byers.

‘What do you think, Byers? Would the idea find favour?’

‘Anything that allows the men to work and keep their families from starving is a good thing, my lord. But where could we get the land? No farmer would let us have land, even if we could afford the rent.’

‘I have a friend desirous of helping the unemployed, both old soldiers and farm workers, and he has a few acres not far from here that is uncultivated. You would be doing him and yourselves a favour taking it on. Of course, you need to get the men together and work out how it can be done. Some of you will have specialist skills: ploughing, drilling, looking after animals. And shooting. I believe the land is plagued by rabbits. My friend will supply seed and equipment, whatever you need to start you off.’

‘Who is this friend of yourn?’ Jack asked warily. ‘What’s he want from us?’

‘He wishes to remain anonymous and he wants nothing from you. He is what you might call a philanthropist.’

‘Supposing times get better and some of us are offered our old jobs back?’

‘Then your piece of ground will go to someone else who needs it with compensation for the work you have done on it.’

‘Sounds all right,’ Jack said, still dubious.

‘Get the men together and ask them. Vote on it if you like, but do not say I have a hand in it. I am only a go-between, you understand.’

‘Oh, to be sure, I understand,’ Jack said, grinning.

Miles left him to his gardening, knowing the man had guessed the identity of the philanthropist, but he would not say so, neither out loud to him nor to the men when he called them together.

He returned to the kitchen where Helen was nursing young Eddie, who had fallen asleep in her arms. She smiled up at him and put a finger to her lips. He sat down silently and accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Watson, not once taking his eyes off the woman and the sleeping child. The hard-nosed business woman who could write such vitriolic attacks on the nobility, who could get her hands covered in ink, stand firm in a mob and never turn a hair at broken limbs and bloody noses, was a nurturer at heart. The picture she presented, her grey dress dishevelled, her hair tousled by chubby fingers keen to explore, was one of domesticity. It gave him a lump in his throat. It was sympathy for her, he told himself, sympathy and at the same time unbounded admiration, nothing to do with the fact that he might never enjoy having a family like it himself.

With the tea drunk and the child roused and taken from Helen, they took their leave. If she had expected him to ride away, she was mistaken. He insisted on escorting her home, walking beside her, leading his mount.

It was at least three miles and for a little while they walked in silence. She was acutely aware of him beside her, his height and strength, his warmth which was as unlike the coldness of his father as it was possible to be. His limp she hardly noticed—it was part of the man. ‘Mrs Watson seems to be managing very well with Mr Byers’s help,’ she said. ‘But she tells me he is working for bed and board only and that does not help his wife and family. And people who do not know the truth of it are gossiping. He really cannot stay there.’

‘I know. I have a friend who has some spare land who has come up with an idea to help the unemployed men, which will give them work. The idea is that a strip is given to each man to work as a market garden, but lodgings are another matter. There is an old barn on the far side of Ravensbrook. I don’t know if it is watertight, but if it could be made so, it could house several families.’

‘Who owns it?’

‘The man who owns the land,’ he said evasively.

‘Your friend is very generous.’

‘No, simply wishing to help.’

‘And what is the identity of this man, my lord?’

He laughed. ‘Do you think I would tell you? It will be all over the next edition of the Wa r b u r ton R e c o rd .’

‘Why not? It would be good to publish some good news for a change.’

‘I will tell you more about it when it is all arranged, then you can let the world know that Warburton and its neighbouring villages look after their men.’

‘I wish the weather would improve,’ she said. ‘It would make all the difference, not only to the men’s chances of working, but to their spirits, too. Some days it is nearly as dark as night and, what with the rain and gales, everyone is miserable. We need a little sunlight and then we shall all feel more cheerful. And market gardens will not flourish without it.’