himself.
Once again his frankness earned him a disapproving look. ‘I have no wish to continue this discussion, Paul.’
Frustrated, Paul turned away to look out of the window.
‘There is a gentleman to see you, ma’am, a Mr Dawson.’
‘Thank you, Fielding. I am expecting him. Please show him into the library,’ Mary instructed.
She had been advised to hire a manservant by the friends who had been so kind to her when she had originally left home to seek employment – and freedom – in London. A woman in her position needed to have the protection of a male retainer, they had insisted.
‘I’m not so sure about giving me protection, but he certainly adds an aura of grandness to the place,’ she had laughed to one of her neighbours, Edith Rigby, when she had invited Mary to take tea with her.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Dawson,’ Mary greeted her visitor as she hurried into the library. ‘Will you take tea? You have had a long journey here, I suspect.’
‘Tea would be very welcome,’ her visitor confirmed, his accent betraying that, unlike Mary herself, he was neither a member of the upper middle class, nor a local. His accent had a distinctly cockney twang to it, which was explained by the fact that Mary had originally recruited him via her contacts in London.
‘So,’ she sat down behind the huge partners’ desk, which had originally been her father’s, indicating to the waiting man that he was to take a seat, ‘what news do you have for me?’
Her heart sank as she saw the expression on his face.
‘I very much regret to have to tell you, Miss Isherwood, that the woman you wanted me to trace – your nurse, I believe you said she was – passed away some time ago. She was predeceased by her husband, and, as you informed me, she was in the employ of Earl Peel of Lancaster.’
‘Yes…yes…I…I understand.’
‘I have brought you bad news, I can see, and I am sorry for it.’
Mary gave him a wan smile. ‘You must think me foolish, Mr Dawson, but Emma was very dear to me. She was my nurse, you see, and my closest companion after the death of my mother. She was less than a dozen years older than I, and had been hired originally as a nursery maid.’
Frank Dawson remained quiet. He had experienced many scenes likes this one in his work as a private investigator, but something about Mary Isherwood’s quiet dignity elicited his highest accolade – his rarely given respect.
‘Emma was everything to me,’ Mary told him simply. ‘But then she…she had to leave. My father decided that I was old enough not to need her services any longer, and so Emma took employment elsewhere, which was how she met her husband. We kept up a correspondence for a while, until…until I quarrelled with my father and…and left home to go and live with friends in London.’
‘I am sorry if my investigations have brought youunhappiness.’ Frank Dawson gave a small cough. ‘There is, of course, the matter of my fees, but –’
‘No, no…I shall pay you now,’ Mary insisted firmly. ‘Do you have your account?’
Relieved, Frank Dawson reached into his pocket for the invoice he had written before coming north. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Mary, it was just that he knew the way that rich folk could take their time about paying bills.
‘Oh…’ she began, and then checked. ‘I had heard that Emma had had a child, Mr Dawson, a son. I don’t know if…?’ Mary’s face had become slightly pink and she sounded a little nervous.
‘Oh, yes, I almost forgot,’ Frank Dawson responded. ‘I was that concerned about telling you that your nurse had passed away that I nearly overlooked the boy. It’s all here.’ He proudly removed a notebook from his pocket and tapped it with one thick forefinger. ‘A son born not a year after they had wed, he was.’
‘I see. And what do you know of this son, Mr Dawson, if anything?’
‘There is not much to know, ma’am, other than that he visits this town in
Once again his frankness earned him a disapproving look. ‘I have no wish to continue this discussion, Paul.’
Frustrated, Paul turned away to look out of the window.
‘There is a gentleman to see you, ma’am, a Mr Dawson.’
‘Thank you, Fielding. I am expecting him. Please show him into the library,’ Mary instructed.
She had been advised to hire a manservant by the friends who had been so kind to her when she had originally left home to seek employment – and freedom – in London. A woman in her position needed to have the protection of a male retainer, they had insisted.
‘I’m not so sure about giving me protection, but he certainly adds an aura of grandness to the place,’ she had laughed to one of her neighbours, Edith Rigby, when she had invited Mary to take tea with her.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Dawson,’ Mary greeted her visitor as she hurried into the library. ‘Will you take tea? You have had a long journey here, I suspect.’
‘Tea would be very welcome,’ her visitor confirmed, his accent betraying that, unlike Mary herself, he was neither a member of the upper middle class, nor a local. His accent had a distinctly cockney twang to it, which was explained by the fact that Mary had originally recruited him via her contacts in London.
‘So,’ she sat down behind the huge partners’ desk, which had originally been her father’s, indicating to the waiting man that he was to take a seat, ‘what news do you have for me?’
Her heart sank as she saw the expression on his face.
‘I very much regret to have to tell you, Miss Isherwood, that the woman you wanted me to trace – your nurse, I believe you said she was – passed away some time ago. She was predeceased by her husband, and, as you informed me, she was in the employ of Earl Peel of Lancaster.’
‘Yes…yes…I…I understand.’
‘I have brought you bad news, I can see, and I am sorry for it.’
Mary gave him a wan smile. ‘You must think me foolish, Mr Dawson, but Emma was very dear to me. She was my nurse, you see, and my closest companion after the death of my mother. She was less than a dozen years older than I, and had been hired originally as a nursery maid.’
Frank Dawson remained quiet. He had experienced many scenes likes this one in his work as a private investigator, but something about Mary Isherwood’s quiet dignity elicited his highest accolade – his rarely given respect.
‘Emma was everything to me,’ Mary told him simply. ‘But then she…she had to leave. My father decided that I was old enough not to need her services any longer, and so Emma took employment elsewhere, which was how she met her husband. We kept up a correspondence for a while, until…until I quarrelled with my father and…and left home to go and live with friends in London.’
‘I am sorry if my investigations have brought youunhappiness.’ Frank Dawson gave a small cough. ‘There is, of course, the matter of my fees, but –’
‘No, no…I shall pay you now,’ Mary insisted firmly. ‘Do you have your account?’
Relieved, Frank Dawson reached into his pocket for the invoice he had written before coming north. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Mary, it was just that he knew the way that rich folk could take their time about paying bills.
‘Oh…’ she began, and then checked. ‘I had heard that Emma had had a child, Mr Dawson, a son. I don’t know if…?’ Mary’s face had become slightly pink and she sounded a little nervous.
‘Oh, yes, I almost forgot,’ Frank Dawson responded. ‘I was that concerned about telling you that your nurse had passed away that I nearly overlooked the boy. It’s all here.’ He proudly removed a notebook from his pocket and tapped it with one thick forefinger. ‘A son born not a year after they had wed, he was.’
‘I see. And what do you know of this son, Mr Dawson, if anything?’
‘There is not much to know, ma’am, other than that he visits this town in
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