Read Online Off the Rails by Beryl Kingston - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Beryl Kingston
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then. If you make him a partner, you can pay me a guinea a week from that moment on, what I’m well worth. And I’ll see exactly how it’s done and the day I’m twenty-one I’ll make you take me into the firm too. I’ll not be overlooked, not when I work so hard and make so much money for ’ee. Damned fool woman!
He carried his grudge all round the city, scowling at passers-by and kicking at corners. It wasn’t until he saw one of the town’s worthies approaching that he controlled himself and changed his expression. He was beginning to cultivate the men in high places for one day they were going to be useful to him. One day he was going to be as rich and powerful as they were – or even richer.
Jane Jerdon was overwhelmed by her first sight of Foster Manor. It was the grandest building she’d ever seen, all that dazzling white stone and those long rows of great tall windows and that huge front door framed by those great white columns, standing up so tall as if they were guarding the place. They must be very rich, she thought, as she followed Mrs Hardcastle through the side door, for there seemed to be servants everywhere, all of them in different uniforms. They were greeted by the housekeeper who wore a spotless grey gown and a snow-white cap and looked like someone who had to be obeyed.
Mrs Hardcastle spoke to her politely and softly. ‘How has he been, ma’am?’ she asked.
‘About the same,’ the housekeeper said, ‘as you will see. We’ve moved the crib to the night nursery. This way.’
They climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked along a corridor hung with pictures of beautifully dressed men and women until they came to a white door which opened into a wide, high-ceilinged, handsome room. Jane had an impression of a lot of white and gold, of long white curtains at the window and a long column of sunlight that looked almost solid enough to touch. Then she became aware that there was a maidservant in the room sitting on a low chair beside a small white crib and that she was weeping.
He’s dead, she thought, looking at the cradle, and she felt sorry for the poor little thing to have lived such a short time.
‘He is Sir Mortimer’s only son,’ the housekeeper was saying, ‘so you will understand that he is very precious to the entire family. If you can help us, Mrs Smith we would be extremely grateful to you.’ And she pulled back the embroidered coverlet to give Jane her first glimpse of the baby. Such a small, pale, delicate, little thing he was and he seemed more dead than alive, with his eyes tight shut and his hands curled against the covers. But they were all looking at her, waiting to hear what she would say.
‘If someone will take my Milly for me,’ she said, looking at the servant, ‘and bring me a nursing chair, I will see what I can do. He’s very weak, mind, I can see that, but I will do what I can.’
The servant stepped forward to take Milly, the nursing chair was moved into the sunlight, and Jane took the child out of the cradle, sat in the chair, loosened the kerchief that she wore at her neck for modesty’s sake and eased her nipple from her bodice. The baby didn’t react to it at all, but lay on her lap without moving.
‘Put a little milk on his lips,’ the midwife advised. ‘Give him a taste of it.’
It was done. The baby moved his head once and slightly. It was done again with the same lack of result. He needs more than a drop, Jane thought. He’s too far gone for that to wake him. He needs a gush. And this time she gave her breast a good squeeze and released a stream of milk all over the baby’s face. He stirred, sneezed, put out the tip of a small pale tongue and licked his lips.
‘There then, my little man,’ Jane said to him, ‘tha liked that. Try a bit more.’ And she smeared his lips with the milk that was rolling down his face. For several long seconds he lay without moving, then he licked his lips again and pursed them as if he might be
He carried his grudge all round the city, scowling at passers-by and kicking at corners. It wasn’t until he saw one of the town’s worthies approaching that he controlled himself and changed his expression. He was beginning to cultivate the men in high places for one day they were going to be useful to him. One day he was going to be as rich and powerful as they were – or even richer.
Jane Jerdon was overwhelmed by her first sight of Foster Manor. It was the grandest building she’d ever seen, all that dazzling white stone and those long rows of great tall windows and that huge front door framed by those great white columns, standing up so tall as if they were guarding the place. They must be very rich, she thought, as she followed Mrs Hardcastle through the side door, for there seemed to be servants everywhere, all of them in different uniforms. They were greeted by the housekeeper who wore a spotless grey gown and a snow-white cap and looked like someone who had to be obeyed.
Mrs Hardcastle spoke to her politely and softly. ‘How has he been, ma’am?’ she asked.
‘About the same,’ the housekeeper said, ‘as you will see. We’ve moved the crib to the night nursery. This way.’
They climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked along a corridor hung with pictures of beautifully dressed men and women until they came to a white door which opened into a wide, high-ceilinged, handsome room. Jane had an impression of a lot of white and gold, of long white curtains at the window and a long column of sunlight that looked almost solid enough to touch. Then she became aware that there was a maidservant in the room sitting on a low chair beside a small white crib and that she was weeping.
He’s dead, she thought, looking at the cradle, and she felt sorry for the poor little thing to have lived such a short time.
‘He is Sir Mortimer’s only son,’ the housekeeper was saying, ‘so you will understand that he is very precious to the entire family. If you can help us, Mrs Smith we would be extremely grateful to you.’ And she pulled back the embroidered coverlet to give Jane her first glimpse of the baby. Such a small, pale, delicate, little thing he was and he seemed more dead than alive, with his eyes tight shut and his hands curled against the covers. But they were all looking at her, waiting to hear what she would say.
‘If someone will take my Milly for me,’ she said, looking at the servant, ‘and bring me a nursing chair, I will see what I can do. He’s very weak, mind, I can see that, but I will do what I can.’
The servant stepped forward to take Milly, the nursing chair was moved into the sunlight, and Jane took the child out of the cradle, sat in the chair, loosened the kerchief that she wore at her neck for modesty’s sake and eased her nipple from her bodice. The baby didn’t react to it at all, but lay on her lap without moving.
‘Put a little milk on his lips,’ the midwife advised. ‘Give him a taste of it.’
It was done. The baby moved his head once and slightly. It was done again with the same lack of result. He needs more than a drop, Jane thought. He’s too far gone for that to wake him. He needs a gush. And this time she gave her breast a good squeeze and released a stream of milk all over the baby’s face. He stirred, sneezed, put out the tip of a small pale tongue and licked his lips.
‘There then, my little man,’ Jane said to him, ‘tha liked that. Try a bit more.’ And she smeared his lips with the milk that was rolling down his face. For several long seconds he lay without moving, then he licked his lips again and pursed them as if he might be
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