A Mother's Heartbreak

by Jennie Felton

Genres: Sagas; Women's Fiction; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

When her father dies, Abigail Newman is forced to leave her mother and the vicarage she was raised in and take up the position of governess to the son of Sir Hugh Hastings. Arriving at the grand estate of Bramley Court, Abi, who is concealing a heartbreaking secret, finds a family haunted by a tragic loss. But Bramley Court is also filled with secrets. Why is Sir Hugh's wife, Lady Imogen, so sure she can still hear the cries of the little boy she lost 18 months ago? And what is the history between the mysterious, glamorous visitor, Constance Bingham, and complex, charismatic Sir Hugh? As Abi weaves herself into the fabric of the house and family, she longs to help the people she's come to care for so deeply. Will they find peace and Abi heal her own broken heart?

Release date: September 15, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

‘They be comin’ up the drive, sir!’

The elderly footman who had been tasked with watching for the return of the carriage tapped at the door of Sir Hugh’s study and opened it cautiously.

Sir Hugh straightened up from the ledger he had been working on, though truth to tell, his mind had been wandering. Since he’d offered Miss Newman the post, he’d found himself questioning his decision, wondering if it was the right one or whether he had simply been swayed because he had found her very personable. She was, when all was said and done, relatively young – as well as undeniably pretty – and Frederick was proving to be a real handful. But her spirited response when he had questioned her age and experience had shown him that she was not to be underestimated, and he hoped she would draw on that steel when dealing with the boy.

‘Thank you, Briggs.’ He closed the ledger. ‘Summon Lady Hastings, if you will, and Frederick too. And be sure Mrs Mears attends to Miss Newman’s luggage when it has been taken to her room.’

‘Yessir.’ Briggs, the footman, attempted a bow, but bent as he already was, it was no more than a bob. In Sir Hugh’s opinion, it was high time the man retired, but he’d been in service here for fifty years and more, and Mr Handley, the butler, who had been with the family himself for almost thirty years, had been vocal in his efforts to persuade Sir Hugh to keep him on.

‘It would be the death of him if you dismissed him. And you wouldn’t want that, would you, sir? He might not be of much use, but he’s no trouble either. And your father would turn in his grave if he thought you’d sent him packing.’

‘You are right, Handley. The place wouldn’t be the same without him,’ Sir Hugh had agreed reluctantly. He didn’t want to upset the butler; for all his long service, he was as ruthlessly efficient as he had ever been, and training a replacement would be a long and tedious business.

‘Make haste then, Briggs!’ he urged the old man as he hovered, then retreated, not with the speed his employer might have wished, but with a dogged determination to put one foot in front of the other.

Sir Hugh rose, and was just exiting the study himself when a loud whoop startled him, and to his annoyance he saw his son come sliding down the highly polished banister and land with a bump against the newel post at the foot of the stairs.

‘Frederick! You have been told time and time again! You will not slide down the banisters. Have I not made myself clear?’

‘Sorry, Pa.’ But he didn’t look sorry. His pudgy face was flushed with pride at having managed both flights of stairs from his room without falling off.

‘Get down from there this instant!’ Sir Hugh said sharply. ‘What sort of impression will behaviour like this make on your new governess?’

Freddie hoisted one plump leg over the banister and slid to the ground, landing heavily. Sir Hugh was of the opinion that he needed to lose some weight, but Imogen maintained it was down to the stodgy food he’d eaten at boarding school – fatty breakfasts, dumplings and suet puddings, not to mention the treats from his tuck box – and he would soon lose his ‘puppy fat’, as she called it, now that he was at home.

Sir Hugh was constantly surprised by the way she stood up for the boy. It wasn’t as if she was his mother – Marigold, Sir Hugh’s first wife, had died in childbirth along with her baby when Freddie was four years old. What was more, the boy seemed resentful of his stepmother, failing to treat her with the respect she was due. Yet still she looked for the best in him. And since the tragic loss of Robbie, her own beloved child, she had become even more protective of her stepson.

‘Go out to greet your new governess, and try to behave yourself for once,’ Sir Hugh ordered now. Adding: ‘And where the devil is Imogen?’

Briggs appeared on the little landing at the top of the first flight of stairs. For all his other frailties, his hearing was still good, and he must have caught Sir Hugh’s last words.

‘She says she’s not comin’, sir.’

‘What do you mean, she’s not coming?’ Sir Hugh demanded.

Clutching the banister, the old footman took a few cautious steps down towards his employer. ‘It’s not her business, is what she said. And would you kindly explain to the governess that she is indisposed.’

Sir Hugh shook his head in frustration, took Freddie by the shoulder and propelled him to the front door. The carriage had already drawn up; the coachman had alighted and was now helping down the young lady who was to be Freddie’s governess.

Sir Hugh forced a smile and stepped forward to greet her.

‘Come on, milady. Buck up now, do. It’s only right you welcome the new governess.’

Mrs Mears, the housekeeper, was a formidable figure, hatchet-faced, tall and strongly built, with iron-grey hair swept back into a severe bun and keys jangling on a ring from the belt around her waist. When she had overheard Briggs tell Sir Hugh that Lady Hastings was refusing to join the welcoming party, she had gone in search of her, bristling with disapproval. She had little patience with anyone who was unable to control their emotions and move on. Sir Hugh had managed it. Lady Hastings should at least make an effort to do the same.

As she had expected, she had found her ladyship in her sitting room, slumped in her chair, head bowed to her chest, and kneading a crumpled handkerchief between her hands.

‘Listen to me now,’ she continued in a hectoring tone. ‘If you don’t present yourself, and quickly, Sir Hugh is going to be most displeased with you. Is that what you want?’

‘Freddie is his son, not mine.’ Imogen plucked at a fold in her skirt. ‘A governess was his idea. It’s for him to welcome her.’

Mrs Mears drew herself up to her full height. ‘That is hardly the right attitude to take with regard to Frederick’s education. You are his stepmother, and it is your duty. You’d be there like a shot, I don’t doubt, if it were—’ She broke off, realising perhaps that this time she had gone too far, and Imogen raised her head sharply, her eyes blazing with unshed tears.

‘Robbie? That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? But my Robbie is dead, Mrs Mears, and now I am going to lose Freddie too, no doubt, to this new woman. I don’t feel like welcoming her. I will meet her when I feel ready to do so. You can tell my husband that.’

Mrs Mears raised her eyebrows, surprised by the uncharacteristic outburst. Since Robbie’s death, Lady Hastings had become a shadow of her former self. It was only when Sir Hugh was angry with Frederick, as he often was – understandably, in Mrs Mears’s opinion – that some of her old spirit resurfaced as she flew to his defence.

‘Very well, I will relay the message to his lordship,’ the housekeeper said coldly, and left the room, her keys jangling on her belt.

No doubt milady would dissolve into floods of tears the minute the door closed after her. But Mrs Mears could summon not an ounce of pity for the woman who had taken the place of the first Lady Hastings, her former mistress, whom she had cared for from the time she was a child. Marigold. Her lovely Marigold.

‘This is Miss Newman, your governess. Miss Newman – my son, Frederick.’

Sir Hugh placed an arm around the boy’s shoulders, urging him forward to shake hands, but his son broke free, scowling.

‘Freddie,’ he said emphatically. ‘I hate being called Frederick.’

Abigail smiled and held out her own hand, hiding her misgivings at this unpromising beginning.

‘Freddie, then,’ she said. ‘And my name is Abigail, but I much prefer being called Abi.’

‘I hardly think a given name is an appropriate way for a boy to address his governess.’ Sir Hugh’s tone was firm, but not unkind. ‘You will call this lady Miss Newman, Frederick.’

Freddie pulled a face but took Abi’s hand nevertheless, shaking it solemnly. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Newman.’

‘That’s better.’ Sir Hugh nodded approvingly and Abi was aware that he could not see the mutinous look on his son’s face. She wished she dared wink at the boy, but with Sir Hugh facing her, she couldn’t risk that. Hopefully she would have the opportunity to bond with him before too long.

‘Would you care for some tea?’ Sir Hugh asked.

Abi hesitated, unsure whether it would be impolite to refuse, though she really wanted to find her feet before having to manage a teacup and the cakes and biscuits that would be sure to accompany it. She was still feeling nervous, and the fear of spilling tea in the saucer if her hand shook or trying to reply to a question when her mouth was full made her even more apprehensive.

‘Perhaps you would prefer to freshen up first,’ Sir Hugh suggested, as if he had understood her anxiety.

‘Thank you. Yes, I would,’ Abi replied gratefully.

‘Very well. Mrs Mears will show you to your room.’ He tugged on a bell pull, and almost instantly a wizened, bent old man appeared. Had he been listening at the door? Abi wondered.

‘Yes, sir?’ The man’s voice was a dry croak.

‘Summon Mrs Mears if you please, Briggs.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The old man disappeared, bobbing a half-bow.

‘Past his best, I’m afraid,’ Sir Hugh apologised. ‘But one cannot dismiss such a faithful old retainer.’

Once again Abi was at a loss to know how to respond, but she was thinking that Sir Hugh must have a kind heart in spite of his somewhat formal manner.

She was saved from answering by the arrival of a woman she assumed must be Mrs Mears, and who was, to say the least of it, a daunting figure.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I have been unable to talk any sense into Lady Hastings.’ The woman’s voice matched her appearance – cold and brisk.

Sir Hugh sighed heavily, then, realising that some sort of explanation was required, turned to Abi.

‘I must apologise for my wife, Miss Newman. She is of a somewhat delicate constitution.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Abi said, thinking this was probably not unusual amongst ladies of the upper class, who had no need to soldier on as working-class women had to. A fit of the vapours, she’d heard it called.

‘There are reasons for her frailty,’ Sir Hugh continued, as if reading Abi’s mind again. ‘You will learn them very soon, but this is perhaps not the best time, when you are anxious to freshen up from your journey.’

A choking sound from Freddie made Abigail turn towards him, and she was shocked to see he was stifling a giggle.

‘Frederick!’ Sir Hugh’s tone was a warning that couldn’t be ignored. The boy thrust his hands into his pockets and straightened his face into a parody of innocence.

Sir Hugh turned to the housekeeper. ‘Mrs Mears, this is Miss Newman. Will you kindly show her to her room? And Frederick, you may leave too. Look in on your mother and ask if there is anything she needs.’

Freddie muttered something under his breath and earned another searing glare from his father. But it was Mrs Mears who spoke up.

‘He doesn’t like it when you call her his mother,’ she said tightly. ‘Lady Marigold was his mother, and always will be.’ With that, she turned abruptly to Abi. ‘Come this way, Miss Newman.’

Abi followed her up a single flight of stairs and into a passage hung with portraits, daunted by the housekeeper’s appearance and manner, and startled by the way she had dared to speak to Sir Hugh. What she had revealed explained, of course, why Lady Hastings had not played any part in her appointment as governess – something she had wondered about – though for all she knew, that might be the way the gentry did things. But it posed more questions than answers. Who was Marigold? Had Sir Hugh been married before, or was Freddie an illegitimate child? And why had Sir Hugh chosen not to explain Lady Hastings’ indisposition?

‘Your room.’ The housekeeper opened a door and stood aside for Abi to enter.

It was much larger than Abi had expected, and filled with light that streamed in through the long casement windows, beyond which she could see a small wrought-iron balcony. The furniture all matched, constructed of a warm dark-brown wood that Abi thought might be chestnut, and decorated with intricate carvings, and there was what looked to be a stand for either a bonnet or a wig in a corner. On the bed, on top of a richly embroidered quilt, lay Abi’s travelling bag, open, with some of her clothing stacked in piles beside it.

‘I haven’t yet had time to finish putting your things away,’ Mrs Mears said stiffly, ‘but if you prefer, I will return later, when you have rejoined Sir Hugh and Master Frederick.’

‘Oh, there’s no need for you to do that.’ Abi was horrified at the thought of this unpleasant woman handling her most personal garments and, most likely, sniffing at their inferior quality. There were private items too – likenesses of her mother and father, her journal, and her prayer book and Bible.

Mrs Mears’s lips tightened, but she did not argue. ‘As you wish. There’s water in the jug, soap in the dish, and a clean towel on the rail of the washstand. Oh, and don’t think of venturing onto the balcony. It’s not safe. None of them are.’ Then, without another word, she turned and left the room.

Determined not to be intimidated, Abi picked up the piles of underwear that lay on the bed and placed them in a drawer, then slipped her nightgown under the pillow. As she did so, she felt a crawling sensation on the back of her hand and swiftly withdrew it to see a huge spider scrabbling up towards her wrist. She gasped; she wasn’t afraid of spiders, but it was a shock to find one beneath her pillow.

Freddie, she thought. That was the reason for his seemingly inexplicable giggle when his father had suggested she go to her room. He must have put it there anticipating it would crawl onto her face in the middle of the night and give her a fright. He wouldn’t have expected her to find it so soon.

She cupped the spider in the palm of her hand, carried it to the window and freed it onto the windowsill. It scurried away, and she closed the window again and finished her unpacking. But she was beginning to wonder just what she had let herself in for. An aristocratic employer who had failed to warn her of the state of his wife’s health, a surly housekeeper who was secure enough in her position to disrespect her master, and a charge who was not only rude but also liked to play cruel tricks. Sir Hugh had been honest about Frederick’s behaviour, it was true, but now she had met him for herself, her doubts about controlling him had intensified.

Had she had made a terrible mistake? Was she going to regret taking up this position? The last thing she wanted was to return to East Denby with her tail between her legs and admit to failure. No, she decided, the situation would have to become impossible before she could even think of doing that.

Calmer now that she had resolved that she must at least give herself the chance to accept things as they were here, she slipped out of her gown and hung it in the spacious wardrobe. Then she went to the washstand, poured some water – cold – into the matching basin and began to wash off the dust of travel.

Abi was still in her chemise and drying herself when she heard the click of the door opening. She spun around, alarmed, covering herself with the wholly inadequate hand towel, to see a wraith-like figure in the doorway. Golden ringlets hung limply around a face so pale that the dabs of rouge high on her cheeks stood out in sharp relief like the painted face of a china doll, and the woman’s eyes were red and puffy. No – not a woman, a lady; the fashionable high-waisted gown made of what could only be the finest silk bore witness to that. With a sense of shock, Abi realised this must be Imogen Hastings.

‘Milady?’ she ventured.

The wraith took a few steps into the room, the silken gown swaying gracefully about her slight figure.

‘And you must be Freddie’s new governess.’ Lady Hastings’ hands worked at the lace-edged handkerchief clutched between them. ‘I must apologise for not greeting you earlier. I was . . . upset.’ She faltered, and dropped her chin so that the ringlets brushed the ivory skin at her breastbone.

‘Please – don’t apologise,’ Abi said swiftly. ‘You are unwell, I understand.’

In the light of her ladyship’s appearance, she thought she was understating the case. Was Lady Hastings seriously ill? Dying, perhaps, of consumption, or some other ailment? If she had only a short time left, it might explain why Sir Hugh had been so quick to offer Abi the post of governess, so as to establish some continuity in his son’s life. And it could also be the reason he had been unwilling to discuss her absence from the welcoming party so soon.

It was possible, of course, that Lady Hastings might be equally reluctant to talk about her condition, Abi thought. Deciding it was best to pretend there was nothing out of the ordinary here, she dropped a curtsey and summoned a smile.

‘My name is Abigail Newman, but I expect you know that already,’ she said. ‘Freddie – Frederick – is to call me Miss Newman, but I’d really like it if you would call me Abi. “Miss Newman” makes me feel so old!’

She hoped she had not overstepped the bounds of propriety, but she could think of no better way of easing the awkwardness of the meeting, and to her relief, Lady Hastings did not appear in any way offended.

‘I will do so, of course, if that is what you would like. And I would be happy if you would call me Imogen.’ Her lips twitched with the faint suggestion of a smile. ‘I, too, feel old when I am referred to as Lady Hastings.’

A warm glow flushed Abi’s cheeks. At last, in this strange household, she had found a kindred spirit, even if she was wasting away from some terrible illness. But at the same time, she was aware that such familiarity might not be acceptable to Lady Hastings’ husband.

‘Won’t Sir Hugh think me disrespectful?’ she asked doubtfully.

The sadness returned to Lady Hastings’ eyes. Abi’s observation had struck home.

‘Maybe. Hugh can be stuffy, it’s true. But . . . perhaps when we are alone?’ Another half-smile. ‘Which I hope we will be sometimes.’

‘I hope so too,’ Abi returned. ‘And perhaps you would like to sit in on some of Freddie’s lessons?’

Imogen’s smile was faltering again, and, feeling cross with herself, Abi remembered that her ladyship was not Freddie’s mother, but a stepmother. Then, to her surprise, Imogen took a step towards her, reaching out to grasp her hands.

‘Be kind to him, please,’ she begged earnestly. ‘His father has no patience with his pranks, and I know he can be a scamp. But he’s only a little boy. Little boys are so precious, and they grow up so quickly . . . if they are the fortunate ones . . .’

‘I will be kind to him, of course,’ Abi said, puzzled by the suggestion that she might be anything else. ‘I might have to discipline him sometimes, but it won’t be harsh. That’s not my way.’

‘And you’ll keep any misdemeanours from his father?’ Imogen pleaded.

‘If I can,’ Abi promised, and was shocked to see tears welling in the other woman’s eyes.

‘I am so glad you are here,’ Imogen whispered. ‘Freddie needs someone like you. And so do I. My life has been very lonely since . . .’ She broke off abruptly, wrenching her hand from Abi’s and dabbing at her eyes with the sodden handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t talk more now. I need to be alone.’

Without another word, she turned and fled. Had she been about to confide the reason for her wretched appearance and her concern for Freddie? Abi wondered. As things were, she was none the wiser, but more convinced than ever that something was seriously wrong here.

Concerned and puzzled, she reached for her gown and got herself dressed.





Imogen fled along the corridor to her own suite, and through her sitting and bedroom into the room that had once been Robbie’s. She sank to the floor beside his bed, weeping. Here, in his room, it was almost as if he were still alive, hiding somewhere, and would pop out at any moment with a cheeky ‘Boo, Mama!’

Since the tragedy of his death a year and a half ago, nothing had been changed – Imogen would not allow it. His little bed was still made up, with a stuffed toy – a monkey – resting against the pillow and his nightshirt spread out over the back of a child-sized wicker chair as if ready for him to put on when it was bedtime, while the music box that had helped him to fall asleep sat on the nightstand beside his bed. Some of his favourite toys still lay on the floor where he had left them. Building bricks, a wooden pull-along duck, a jack-in-the-box and a wind-up carriage that could career around the room before crashing into the furniture or simply running out of steam. Imogen would not have a single thing disturbed.

Sir Hugh considered it unhealthy, but tactfully refrained from saying so, but Mrs Mears, who could be unspeakably cruel, was more outspoken. ‘He’s gone,’ she had said tersely. ‘He won’t be coming back. You know that – you saw him dead and buried.’

Imogen had closed her eyes and clapped her hand over her mouth. She wasn’t going to explain to this woman, who seemed to resent her so, that while the room waited for Robbie, it was almost as if he was still with her. That she felt his presence close by. And that recently, in the dead of night, she had thought she’d heard him calling to her. ‘Mama! Mama!’ Mrs Mears would say she had been asleep and dreaming, and perhaps she was right, but that wasn’t what Imogen wanted to hear, or to believe.

Oh, if only she could hold him in her arms again, tight against her chest! Feel his little body, soft yet at the same time firm and wholesome. Bury her face in his downy hair. Breathe in the sweet milky smell of his skin. She couldn’t – as yet. The whispers of ‘Mama’ had to be enough for now. But Imogen couldn’t let go of the irrational hope that one day he would return to her.

Oh, she knew what the evil woman thought of her. She’d overheard her talking to Hugh – perhaps she had been meant to hear. She wouldn’t put it past her.

‘She’s lost her mind,’ the housekeeper had said. ‘She’ll finish up in the asylum, mark my words. It’s the only place for her.’

Thankfully, Hugh had defended her. ‘It’s early days,’ he had said. ‘She is still in mourning. God knows, I was close to madness myself when I lost Marigold. It will pass. Given time.’

Mrs Mears had snorted derisively. ‘If you say so, sir. I wouldn’t be so sure myself.’

That had been some months ago, and now Imogen was aware that Hugh was losing patience with her. But she couldn’t help herself. Consumed by her grief, she spent much of her time in Robbie’s room, torturing herself with her memories, burying her face in the clothes that still bore the scent of him. And since she had begun to think she heard him calling to her in the night, she would lie awake, listening, until exhaustion overcame her.

Now, the effort she had made to summon the courage to go and speak to the new governess had drained her scant reserves. She buried her face in the covers of Robbie’s bed and wept. Then, as she grew calmer, fragments of the brief meeting floated into her mind. She thought that Miss Newman – Abi – was a good person. She had kind eyes and a soft voice, and Imogen had known instinctively that she would be sympathetic to her grief if – when – she learned about Robbie’s death.

How close she had come to telling the governess everything! The need to unburden herself to someone who would not judge her had been almost overwhelming. Yet when it came to the point, she hadn’t been able to do it. Perhaps one day, when they knew each other better, they might become friends. The thought was a small spark of hope in the darkness that imprisoned her. She was, as she had said, so lonely. If there had only been someone with whom she could share her grief, unburden herself, maybe she could have begun to come to terms with the terrible thing that had happened. But there was no one. Mrs Mears was cold and cruel – Imogen suspected she resented her for taking the place of Marigold, whom she seemed to have placed on a pedestal. The ladies she met socially were not her friends but Hugh’s, and to Imogen they seemed superficial and self-absorbed, full of their own importance and engaging in games of one-upmanship. As for Hugh himself, things hadn’t been really right between them since Robbie’s death.

Once, in the early days of their relationship, he had been generous with his time as well as his money; nowadays it seemed he was always too busy for her. His mines were his passion, she’d always known that, but recently he was more obsessed with them than ever, and although he employed an agent, he seemed set on overseeing everything himself. Perhaps it was his way of dealing with the loss of Robbie, she thought. If only they could have shared their grief, things could be so different. But Hugh seemed not to want that. He had distanced himself from her, and if ever she tried to talk about their lost son, he was quick to put a stop to the conversation and escape, as soon as he could, to his study.

‘Going over and over it will do no good,’ he would say shortly. ‘You must try to put it out of your mind.’

Put it out of her mind! As if she had lost a bauble, rather than her only child! Didn’t Hugh care that Robbie, his son too, was dead? Surely he must? In the first dreadful dark days, they had grieved together. Though devastated himself, Hugh had been her rock, the only constant in a life torn apart. But then he had begun to change. While she propped likenesses of Robbie on sideboards, mantel shelves and cabinets, Hugh seemed irritated by them; when she refused to have a single thing moved in Robbie’s room, he had been impatient, even surly. It was morbid, he had said. She couldn’t understand how he could say such things. It was as if he wanted to erase all trace of their son, while she was desperate to hold him close. She’d seen him weep, for the first and last time, when he had carried Robbie’s limp and dripping body into the house on that terrible day, but since then . . . Even at the burial he had remained dry-eyed and stoic. Gentlemen were supposed to hide their emotions, she knew, but this . . . If he had loved and needed Robbie as she did, surely the cracks would show sometimes. No, he couldn’t be as devastated as she was, and believing that alienated her from the one person she should have been able to share her grief with, the one person who might bring her some release, if not comfort.

But of course he still had Freddie. Though the boy’s behaviour might sometimes make him angry, Freddie was his son. Unlike her, he had not lost everything. And if he was hard on him sometimes – which in her opinion he was – it was only because he was determined to keep him on the straight and narrow and raise him to be the perfect honourable gentleman, kind, hard-working and worthy of respect. Imogen would have preferred Hugh to take a gentler approach, but she understood his reasons for the harsh punishments he doled out, even if Freddie did not.

Sometimes she wasn’t sure if Hugh appreciated that Freddie had lost his little brother, just as they had lost a son, and might also be blaming himself for what had happened. Though the nursemaid should have been watching them both, at five years older than Robbie, Freddie was expected to keep an eye on the little boy, and they had been in the garden together on the afternoon Robbie had wandered off and tumbled into the lake. She suspected he was racked with guilt at not taking better care of his little brother. In her opinion, much of his bad behaviour now was his way of expressing emotions beyond his understanding, and her heart ached for him.

This was why she had begged Abi to treat him kindly, and keep any bad behaviour from his father, and she sensed now that the young woman would do her best for him.

The tiny spark of hope flared again, that Abi might b. . .