The Lost And Found Girl

by Catherine King

Genres: Sagas; Family Life; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Beth thought she had been rescued from a life of servitude by an offer of marriage from gentleman farmer Edgar Collins, but her future would be bleaker than she could ever imagine and married life was far from bliss....

When the legitimacy of her twin babies with Edgar is called into question, the tiny infants are taken from Beth and sent far away. James is adopted by Edgar's uncle, the very wealthy Lord Redfern, master of Redfern Abbey. But little Daisy is sent to a cold-hearted childless couple who raise her to be a maid rather than a daughter.

When Daisy, at 16, finally escapes her hard life with her adoptive brother, Boyd, they arrive at the abbey to seek work and refuge. Little does Daisy know that her flesh and blood is the next in line to be Lord of the Abbey. There is a strange connection between Daisy and James, something they can neither explain nor ignore. But will the truth be discovered in time?

Release date: December 1, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 480

Sample

Beth dropped her bundle of belongings to the stone floor and shivered as she stood in the draughty church porch wearing her best bonnet and gown. She hugged her old winter cloak closely to her body. ‘Is he here, sir?’ she asked.

‘Be patient, child.’

She hadn’t been a child for years, she thought irritably. Thankfully, no one would dare to call her that after today. ‘May I go inside?’ she suggested.

The principal of Blackstone School scowled at her. ‘You must wait here until he arrives.’

‘But I am very cold, sir.’

‘You’ll do well to get used to it. It’s a wild place you’re going to.’

Beth did not mind the windswept landscape, but her journey to the Dales in an open trap had been long and tedious, and she was hungry. It can’t be as bad as Blackstone, she thought. She had suffered the frugalities of poverty in that dreadful place for as long as she could remember and had prayed, four years ago when she’d reached fourteen, that the school would find her a position away from it. Instead she had been employed as a servant in the principal’s home to ‘learn to housekeep’, he had told her. She had been considered fortunate by other girls in the school who had been sent to work as house- or nurse-maids in the homes of shopkeepers or tenant farmers. So Beth had not complained about the long days of servility with little time for reading or recreation.

At first she had been excited at the prospect of leaving the harshness of school life, although she missed the company of her friends. One had been special to Beth and they had corresponded regularly until she had received a note from her which read: My mistress does not think it fitting for domestic servants to be writing letters. I am so sorry.

Beth’s life in the principal’s house had been lonely and miserable, for Mr Barden was strict and believed in the strap for discipline. His wife and daughters were lazy and she had been at their beck and call from six in the morning until ten at night. Over the years they had taught her very little apart from how to cook, clean and mend. But they had given her one of their out-grown gowns to wear today. Although it was plain with long sleeves and buttoned to her neck, it had not needed to be repaired and it was, by far, the nicest gown she had ever worn. The plain grey did nothing to enhance her fair colouring but it was well cut and made her look like a lady’s maid rather than a more lowly servant. She had fashioned a new collar and matching cuffs edged with her own drawn thread work and looked forward to removing her cloak for the ceremony.

However, in spite of the dreary routine she had left behind, her new-found excitement had turned to nervousness as Mr Barden’s trap had rattled along the rutted track, climbing away from the only life she had known, and across the moor until she reached this small stone church on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. The bleak expanse of scrubland and rock did nothing to quell her anxiety.

She heard horses’ hooves on the track and the churnings in her stomach started again. ‘Is – is this him?’ she asked. Her voice wavered. Would he be as cold and strict as Mr Barden? Or would he be pompous and overbearing like the school benefactors? She knew little about him except that he was nine and twenty and came from a sheep farm high on the fell. She straightened her chilled back and hoped that she would please him.

A clatter of a carriage following shortly afterwards caused Beth’s heart to beat faster. It was really happening to her. In a short while she would be the wife of Edgar Collins and go with him to live at High Fell Farm. She heard the churchyard gate creak and moments later two people entered the gloomy doorway.

She recognised the woman as Edgar’s mother who had visited Mr Barden to inspect her and ask about her demeanour and habits. Beth thought at the time that Mrs Collins had put on airs and seemed grand for the mother of a sheep farmer. But, although she had looked down her nose at Beth, she appeared to approve of her as a bride for her son.

However Beth soon realised that this initial condescension had not gone away. Mrs Collins wore black from her velvet cape to her full silk skirts and her dark eyes glittered as they travelled over Beth’s cloak and bonnet. She did not smile. She turned her attention to Mr Barden and asked, ‘Do you have the gold?’

‘After the ceremony, madam,’ he replied stiffly.

‘I want sight of it before the vows.’

‘Very well. Wait here for me, child.’ He went outside with Mrs Collins, leaving Beth alone with her future husband.

Beth looked at him with a tentative smile on her lips. She had thrown back the hood of her cloak to reveal her cheap straw bonnet that she had decorated with evergreen leaves and grey ribbons. Tendrils of fair hair escaped around her pale face. They trembled in the draught and caught on her lips as she hovered in the chilly church porch. But her blue eyes were bright and she had a wide smile that showed off good cheekbones, even if it was too late to pinch them for a rosy glow.

He was taller than she, with the outdoor swarthiness of a country man, and he was dressed as gentry in old-fashioned breeches. His long jacket was cutaway to reveal a richly embroidered waistcoat. His tall hat stayed firmly on his head and he clipped his riding crop against high leather boots in a gesture that Beth took to be impatience. Beth’s initial confidence in her appearance drained away as she realised that her dress did not match his in status. However she rallied when he murmured, more to himself than to her, ‘Well, she’s pretty enough.’ But his eyes did not meet hers and, although he sounded satisfied, his face was grim and his mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get on with it,’ he added and disappeared into the church.

As she listened to his boots ringing on the stone flags of the empty church, Beth did not know whether to follow him or wait for Mr Barden. For as long as she could remember she had been obedient to the orders of Mr Barden, his teachers and latterly his wife and daughters. Agreeing to this marriage had been the first time he had consulted her for an opinion of any kind, though it was made quite clear to her at the time that her answer would be ‘yes’ even without sight of her future husband. It was a good offer. He was a farmer and she was a nobody, a ward in chancery, a bastard child; but one with a settlement.

Beth had no illusions about this match. It was her dowry that enabled her to be married and she silently thanked her unknown benefactor for his generosity. There was no point in asking who he was for even the London lawyer did not know. He had provided a weekly amount for her education and lodging until she was eighteen and then a significant sum for a dowry. After today she would be off his hands for ever. At least, Beth thought, marriage would be better than life as a servant.

While she was deciding what to do, Mrs Collins swept through the entrance porch, past her and into the church. Over her shoulder she said, ‘Bring the girl.’ Mr Barden followed, took hold of Beth’s elbow and propelled her through the door.

Beth walked purposefully down the aisle with Mr Barden by her side. She must not show her fear. She rehearsed the vows she had practised using her prayer book and the task took her mind off the anxiety bubbling in her stomach. There were no flowers, not even a winter arrangement, and the air smelled dank indicating the church was little used. The clergyman was talking to her future husband in a relaxed manner, as though they were acquainted. They were, Beth judged, of a similar age and they lapsed into silence as she took her place in front of him with Edgar Collins by her side and looked directly ahead. In the periphery of her vision she was aware that Mrs Collins watched keenly when they exchanged vows and Edgar slid a thin gold band onto her finger.

She gazed at it in awe, bright yellow and shiny against her pale skin. It was the first time she had been given jewellery of any kind and its symbolism overwhelmed her. She was no longer Elizabeth Smith. She was Mrs Edgar Collins. She was someone’s wife and a part of his family. She had his name, a home, a position and the respect that went with it. Of course she was aware that she had new duties and responsibilities, but Blackstone had prepared her well to do her husband’s bidding as mistress of his house. She would, with the help of his servants, keep his home clean and sweet smelling, wash and mend his clothes, provide wholesome meals and, of course, tend to all his husbandly needs. She wasn’t very sure about the latter in spite of asking Mrs Barden, who had brushed away any discussion of the more intimate of her wifely duties.

Mr Barden was impatient to leave and said, ‘She’s all yours now, sir,’ before turning to walk back down the aisle. Beth glanced sideways at her husband. He looked pleased and his mother too had a self-satisfied look on her sallow lined face. Relief flooded over Beth. They were happy with the match and she resolved to be a good wife. She put her hand on his arm, expecting him to escort her back down the aisle and out of the church to his waiting carriage.

He shook her off. ‘Go with Mama. I am in need of refreshment.’

Well so am I, she thought. It had been a long time since her breakfast porridge.

Her husband smirked at the vicar. ‘Come, Milo, we shall celebrate and look forward to the Lady Day shoot.’

The clergyman replied, ‘This is only the beginning, Edgar. It pleases me to help a friend secure his future.’

‘I have you to thank for everything: the girl, the ceremony and the loan of your carriage for Mama. How shall I repay you?’

‘There will be time enough for that when you are installed in the Abbey. All I ask is the living there. It has the finest rectory in the South Riding.’

They walked off towards the vestry without a backward glance at Beth and she wondered about the Abbey. Blackstone was on the edge of the South Riding and the only Abbey she had heard of was Redfern, for its coalfields spread across the Riding. Mrs Collins was already on her way out and Beth hurried after her. She watched Mr Barden carry a small box from his trap to Mrs Collins, who instructed her driver to secure it inside the carriage beside her feet. Beth’s bundle of belongings, she noticed, had been stowed outside under the driver’s seat. ‘Goodbye, Mr Barden,’ she said, and thought, Goodbye Blackstone. She heard, and then saw, a pair of hunters gallop away carrying the vicar and her husband, their travelling cloaks flapping as they rode.

Finally, Mrs Collins climbed into the carriage and settled her full black skirts across the plush. In the gloomy daylight Beth noticed that the silk was old and discoloured in patches. The lace too was worn and fragile. ‘Hurry up, girl,’ she ordered and Beth scrambled after her as the older woman rapped on the coach roof.

The carriage jolted forward and she waited for Mrs Collins to open their conversation. After several minutes of silence she asked, ‘How shall I address you, ma’am?’

Mrs Collins’s thin lips barely moved. ‘Did Blackstone not teach you to be silent until your betters speak to you?’

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am.’

They rode on without further exchange. Through the carriage window Beth realised they were climbing. The Yorkshire Dales were considered beautiful by visitors. But that was in the sun of summer. In failing daylight they were brutish and threatening, the fells exposed to wild weather. The sight of deserted cottages with missing roofs and tumble-down walls was testament to the harshness of daily life. She guessed the former occupants had been driven out by poverty and the fierce winters of the hills to seek better wages in the towns. She supposed that’s why the church no longer had a congregation or, it seemed, a vicar of its own.

Beth gripped her seat as the horses pulled the carriage up a rutted track. Mrs Collins sipped occasionally from a dull metal flask but did not offer any of the contents to Beth. A tot of spirit would have been welcome to relieve the cold. Finally, the older woman spoke.

‘Your silence does you credit. Barden assured me you are well disciplined and I expect obedience without question. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, ma’am, I have promised to obey my husband and I shall.’

Mrs Collins’s nostrils flared and her mouth pinched. ‘You will obey me, girl. I am the mistress of High Fell Farm.’

Beth’s eyes widened and the turmoil in her stomach increased. Before today she had fretted only about becoming the wife of a farmer she had never met and feared he would be as hard a taskmaster as Mr Barden. Now she worried that she had to deal with this severe woman too. She said, ‘I believe my first duty is to my husband, ma’am.’

Mrs Collins glared at her. ‘And my son’s duty is to me. I warn you, girl, do not presume to argue with me. My son does my bidding and so will you.’

Beth clamped her mouth shut. From her brief interaction with Edgar he had not seemed subservient to his mother. But she supposed Mrs Collins indulged him his failures as mothers tend to do their sons. She wondered how much time to learn her new responsibilities Mrs Collins would give her. Not much, she concluded with a heavy heart.

Beth still had everything to learn about being a farmer’s wife and the house at High Fell would surely be bigger and grander than any she had known. She supposed Mrs Collins would not trust her to take over the household affairs just yet. Perhaps Edgar would be her champion in times ahead and meanwhile she might need Mrs Collins’s help and so she replied, ‘Very well, ma’am.’

Her feet and hands were frozen by the time she reached her new home. Dusk was falling and the grey stone walls of the farmhouse looked austere and forbidding in the failing light. It was bigger than Mr Barden’s house, though not as large as she’d imagined. Mrs Collins supervised the unloading of her strongbox. ‘Take that straight up to my bedchamber, Roberts, and tell your wife to see to the girl. I shall rest for an hour and then take dinner.’ She swept past her driver and through the iron-studded front door.

Beth picked up her bundle and followed her into a large entrance hall with a high vaulted ceiling and a wide wooden staircase leading to a galleried landing. Mrs Collins had already climbed the stairs and she didn’t look back as she disappeared along the dark landing. At one end of the hall, an ornate marble mantle surrounded a paltry fire burning in the grate. A table was set for dinner before it. Beth was so enthralled by her new home that she did not notice where the driver had gone and found herself alone. Hungry and thirsty, she walked across the stone-flagged floor and took an apple from a pile on a metal plate and bit into it with relish.

‘Don’t let the mistress see you do that.’

Surprised, Beth swung round to see an older woman carrying a lighted lamp and wearing an apron over her gown. ‘Whyever not?’

The woman frowned, lifted her chin, looked down her nose and answered, ‘Dessert is eaten from a plate with a fruit knife.’

‘Oh.’ This must be Mrs Roberts. Beth recognised the woman’s disdainful tone as one used by Edgar’s mother and, she presumed, learned from her. ‘Are you my housekeeper?’ she asked.

The woman’s neck stiffened. ‘I am Mrs Collins’s housekeeper.’

‘I am Mrs Collins,’ she explained patiently.

‘You are not my mistress.’

Beth decided to ignore her disrespectful attitude and speak to her husband about her later. Until yesterday she had been a housekeeper herself and would have been soundly chastised for such a response. However, she considered that charm was the better part of valour and managed a smile. ‘This must have been a busy day for you.’ She stretched out the hand that held her bundle. ‘Will you show me to my chamber?’

Mrs Roberts did not take the bundle; nor did she return Beth’s smile. ‘It’s at the east end of the landing, overlooking the backyard. You’ll find hot water in the kitchen. As soon as you’ve washed I need you to help with dinner.’

This was too much and Beth hoped she did not show her mounting anger. Perhaps she should speak to her husband now? It was not that she minded the work, even on her wedding day. Mr Collins was a farmer and she expected to be involved in domestic tasks. But this woman’s insolence needed checking. He had left church on horseback so he ought to be home. ‘Where is my husband?’ she demanded. ‘I should like to see him now.’

‘Don’t ask me. Dinner is on the hour. I’ll need help before then, or we’ll keep the mistress waiting.’ Mrs Roberts turned her back and walked away. Her footsteps echoed in the cavernous hall.

Astounded afresh by the housekeeper’s rudeness, Beth watched her disappear through a door. After a few seconds, she gave an exasperated sigh and followed her. The kitchen was low-ceilinged and three times the size of the one she had worked in before. It was warm. A cooking range of blackened hotplates, bake ovens and water boiler took up one wall and a dark wood dresser stood opposite. A large deal table took up the centre space. She was in time to see her housekeeper go outside and close the outer door behind her. Beth finished her apple slowly wondering why, apparently, no one had told Mrs Roberts about her. She drew a jug of hot water from the brass tap in the boiler next to the fire grate and struggled with it and her bundle up the stairs.

There was only one east chamber but it couldn’t possibly be hers as it was far too small for the mistress of the house and sparsely furnished. She dropped her bundle on the narrow bed and went back to the main landing but all other doors were locked. Puzzled, she returned to the small chamber, sat in a wide chair by the empty fireplace and determined to make the best of it. She had many questions for her husband when he arrived and undaunted she took off her cloak and prepared to wash.

Sitting in front of a small spotty looking-glass to tidy her hair, Beth reflected that Edgar had said she was pretty. Well, ‘pretty enough’ were his actual words. Pretty enough to marry she supposed, even though she was aware he would have wed her if she had not been pretty. She smoothed back her thick fair hair and thought she would buy combs and ribbons so that she could be more adventurous in the way she pinned it up. She wondered what clothing allowance he would give her and where she might go to spend it.

The market town of Settle was not far away, though the road was rocky and steep and the carriage had had to negotiate a narrow stone bridge with great care. A carriage went from Settle to Skipton and the post from there could take her to Leeds. She dreamed for a moment of visiting drapers’ shops she had only heard of. Until she had a new Sunday gown, the one she was wearing would have to be kept in the cupboard for best and her old housekeeper’s gown used for everyday. However, she resolved to strive to always look as pretty as today for Edgar and pinched her cheeks to raise a little colour.

The sound of horses’ hooves on the farmyard cobbles sent Beth scurrying to the window. A rider appeared in the twilight and his dark cloak flapped as he reined in his horse. Steam streamed from the horse’s nostrils and there were flecks of white in its sweating flanks. Edgar, she guessed. Neither he nor his mother had made any effort to welcome her so far. A shiver of apprehension ran down her spine. She was his wife now and nothing could change that so she had to make the best of it. Surely life at High Fell Farm could not be any worse than at Blackstone? Could it?

‘Roberts!’ her husband yelled as he slid from his horse and left the reins trailing. Roberts came hurrying into the yard to stable the horse. Edgar was home and this really was the beginning of her new life as a wife. She took one last glance at her appearance, turned down the lamp and went out onto the landing to wait for him at the top of the stairs. She stepped forward from the shadows as he reached the top step.

‘Good God, girl, you gave me the fright of my life!’ He raised the lamp he was carrying to light up her face. ‘What the blazes are you doing lurking up here? Shouldn’t you be helping Mrs Roberts?’

As he moved closer she could smell strong drink on his breath. Of course he needed spirits to keep warm when he rode out on the fell. She bent one knee and bowed her head deferentially, then gave him her widest smile ‘I – I was waiting to – to greet you, sir.’

‘You were?’

Clearly he was taken aback. He looked from her to one of the wide wooden doors on the landing and back to her with raised eyebrows and his mouth widened into a lascivious grin.

‘I had not expected a Blackstone girl to be so eager for the bedchamber.’

As she realised what he was thinking a blush rose in her face and neck and she protested, ‘Oh no, sir! I mean, sir, I mean I—’

‘That comes after dinner,’ he interrupted with a smirk. He moved the lamp closer until she could feel the heat on her flushed skin and then he trailed the flexible tip of his riding crop over the bodice of her gown, tracing the curves of her breasts and waist. She tried to maintain her smile but could not. ‘At least you’re something to return home for.’ His eyes glittered harshly in the same way as his mother’s and another shiver of apprehension trickled down her back. Then suddenly he gave her bottom a quick swipe with his crop. ‘Off you go to the kitchen, then,’ he ordered and, rattling a key, disappeared into his chamber.

He hadn’t hurt her, but he had shaken her already jittery nerves. She was aware of how little she knew about a gentleman’s needs and how unsure she was of her household responsibilities. It was several minutes before she was composed enough to go downstairs and into the kitchen. She welcomed the opportunity to learn her household’s routines and resolved not to upset Mrs Roberts further by introducing her own ways too soon. In any case, she had to be sure to meet Edgar’s expectations of how his home must be managed.

He did appear to be devoted to his mother and probably wanted her to run his household in the same way that she had. Also, this was a gentleman farmer’s household and different from Mrs Barden’s aspiring but frugal ways. Beth was uncertain what the future held for her, but optimistic that she would be able to adjust. She resolved to watch and learn to fit in as best she could. When she was more settled in her role she might suggest changes, although even as she thought of this she realised that Mrs Collins was not likely to be a woman who considered change easily.

As she walked down the old wooden staircase to the cavernous hall she saw Mrs Collins sitting at the head of the dining table with a place set, presumably, for Edgar on her right and one for Beth on the left. She hurried past her, bobbing a curtsey as she did, and went into the kitchen, not quite knowing what to expect.

Mr Roberts was sitting at the table drinking from a metal tankard and his wife was slicing at the cooked and drained leg of mutton and piling the chunks of steaming meat onto a large oval platter.

‘Not before time,’ she muttered without looking up. ‘Take the meat in and come back for the potatoes and turnips. Offer them to the mistress first and then Master Edgar.’

She was to wait at table! She had done this at Blackstone when the Board of Governors had visited and knew how to present the food so that those at table may help themselves. Edgar had joined his mother at the table. Beth, grateful at least to be doing something that pleased surly Mrs Collins, stood patiently, holding hot dishes while her mouth watered. She placed the serving dishes on a sideboard to fill her own plate later. After her third journey with a sauce boat of thick onion gravy, Edgar emptied the stoneware ewer of ale into his metal tankard and brandished the heavy jug at her.

‘Re-fill this before you sit down,’ he ordered.

She made a final trip to the barrel in the scullery. There was no sign of a scullery maid and Roberts and his wife were already sitting at the kitchen table eating their dinner as she hurried past them carrying the full ewer. When she sat down at the third place set at the table Beth was so hungry she would have eaten boiled rat if it had been set in front of her. She had taken liberal helpings of food not caring if they thought her greedy and filled her own metal tankard to the brim.

Neither her husband nor his mother noticed; or if they did, they did not comment. Edgar was too busy with his own food. He ate well as she would expect of a country gentleman who spent his time outdoors. His mother took less and finished before either of them. Beth thought Mrs Collins might take the opportunity to open a conversation but she merely watched her son without expression. Eventually he dropped his cutlery with a clatter and pushed his plate away.

‘When will you be ready to leave, Mama?’

‘The horses should rest. We shall set off the day after tomorrow.’

Edgar looked cross. ‘They do not need a whole day. My hunter thrives on a good gallop and Milo’s carriage horse is strong.’

‘But I am not,’ his mother argued.

Edgar looked as though he did not believe her. Neither did Beth for, in spite of her advancing years, Mrs Collins seemed physically strong. Beth guessed than she had not led her ladylike life for all her years.

‘Besides, Milo is kicking his heels in Settle waiting for me.’

‘And is he more important to you than I?’

‘Of course he is not, Mama. But we owe him, both of us. After all, he told us about the girl’s dowry.’

Beth considered briefly how Milo knew about her. Mr Barden had consulted the vicar at Blackstone about her future and she supposed Milo, as a fellow clergyman, was acquainted with him. Certainly, this match had happened quickly after Mr Barden had informed her that she must marry or be sent out to find paid work.

Edgar continued. ‘You have Milo’s carriage at your disposal. Roberts will drive you and bring you back.’

‘Will you not need his carriage for your journey to Leeds?’

‘We prefer horseback. It’s quicker.’

‘Shall I accompany Mrs Collins to Settle, Edgar?’ Beth asked. If she were to ride in a carriage she ought to have a more presentable cloak and a market town would surely have a draper or gown-maker.

Mother and son turned to stare at her with similar looks of surprise. Edgar picked up his empty plate, handed it across the table to her and said, ‘Your work is here. Clear these pots and bring in the pudding.’

She took his plate automatically and wished she hadn’t. He was effectively dismissing her from the table and the conversation. She stacked it on her own plate in front of her and Mrs Collins added, ‘Did they teach you nothing in the Barden household? Do that on the sideboard.’

Her son responded. ‘A manservant would know better how to behave. He would be of greater use to me, Mama.’

Beth pressed her lips together to prevent a retaliation. They were not so grand that they could afford a footman to wait at table. Silently she cleared the table of dirty pots and carried them out on a heavy wooden tray that she deposited thankfully on the kitchen table.

Roberts was already eating his pudding. His wife took one look at the laden tray and snapped, ‘Take those straight into the scullery.’

She stacked them in the shallow stone sink and returned to collect the pudding. She felt Edgar’s eyes on her the whole time she unloaded the tray onto the sideboard. She served the pie as she had done the meat, holding the heavy dish in front of them while Mrs Collins and then Edgar helped themselves. She had placed a jug of cream on the table but when she came to pour it on hers, the jug was empty. She sighed and rose to her feet to fetch more, only to be stopped by Edgar’s mother.

‘For heaven’s sake, girl, be still,’ Mrs Collins said irritably.

Beth looked down and tried to quell her anger. She was not a girl. She was Edgar’s wife and deserved to be addressed with the dignity that her position deserved. She took courage from that and said, ‘My name is Elizabeth, Mrs Collins.’

Mrs Collins pursed her lips and flared her nostrils but did not answer. Edgar glared at her and said, ‘Be quiet.’

Beth glared back. ‘I shall not. I am not a servant, I am your wife.’

‘And you will do well to remember that,’ Mrs Collins snapped. ‘You have my son’s name and his home for shelter. It is more than you deserve as an orphan of questionable breeding.’

Beth was hurt by this. She did not know who her mother and father were but they had provided for her education and she protested, ‘One of my parents must have had a family with means.’

‘And neither of them wished to own you!’

The hurt turned to insult, but curiosity for knowledge of her family overcame her emotion and she asked, ‘Were you acquainted with them, madam?’

‘That is enough! You at least should be aware that girls like you are best considered as orphans.’

Beth stifled a sigh. They didn’t know any more than she, or indeed Mr Barden. She wondered what Mrs Collins might do to her if she ignored her demands. Take her back to Blackstone? She hardly thought so for Mr Barden would want the dowry back and how would she pay for Edgar’s manservant then?

Beth did not begrudge them her dowry for it would never have been he