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  To them she belonged in the kitchen with the pots and pans. If she was working elsewhere in the house she was supposed to be quiet and invisible, without any rights, personality or feelings. Right now they were probably sitting in the drawing room enjoying the warm fire and the decorated Christmas tree, anticipating tomorrow’s roast goose and plum pudding. Yet she knew they wouldn’t stop to think how it got to their table, or of the planning and preparation that went into making their Christmas a merry one.

  ‘It’s time you moved on,’ she murmured to herself as she approached Harrington House. ‘It was only ever meant to be a temporary job.’

  As Adele opened the front door, Mr Bailey came out into the hall. She had always imagined him looking like Michael, tall, slender and dark-haired, but in fact he was almost the exact opposite. He was no more than five feet seven, portly, and what was left of his hair was grey.

  She knew him to be in his fifties, and fond of overeating and drinking, judging by his fat belly and high colour. He was short on charm and tolerance too – he had barked orders at her several times when she was serving luncheon.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ he said sharply as she wiped her wet feet on the doormat. ‘I rang the bell and there was no reply.’

  ‘I have a couple of hours off in the afternoon,’ Adele said. ‘Didn’t Mrs Bailey tell you?’

  ‘She’s having a nap,’ he said. ‘But we expected you to be on call while there are visitors.’

  Adele felt a surge of irritation but she forced herself to smile. ‘I’ll just go and take my coat off, then I’ll come and see what you want,’ she said.

  ‘We want tea for the children,’ he snapped at her, his colour rising. ‘And they can stay in the kitchen with you until their bedtime.’

  Adele might have been tempted to say she wasn’t a child-minder, and that expecting her to prepare the supper with two excited children under her feet wasn’t fair or right. But she knew if she did Mr Bailey was likely to take it out on his wife or Michael.

  As it turned out, Anna and James, Ralph and Laura Bailey’s children, were no trouble. In fact Adele suspected they’d spent most of their young lives in the company of servants as they looked far more relaxed and happy in the kitchen than they had earlier in the dining room. Anna was six, James four, two small attractive replicas of their blonde, blue-eyed mother. Ralph took after his father: although he was a little taller and had a fine head of dark hair, he was already developing the same high colour and a paunch.

  After a tea of sandwiches, scones and cake, Adele gave the children a large jar of buttons to play with. She’d found them in one of the kitchen cupboards when she first started here.

  ‘You could sort them into colours, or make pictures with them,’ she suggested, tipping them out on to a tray. She arranged a few into a flower shape to give them the idea and gave each of them a tray to stop the buttons falling on the floor.

  Once the children were occupied, Adele laid the table in the dining room for supper. Mrs Bailey had requested soup, followed by cold meat and pickles, and as the soup was ready, requiring nothing more than heating up, Adele thought she had plenty of time to make the stuffing for tomorrow’s goose, then whisk the children upstairs and get them into bed at half past six, ready to serve the supper at seven.

  She thought it was odd that Laura Bailey didn’t come upstairs while she was getting her children into their nightclothes, but then she’d already noticed that the pretty blonde came from the same mould as her mother-in-law, and didn’t do anything much for herself.

  ‘Will you read to us, Adele?’ Anna asked once she was tucked up in bed with her brother.

  ‘I can’t, I’ve got to get the supper,’ Adele replied. ‘And you’ve got to go to sleep otherwise Santa Claus won’t be filling your stockings.’

  The stockings, two large red linen ones embroidered with the children’s names, were hanging on the bed posts. She and Pamela had only ever had a pair of their father’s socks, and the contents had been meagre compared with what these two children would get.

  ‘Please read us a story,’ Anna pleaded. ‘We promise we’ll go to sleep straight afterwards.’

  She looked so adorable with her blonde hair tumbling down over the shoulders of her pink nightdress that Adele hadn’t got the heart to refuse. ‘Just a quick one then,’ she agreed.

  There was no clock in the bedroom, and Adele got so involved in the story of the witch who lost her magic wand that she didn’t realize how long she was with the children.

  After she’d tucked them in, kissed them goodnight and got back to the kitchen, she saw to her horror it was well after seven.

  ‘And what time can we expect our supper?’

  She spun round from stirring the soup on the stove at Mr Bailey’s sarcastic question. He was standing in the doorway which went through to the dining room, his hands on his hips. ‘In just a few minutes, sir,’ she said, and began to explain why it was late.

  ‘I don’t want excuses,’ he said, cutting her off curtly.

  Had Mrs Bailey said such a thing to her, Adele would have reminded her that she only worked until seven, but Mr Bailey was intimidating.

  She quickly took the dish of cold meats and put them on the table, lit the candles, got the baked potatoes out of the oven, and popped the bread rolls in to warm them.

  Once the soup was piping hot and everything else was on the table, she rang the gong. Then, as the family came into the dining room and sat down, she tipped the soup into the tureen she had warmed.

  Ralph Bailey was saying something about the midnight service at the church as Adele came in with the tureen. It was heavy and hot, and her thoughts were whether it would be better to put it on the table and serve it into the soup bowls there, or to put it on the sideboard. But Mrs Bailey was placing a table mat beside her, so presumably she wanted it put there. Suddenly Adele’s foot slid from under her. She tried to hold on to the tureen but couldn’t, and it clattered to the floor, breaking on impact and spilling vegetable soup all down her front and hands and halfway across the room.

  ‘You blithering idiot!’ Mr Bailey shouted, jumping up from his seat at the head of the table. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  Adele was mortified at the accident. Her right hand was scalded, and as she looked down and saw the mess, and the large flat button she’d slipped on, she began to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she exclaimed. ‘I slipped on a button.’

  She was down on all fours immediately, desperately trying to pick up the china from the mess of soup and small pieces of vegetables.

  ‘A button!’ Mrs Bailey said, her voice shrill with indignation. ‘What is a button doing on the floor?’

  From her position on the floor Adele gabbled out how the children had been playing with them and one must have rolled in here. Laura Bailey said something about her blaming the children for her own stupidity. Mr Bailey called her useless, and Ralph asked what they were going to eat now.

  ‘Come on now,’ Michael’s voice rang out over all the others’. ‘Adele couldn’t help it, it was an accident. She should have finished work now anyway, and there’s plenty of other things to eat.’

  He came round the table, pulled Adele up from the floor, and saw her red hands. ‘Go and rinse them in cold water,’ he said gently, his eyes full of sympathy. ‘I’ll clear this up.’

  Adele scuttled away crying. But their angry voices still reached her, even over the sound of the running water.

  ‘Only you could take on a numbskull as a maid,’ she heard Mr Bailey say, presumably to his wife, and Ralph joined in with some sarcastic remark about how she hadn’t unpacked either his or his wife’s suitcase. ‘Really, Mother,’ he went on, ‘you must get yourself some trained staff.’

  Michael came out into the kitchen a few minutes later with a bundle of soup-stained tablecloth in his hands. ‘I wiped up the worst of it with this cloth I found in the cupboard in there,’ he said. ‘I hope it wasn’t a family heirloom?’

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bsp; ‘No, it’s just an ordinary one,’ she said, taking the bundle from him. ‘It will wash. It’s not as nasty as all the drunken vomit of your mother’s I’ve cleared up in the past.’

  She knew that was a cruel remark to make, but then they’d all been cruel to her. ‘You go and eat your supper,’ she said, turning away from him so she didn’t have to see the stricken look on his face. ‘Mind you don’t slip in what’s left of the mess. I’ll wash the floor after they’ve finished eating.’

  After he’d gone Adele closed the kitchen door behind him and held her burnt hand under the kitchen tap. She wondered how people got to be as heartless as the Baileys were, and fervently hoped something nasty would happen to each of them to teach them a lesson.

  Later, she heard the family leaving the dining room, and a short while afterwards the bell tinkled from the drawing room. She ignored it, and lifted the bucket of hot water out of the sink to go and wash the floor over. As she surveyed the dining room, she grimaced. They hadn’t taken care to avoid the remaining vegetables on the floor, there were squashed pieces everywhere, and she expected they had walked some of it into the drawing room too. But clearly spilled soup hadn’t affected their appetites as there was not a scrap of food left on the table.

  She had finished cleaning the floor and was just stacking the crockery from the table on to a tray when Mr Bailey came in.

  ‘Are you deaf? We rang for coffee,’ he said belligerently.

  ‘I finish work at seven,’ she said, looking straight at him. ‘I’m only still here clearing away this lot because it’s Christmas.’

  ‘If that’s your attitude you can get out now,’ he said, waving one podgy finger at her.

  Adele knew how hard it was to get a job and she’d come to like having money of her own. She was on the point of apologizing when it suddenly struck her that if she backed down now she would lose all dignity, and that was far more important to her than mere money.

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ she said, taking her apron off and dumping it on the table. ‘I’d much prefer to cook a Christmas dinner for my grandmother who will actually appreciate the effort I put into it.’

  He seemed to puff up in front of her, and for a moment she thought he was going to strike her. ‘How dare you?’ he hissed. ‘You throw soup across the room and don’t answer bells. What sort of a maid are you?’

  ‘The quitting kind,’ she said more bravely than she felt. ‘I’ve had quite enough of being insulted. I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘You insolent little baggage!’ he exploded. ‘My wife said you could be very sharp, and now I see the truth, you’ve been taking advantage of her good nature.’

  ‘What good nature?’ Adele retorted, angry now and prepared to fight him with every weapon she had. ‘You know as well as I do what she’s like, isn’t that why you threw her out? If it hadn’t been for me she would have starved to death in a filthy house.’

  ‘Get out now,’ he said, pointing to the door, his finger quivering with rage.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ she said, walking towards the kitchen to collect her coat. She paused in the doorway, looked back at Mr Bailey and grinned. ‘The goose is ready for the oven tomorrow, you’ll need to put it in about six in the morning as you light the fires. The stuffing and vegetables and puddings are in the pantry. Have a Merry Christmas.’

  He leaped forward and slapped her hard across the face. ‘I’ve never known such incredible insolence,’ he shouted at her. ‘How dare you? Who do you think you are?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m anyone, I know who I am,’ she said, resisting the desire to clutch at her sore cheek. ‘And I’m a much nicer person than you are, that’s for certain.’

  He caught hold of her upper arm and she braced herself for another blow, but he didn’t hit her, just half dragged her towards the hall and opened the front door. ‘Get out this minute,’ he yelled at her, regardless of the fact that it was raining hard and she had no coat.

  ‘Then you’d better take your wife home with you when you go,’ she retorted as she stepped out into the rain. ‘She won’t find anyone around here to wet-nurse her like I did.’

  The door slammed behind her before she’d even finished the sentence.

  It was raining twice as hard as it had been earlier in the day, and by the time Adele passed under the old Landgate to go down the hill, she was soaked through to her underwear and her shoes were waterlogged. Tears mingled with the rain on her face, but they were tears of anger rather than remorse.

  ‘Adele, wait for me!’

  She turned her head at the sound of Michael’s voice and saw him haring down the road towards her, but she trudged on resolutely.

  ‘Adele, I’m so sorry,’ he gasped out as he caught up with her.

  ‘It’s me who should be sorry for you,’ she said tartly. ‘Your father is unspeakable.’

  ‘I know he is,’ he agreed, panting from running. ‘I can’t make any excuses for him.’

  ‘He slapped me and threw me out,’ she said indignantly. ‘He had no right to do that. I’ve done my best for your mother. I feel sorry for her now, I’m beginning to see why she’s so demented.’

  ‘Please come back,’ he begged her. ‘Mother went quite pale when she heard you’d gone. She knows she can’t manage without you.’

  ‘Good,’ Adele said defiantly. ‘I hope your entire family suffers, they deserve it.’

  ‘Me too?’ he asked grabbing hold of her arm.

  ‘No, not you,’ she said, shaking off his hand. ‘I used to think I was unlucky with my mother. But now I’ve met both your parents you deserve more pity. Now, go home and leave me alone.’

  ‘If you think I’m going to let you walk home alone in the dark and rain you are mistaken,’ he said.

  ‘My grandmother will turn on you,’ she warned him. ‘Don’t chance it, Michael.’

  ‘I’ll take the risk,’ he said. ‘I have to apologize to her.’

  They didn’t speak the rest of the way for once they were down on the marsh the wind was so strong they could hardly keep upright, and the rain was like being under an icy shower.

  Honour was already in bed when they got to the cottage, so Adele had to tap on her bedroom window and ask to be let in. Her grandmother opened the door holding a candle and wearing a shawl over the shoulders of her nightgown.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, then seeing Adele had no coat on she hauled her in quickly, telling Michael curtly that he’d better have a good excuse for bringing her home soaked to the skin.

  Once inside, Adele blurted it all out in a torrent.

  ‘And you, Michael? Why didn’t you stand up for her?’ Honour asked as she lit the oil lamp.

  Michael explained that he wasn’t there at the last part. ‘I didn’t know Father was going to be like that,’ he said. ‘He did keep saying, “Why isn’t she answering the bell?” and I said I’d go and see, but he told me to stay put. My brother told me not to interfere when I heard Father shouting. I’m so ashamed that I didn’t step in then.’

  ‘It was spineless, but I suppose understandable, given that he’s bullied you all your life,’ she said crisply. She pushed Adele towards her bedroom, telling her to take off her wet clothes quickly.

  Michael stood there hanging his head as the rainwater dripped off him on to the floor.

  ‘You’ll have to stand up to your father sometime,’ Honour said tartly. ‘Bullies thrive on weakness in others. But I suppose you aren’t a complete coward as you did go after Adele and were brave enough to face me. But you’d better go home now and get out of those wet clothes.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Harris,’ Michael said.

  Honour could see he was trembling with both cold and shock. ‘You shouldn’t have to apologize for your father,’ she said. ‘I shall of course take action about this, but I think that for the sake of peace tomorrow in your house, you should say nothing more than that you escorted Adele home.’

  ‘I’m so ashamed,’ Michael said in a small voice. �
��I don’t want to be part of a family who treat people so badly. Ralph is almost as bad as Father too.’

  ‘You can’t help the family you are born to,’ Honour said more gently. ‘Now, go home, Michael.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Honour watched Adele drift off to sleep on the couch and smiled to herself. She had been fighting against sleep since they finished their Christmas dinner, but had finally lost the battle.

  Honour thought she looked so pretty lying there with her hair all loose about her flushed face and her legs curled up beneath the skirt of her new dress. The dark rose-pink wool suited her so well, and Honour was thrilled that it fitted to perfection as it was the most extravagant garment she’d ever made. She’d not only had to buy the pattern because all her old ones were so old-fashioned, but because it was cut on the cross it took nearly five yards of fabric.

  When Adele tried it on she joked that she looked like Wallis Simpson. Honour didn’t think she looked one bit like that gaunt scarecrow of a woman, but she had got the idea for the dress from her – the draped bodice, slim three-quarter-length sleeves, and the hip-hugging swirl of a skirt was almost Mrs Simpson’s trademark. However, Honour thought it suited Adele far more because she had a perfect figure and lovely shapely legs.

  ‘She’ll need some high-heeled shoes and a decent coat and hat to go with it,’ Honour thought, gazing at her granddaughter reflectively. She found it quite strange that after years of seeing clothes just as a way to keep warm, never caring what she looked like, suddenly it was so important to her that Adele should be well turned out.

  ‘Michael, I suppose,’ she murmured to herself.

  Right from the first time Honour met Michael three years ago she’d sensed something special between him and Adele, even though they were little more than children at the time. Honour liked him immediately for his lack of guile, his innate good manners and his open curiosity about the way she lived.

  She had expected that Adele would be nervous of any male after what had happened to her at The Firs, and that she herself would be very defensive if anyone came near her granddaughter. But there was nothing threatening about Michael, he had a kind of purity, an openness, and a warm heart. She had always hoped that one day their friendship would turn to romance.