Unforgettable (Gloria Cook) - By Gloria Cook Page 0,89

ready. We’ll join you and take our morning break. There’s some scones left over from yesterday’s teatime, we’ll be having those. That will make you feel better,’ Tilly said chirpily.

‘You make me feel better.’

‘Do I?’ she whispered. If he had been looking at her he would have seen her sweet face light up with joy and hope.

Finn didn’t answer but wrapped his arms round her trim waist and leaned against her chest. He could hear her heart fluttering and feel one small breast under his cheek.

‘Eh, saucy,’ she pushed him away smoothly, giggling in embarrassment. ‘What would Mrs Teague say? And the mistress if she saw?’

‘That’s what I like about you, Tilly; you know how to behave properly.’ Finn grabbed her hands and squeezed them lightly, affectionately.

There was a rattle and quick steps. ‘I did hear,’ Mrs Teague said, ‘and she’s very glad you acknowledge a decent girl when you see one, young man.’ The cook had bustled in with a loaded tray. ‘Make sure you keep it that way. Tilly’s a good chapel girl. She goes every Sunday to the little chapel along By The Way lane. I’ll be keeping an eye on you, but you’d do well anyway to treat her with the utmost respect or you’ll have Denny Vercoe with his hands at your throat. He’s her guardian, don’t you forget it. Well, sit him down at the table, Tilly. The sooner he drinks this special brew the better for him.’

Short, stringy, apple-cheeked and sharp-eyed, Mrs Teague, her greying hair in a hairnet under her cap, took her seat at the head of the table. ‘We’re too early for Ellery but he likes his tea stewed anyway. Butter his scones, Tilly, and put them in his place. Scones for you, Finn?’

‘I don’t feel like eating right now, thank you, Mrs Teague,’ he said politely, parking next to Tilly at the table. ‘And you need not worry about Tilly. She deserves to be treated right and properly and that’s what she’ll get from me.’

‘So it’s official that you’re walking out together then?’ Mrs Teague persisted, her eyes boring into Finn.

Tilly halted in spreading butter on the scones and stopped breathing, as red in the face as the dish of raspberry jam on the tray. Hanging on to the breath, every scrap of her crying out in the hope she was part of a romance, she glanced at Finn.

‘If Tilly agrees,’ he replied, smiling at her. ‘If she’ll have me. Will you?’

‘O–of course, I’d love to, and Mrs Mitchelmore doesn’t seem to mind. She’s always been good to us, hasn’t she, Mrs Teague?’

‘She has indeed, and don’t you forget it. No taken advantage or you’ll have me to answer to, maid. I came here in service as a twelve-year-old in Mr Sedgewick’s day. I started as scullery maid and worked up to parlour maid, was nearly a full complement of servants in those days with a battleaxe housekeeper. I left when I married, sadly had no children, but when my man died Mrs Mitchelmore took me back. There was just her here by then. Yes, she’s a good mistress. We’re a nice little group here, almost like a family, Finn Templeton, so don’t you dare spoil it.’ She smiled at last. ‘Otherwise, you’re very welcome as Tilly’s young man.’

‘I’m relieved to hear that,’ Finn said, sipping his tea, a welcome whet to his dry mouth. He grinned. ‘You were scaring me, Mrs Teague.’

He leaned sideways and kissed Tilly’s cheek. Then disquiet came. What was he doing? He had more or less pledged himself to Tilly with an engagement of marriage in the not too distant future. You fool! He couldn’t just let her down, she was too good and sweet and lovely to do that to. But he did like her, very much, and he enjoyed her company. He would just have to go along with it. Let the future sort itself out.

‘How did you and Mrs Mitchelmore get me up so easily from the cellar?’

Mrs Teague cut in – Finn was to learn that she did most of the talking at the servants’ table. ‘It was the mistress, she more or less carried you on her own. I was watching. Tilly only had to hold your head. The mistress is a strong woman. She was a good nurse for old Mr Sedgewick – God rest him – lugged him in and out of bed and into his wheelchair like a good’un, she did. She’s made of good stout