The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,163

streaming from his nose. He looked as if he’d been crying for hours.

‘What’s happened?’ He crouched down until his face was level with his brother’s, forcing his voice to stay calm even though anger pulsed through him. ‘Who did this to you?’ Whoever it was, he was going to tear them limb from limb. Slowly.

Danny wiped his nose clumsily on his frayed sleeve. ‘Alf h-hit Dora,’ he managed to stammer.

Nick went cold. ‘You what?’

‘I s-saw him,’ Danny lip wobbled. ‘He g-grabbed her, then he th-threw her like this—’ he pushed with his arms, nearly knocking his brother off balance.

Nick frowned. ‘Why would he do something like that, Danny? It doesn’t sound like Alf.’ It couldn’t be true, he told himself. Although he knew his brother wasn’t capable of telling a lie, sometimes he got confused.

‘I saw it!’ Danny insisted. ‘I was sitting out th-there.’ He pointed towards the back yard. ‘I saw Dora going in, and th-then I heard her telling Alf to l-leave Josie alone. She s-said she’d tell their m-mum but he just laughed at her. And then he . . . he hit her.’

He started to cry again, weeping noisy tears into his shirt sleeve. Nick automatically fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and thrust it at him, his thoughts elsewhere.

That dirty, filthy bastard. He felt himself begin to shake with anger. Suddenly it all made sense. Why Josie had run away, why Dora had been so worried about her.

Had he touched Dora too? He didn’t want to think about it, but remembering how she’d shrunk from him when he’d tried to kiss her . . .

He shot to his feet, propelled by a rage so white hot it would have sent him hammering Alf Doyle’s door down if Danny hadn’t whimpered with fear.

‘N-Nick, please,’ he begged. ‘D-don’t look like that. I don’t like it when you l-look like that.’

Nick looked at his brother, barely seeing him through a mist of fury as red as blood. Then, slowly, he forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath. He unclenched his fists, stretching his fingers until the knuckles cracked.

Alf Doyle could wait, he decided.

‘It’s all right, Danny,’ he soothed his agitated brother. ‘See? I’ve calmed down. I’m not going to do anything, mate. You ain’t got nothing to fear. Now let’s see if there’s anything in the house for tea, eh?’

Chapter Fifty-Four

HENRY RETTINGHAM WAS well enough to return home. He walked slowly into the house, supported by Seb and Felix the chauffeur on either side. Millie and her grandmother gathered in the drawing room to greet him, waiting patiently as he lowered himself agonisingly slowly into his leather chair.

The doctors had warned that his recovery would be lengthy, but Millie hadn’t realised how difficult it would be for him until she watched him try to lift the tea Patchett the butler brought in for him.

As his cup rattled on the saucer, she sprang forward to help.

‘Here, let me—’

Her father waved her away. ‘No, Amelia, I – I have to learn to do these things for . . . myself,’ he insisted. His voice was slurred, each word dragged out of him with effort. It hurt Millie to hear him struggle so much.

She glanced at Seb for guidance. He smiled and gave her a reassuring nod. It was such a relief having him there, she thought. Somehow she didn’t feel quite so alone.

He had been wonderful, helping to run the estate while her father was recovering. ‘Not that it needs much running,’ he told Millie. ‘Between them, your father and Jackson have got the place going like clockwork.’

They had slipped into a comfortable domestic routine. Once Millie was reassured that her father was getting better, she’d allowed herself to take time away from his bedside at the hospital. She was surprised by how fully occupied her days were. If she wasn’t running the house, discussing dinner plans and laundry lists with the housekeeper Mrs Saunders, she was riding out with Seb to visit the tenants or meeting the estate manager. As August progressed, the itinerant hop pickers began to arrive in vanloads from London for the annual harvest. Millie helped organise them into their teams, and sorted out temporary accommodation for them. With her training in mind, she even brought in the St Francis Mission to set up a mobile medical centre in one of the old barns. She helped out there sometimes, bandaging strained ligaments, bathing sore eyes and administering medicine. It felt good to be busy