“You’d not want to venture out anyway, it’s freezing today. In the few years I’ve been here I’ve never known May to be so cold and we have months of this ahead of us. I think I would die if I ever had to return to England. I’m too used to the warmth now.”
Nicola watched the flames, remembering England and the whiteness of a snow-covered countryside. “Where have you been today?”
“The soup kitchen this morning and then I called to see a few families in Newtown. I managed to buy a good quantity of bread loaves and the baker even offered to drive me to deliver them.”
“The baker?” Nicola hid a smile behind her hand. “That wouldn’t be the baker from Phillip Street, would it?”
Fran gave her a cool stare. “And if it was?”
“What is his name?” Nicola played dumb, knowing it drove Fran mad. “Lawson, is it? John Lawson?”
“You know damn well it is.” Frances sniffed. “What of it pray?”
Nicola stared with a raised eyebrow. “You seem to be spending a lot of time with him lately.”
“Don’t be absurd. He offers me good deals so I can feed a few families. There is nothing to make of that. His mother has been a good friend to me regarding the soup kitchen.”
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen, you know, being attracted to a man.”
“Stuff and nonsense, Nicola West.” Fran sat straighter in her chair. “Just because you are happily married, don’t you dare think you can turn into one of those matchmakers we both detest.”
Nicola smothered a chuckle. Fran’s denial said so much. From what she knew of John Lawson, he was a sensible man in his mid thirties, never married and took over his father’s bakery when he died in a cholera outbreak some ten years ago. Nathaniel had gained this information when she happened to mention to him that Frances was calling in at the bakery most days.
“Did you have any visitors today?” Frances asked, relaxing her stiff posture.
“Yes, ladies from the Home.” The humour left Nicola as she recalled the visit this morning. “Sadly Mrs Patterson is ill with a bad chest and Doctor Armitage fears she won’t recover. Florence has found a position for one of her sisters. Fiona is to be an apprentice seamstress in George Street. Miss Peacock has gained a situation in Goulburn and two more ladies have arrived.”
“And the orphanage?”
“We now have five children, all siblings. Their parents died, both drowned in a boating accident last Sunday. Apparently they went out fishing and the recent bad weather has churned the sea up most considerably. The boat, well hardly a boat, nothing more than a little wooden skip Florence said. Anyway, it overturned and they were lost.” She tapped the newspaper on her lap. “There is mention about it on page six.”
“How tragic.”
“Indeed.” Nicola folded away the newspaper. “I miss being at the Home. Oh, I know it is well run by Florence, the woman is exceptional. But I like being there, doing my bit. The charity board met last Tuesday and I should have been there. I’m feeling rather disconnected. First, because of my wedding and being in the country, and now this injury. Everything is going on without me.”
“You’ll be back there soon enough.” Frances smiled.
“That’s just it. I don’t think I will be. At least not all the time as I used to be.”
“You mustn’t think like that. Doctor Armitage said you’ll recover properly in a few weeks and your life will be as it was before.”
“Not entirely.”
As the clock on the mantle struck the hour of four, the parlour door opened and Mrs Rawlings sailed in bearing the tea tray. Behind her followed Agnes with another tray full of cakes and biscuits. “Here we are, Madam, a lovely cup of tea for you and Miss West.”
Bemused, Nicola gently swung her legs down from the sofa and winced at the tightness it caused in her side. “I didn’t order tea, Mrs Rawlings.”
“I know, Madam. Mr West said this morning I was to keep you supplied with tea and light food to speed your recovery.”
“Did he now?” She shook her head at his thoughtfulness. She had a feeling he’d never relax again.
The housekeeper placed the tray on the low table in the middle of the room and stepped back so Agnes could do the same. ‘Will I pour, Madam?”
Frances leaned over and picked up the pot. “No, thank you, Mrs Rawlings, I’ll do it.”