~ A Hidden Legacy ~

by

Heather Garside

He’d nearly finished feeding the horses that evening when he heard an urgent whisper from the stable doorway. “Matt! I need to talk to you!”

He dumped an armful of hay in a nearby manger and crossed to the door. It was Eliza, hovering in the shadows. He drew her into an empty stall and closed the half door, tugging her to the back where it was unlikely his father or Fred would see them. His senses immediately responded to the intimate situation, and he reached to pull her close, but she pushed him away.

“I said I wanted to talk, Matt!”

“What about?”

Her face was flushed, her eyes glittering with excitement. “I overheard them talkin’ in the stillroom. Mrs Evans and Miss Brown, that is. I was putting some jars away at the back, and they didn’t know I was there.”

Matt didn’t bother to hide his impatience. What could the housekeeper and Mrs Ashford’s maid have to say that would be of interest to him? “I’m not concerned with old women’s gossip.”

“Ha! But it’s you they were talkin’ about!” She turned away, as if she’d suddenly changed her mind. “But if you don’t want to hear it, I’ll be out of your way.”

“Eliza!” He gripped her upper arm. “Don’t be a tease. You’d better tell me, now.”

“Well, if you’re sure you want to know…” The girl smiled her satisfaction, like a fisherman who’d just reeled in a juicy catch. “They were talkin’ about us, to begin with.” She coloured slightly. “They were clucking like a pair of old hens about us walkin’ out together. Then, they said what a wild boy you were, just like your Uncle Charles.”

Matt stared at her, impatient in his confusion. “I don’t have an Uncle Charles.”

“Apparently, you do. I sneaked a bit closer then, so’s not to miss any of it. Miss Brown said how Miss Louise was a wild one, too, so it was no wonder you’d turned out the same.”

“Who’s Miss Louise? That wasn’t me mother’s name.”

Eliza shook her head. “Just listen, will you? Mrs Evans said how Miss Louise had a heart, not like the rest of them. She wanted to keep that baby and it fair cut her up, leaving him behind when she went back to Australia.”

Matt felt his heart leap, drumming unevenly in his chest. He put a hand on the corner post, suddenly needing to clutch something solid. “What are you tryin’ to tell me?”

“Can’t you work it out?” Eliza’s ample bosom swelled with importance. “You remember Mr Charles, the Master and Mistress’s son. And they had a daughter called Louise, too. There’s a portrait of her in the hallway, along with the rest of the family.”

Matt felt the blood draining from his face. “Are you hoaxin’ me, Eliza?” If so, it was a poor joke. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, it’s true. I went and asked Cook, and she told me so. Louise Ashford was your mother. She swore me to secrecy, but I didn’t think that included you.” Eliza peered at him in the dim light, as if inspecting every detail of his face. “I had a look at the portraits in the hall after that. You’re so much like them; I’m surprised I didn’t see it before.”

Matt had seen Charles Ashford many years ago, when he’d been visiting from Australia. He searched his boyhood memories for a mental picture of him, with little success. “Christ!” He saw Eliza’s reproachful look and apologized, shaking his head. “Sorry. This is a bit hard to take in.”

He knew there were cases of so-called gentlemen from the big houses siring children on their servants, but this was a bit different. Questions whirled in his brain, colliding with each other like the colours of the kaleidoscope he’d once seen at the village fair. If this Miss Louise was his mother, who was his father? Why hadn’t she married him? Could the Ashfords really have let their own grandson be raised by their coachman?

“I thought you’d be excited about this, Matt. If I found out I was related to the nobs…”

He stared at her, wondering how she thought it made a difference. They didn’t want him, never had. The squire acted as if he hated him. This meant the Joneses had lied to him, too. They’d told him his mother was Ma’s niece, and that she’d died in childbirth.

“If only I could see the paintings…”

“I could show you.” Eliza’s voice dropped. “There’d be no-one in the hall at this time of day.”

He looked uneasily towards the house. He’d never been further than the kitchens and would probably be dismissed if he was discovered in the hall without good reason, and Eliza too, if she was suspected of abetting him. But the need to verify her story was strong.

“All right. I’ll have to finish feeding the horses. Where can I meet you?”

“At the back of the kitchens. Send one of the scullery maids to find me if I’m not around.”

Half an hour later, he found himself in the big house, sneaking through the narrow servants’ corridor in the wake of Eliza’s long, swishing skirts. She stopped at a solid oaken door and turned to whisper in his ear. “This opens into the hall. The recent paintings are nearest the front of the house, on the far wall.”

“Aye, thanks.” He bent to kiss her briefly. “Wait here. If I get caught, there’s no need for you to be involved in this.”

He opened the door carefully and looked about, checking that the hall was empty. There was no-one in sight, so he stepped quietly around the door, staring in amazement at the portrait-laden walls, recording centuries of Ashford ancestors. Yet, he barely registered the faces and styles of bygone eras as he made his way down the hall, slowing to scrutinise them more carefully as the fashions changed to those of the early Victorian era. There was a portrait he thought was the present Squire in earlier days, wearing a frock coat and carrying a cane and a top hat. The lady next to him was probably his wife. Then, there was a young man in a cutaway coat with dark hair and eyes and a thin, handsome face. Probably Charles. But it was the young woman beside him who drew Matt like a magnet.

She had long dark hair drawn back from a center part, and a serious, unsmiling mouth. Her eyes appeared to be grey, like his, and the curve of her lips was somehow familiar. She was good-looking in a severe way, but it was the sadness in her eyes that struck him. He’d never seen her in his life, but the recognition was instantaneous. His heart missed a beat, and then settled into a steady, heavy thudding in his chest. He knew, without being told, that this was Louise Ashford, and, suddenly, he no longer doubted she was his mother. He’d only to look at his own face in the mirror to verify that.

He stared at her for a long moment, committing the portrait to memory. Then, he moved back to Charles, admitting the truth of Eliza’s observation. Charles Ashford as a young man bore an unmistakeable resemblance to himself. Even the devilish glint in the eyes struck a chord with him.

Someone cleared his throat behind him, and he jumped, whirling around to find Mr Dawes, the aging butler, regarding him with a frosty stare.

“May I ask what you are doing here?”

Dawes managed to inject just the right amount of contempt into that “you”, as if Matt had no more right to look at the portraits, of his own family, indeed, than the lowest boot boy. Matt straightened and stared arrogantly back at the old man. “And who are you to ask?”

The old fellow bristled, drawing up his stooped frame. “You impertinent young whipper-snapper! You’re just the groom here, Matt Jones, and don’t you forget it!” He nodded his head towards the portraits. “If you’re getting any other ideas, Squire will soon set you straight.”

He grasped Matt’s elbow in his bony hand and propelled him down the passageway towards the servants’ door with surprising strength. Matt pulled his arm free and glared at the old man, but he knew better than to resist. The butler opened the door and gestured for Matt to pass through. “I’ll speak to Squire about this. Think yourself lucky if you’re not dismissed.”