Free Harriet by Jilly Cooper

William, and me not being married?’ she said.
        ‘Never gave it a thought,’ lied Mrs. Bottomley, who had been boasting in the village that she’d soon put the hussy in her place.
        ‘You come and eat in the kitchen with me. You’ll feel better when you’ve got something inside you. We’ll have a drop of sherry to cheer ourselves up.’
        From then on Harriet and Mrs. Bottomley were firm friends. The housekeeper bossed her, fussed over her, bullied her to eat, and gave her endless advice on how to look after the children.
        

CHAPTER ELEVEN
        
        
        EvEN so Harriet often wondered afterwards how she survived those first few weeks looking after Cory Erskine’s children. The day seemed neverending, rising at six, feeding and bathing William, getting Chattie off to school, by which time William’s next feed would be due. Then there was endless washing and ironing, shopping, rooms to be tidied, meals to be cooked, beds to be made.
        Night after night, she cried herself to sleep out of sheer exhaustion, to be woken a couple of hours later by William howling because his teeth were hurting.
        Hard work alone she could have coped with. It was just the endless demands on her cheerfulness and good temper. Chattie, incapable of playing by herself, wanted constantly to be amused or comforted. She adored the baby and was a perfect menace, feeding him indigestible foods which madehim sick, going into his room and waking him just after he’d fallen asleep.
        Jonah, Harriet found even more of a problem than Chat-tie. He was obviously deeply unhappy and, when he came home at weekends, Harriet did her best to amuse him.
        In between bouts of moodiness, he was very good company, but Harriet could never tell what he was thinking behind the aloof Red Indian mask he had inherited from his father. Often he didn’t speak for hours and, although he never mentioned his mother, Harriet noticed that he always hung around when the post was due, and was hard put to conceal his disappointment when no letters arrived.
        Cory wrote to them regularly, long letters full of drawings and wild, unexpectedly zany humour. Noel Balfour patently didn’t believe in correspondence. Only one postcard arrived from her in five weeks, and that was postmarked Africa and addressed to Cory. On the front was a picture of a team of huge muscular Africans playing football. On the back she had written, ‘Had then all except the goalkeeper, darling.’
        Mrs. Bottomley’s fa ce shut like a steel trap when she saw the postcard, but Harriet, although dying to know more about Cory Erskine’s relationship with his wife, was sensible enough not to ask questions. She felt that Mrs. Bottomley would tell her in her own good time. She was right.
        They were sitting before supper one evening towards the end of February in the small den off the dining-room. Above the fire hung a huge, nude painting of Noel Balfour. She’s so beautiful, thought Harriet, I can’t imagine any man not wanting her.
        ‘Who did it?’ she asked.
        Mrs. Bottomley puffed out her cheeks and went red in the face with disapproval, but the desire to gossip was too much for her.
        ‘Master Kit did, and he never should have done, neither.’
        ‘Who’s he?’
        ‘Mr. Cory’s younger brother.’
        ‘Goodness,’ said Harriet. ‘That’s a bit close to home. It’s awfully good.’
        ‘So it should be,’ said Mrs. Bottomley glaring at the lounging, opulent figure of Noel Balfour. ‘He took long enough over it. Mr. Cory was abroad at the time, and Master Kit rolls up cool as a cucumber "Ay’ve come to paint the magnificent scenery, Mrs. B." he says, but there was a wicked glint in his eyes. I knew he was up to no good.’
        ‘What’s he like?’ said Harriet. ‘Like Mr. Erskine?’
        ‘Chalk and cheese,’ said Mrs. Bottomley, helping herself to another glass of sherry. ‘He’s