Free Sons and Daughters by Margaret Dickinson Page A

front door, which Wilkins began to open for him. But Osbert’s next words stopped the boy in his tracks. With a growl he said, ‘I’ve told her to come in the back way.’
    Georgie turned and stared at the man for a moment before marching purposefully back across the hall towards the door leading to the kitchens.
    ‘Wilkins, please show Mr Crawford into the drawing room,’ the young boy said with a maturity exceeding his tender years, ‘whilst I find Miss Charlotte.’
    ‘Certainly, Master Georgie. May I take your hat and coat, sir, and then if you’d come this way . . . ?’
    When Georgie burst into the kitchen, he found Charlotte already there talking to Mrs Beddows and Lily Warren.
    ‘ There you are. I’ve come to find you,’ Georgie said. ‘I thought you might get lost.’
    The cook turned to smile at him. ‘Master Georgie, Miss Charlotte has brought the recipe for that pineapple pudding you liked so much.’
    The boy clapped his hands together. ‘Oh thank you. Please thank Mrs Morgan, too, won’t you?’
    ‘Of course, I will.’ Charlotte held out her hand. ‘And now we’d better go up.’ She glanced at Mrs Beddows and Lily and they were in no doubt that she’d be much happier down there with them in the kitchen than facing the ordeal of a formal dinner party upstairs.
    But with the excitable Georgie at the table there was little formality. He’d arranged the seating to his own liking. He’d seated Charlotte at one end of the polished mahogany dining table, with his father at the opposite end. Georgie sat on Charlotte’s right-hand side and opposite him, was his brother, Ben. Osbert and Philip sat on either side of their host.
    Miles smiled. ‘I’m not sure my son has complied with the rules of etiquette.’
    But Osbert was not going to criticize. He was where he wanted to be – sitting opposite the eldest son.
    As they sat down, Charlotte glanced around her. The dining room was spacious, with gleaming mahogany furniture, lovingly polished by Lily, no doubt. The table sparkled with cut glassware and silver cutlery. A square of thick, luxurious carpet covered the floor and over the fireplace was another portrait of Louisa. This one, unlike the one in Miles’s study, showed an older woman with her children. Leaning against her knee was a golden-haired child of five or so, and sitting on her lap was a baby. Seeing her staring at the picture, Ben leaned forward and whispered. ‘That’s our mother – with Philip and me.’
    ‘She’s lovely,’ Charlotte said, smiling at him. She could see the sadness in Ben’s eyes. He would have been about six, she reckoned, when Louisa died and he would have only fleeting, disjointed memories of her. Just as Charlotte had of her own mother. She glanced down the table towards Philip and saw that his gaze, too, lingered on the portrait every so often. Aged ten or so when she died, he would have much sharper memories of the beautiful woman. Perhaps that was the reason for his abrasive manner; he still missed her dreadfully.
    ‘So, the General Strike didn’t last long, then, Philip,’ Osbert opened the conversation.
    Philip actually smiled. ‘No, sir. It did not. Just as you predicted.’
    ‘But the miners are carrying on their strike, aren’t they?’ Before she’d stopped to think, Charlotte, who’d followed the news avidly during the strike, which had affected the whole country for nine days at the beginning of May, spoke up.
    There was a moment’s awkward silence. The girl held her breath, expecting to be banished from the table for her impudence in daring to join in the conversation. She heard her father’s sharp intake of breath and waited for his wrath to descend. But before he could speak, Miles said softly in his deep voice, ‘You’re quite right, Miss Charlotte, and I can’t say I blame them. It seems hardly fair to dock their pay and then expect them to work longer hours, too. And it’s one of the most dangerous and unhealthy jobs I can