Goodnight.’
‘Greta?’
‘Yes?’
‘Just remember that you’re not alone any longer.’
‘Thank you.’
Walking slowly up the stairs with Mary, and then, as the maid chattered away whilst helping her into bed, Greta tried to make sense of the evening. She had been convinced that the minute she
told Owen she was expecting a baby he would change his attitude towards her. Yet as she settled down under the blankets and Mary left the room, she realised that in his own brusque way, he had been
flirting with her. But surely he couldn’t possibly be interested in her now he knew the truth?
Over the next week, as the New Year came and went, Greta dined with Owen every night. Now her ankle was better, instead of reading to her in the afternoons he took her for short walks across the
land that formed the Marchmont estate. She began to see that, in his old-fashioned way, he was courting her. She couldn’t understand it. After all, the squire of Marchmont could hardly marry
a woman bearing another man’s child. Could he . . . ?
Yet – despite her heartfelt protestations that she must return to Lark Cottage – when she had been living at the big house for almost a month, Greta knew for certain that Owen
didn’t want her to leave.
One evening after supper they were sitting in the drawing room together after dinner discussing
David Copperfield.
Owen closed the book and silence fell. His
expression suddenly became serious.
‘Greta. I have something I want to ask you.’
‘I see. It’s not something dreadful, is it?’
‘No . . . at least, I hope not. Well’ – he cleared his throat – ‘the thing is, Greta my dear, I have become remarkably fond of you in the short time you’ve
been here. You’ve brought an energy and a zest back to me I thought had long passed. In short, I dread you leaving. So . . . the question I have to ask is: would you do me the honour of
marrying me?’
Greta stared at him, open-mouthed with shock.
‘Of course I’ll understand completely if you couldn’t countenance being the wife of a man so much older than yourself. But it seems to me you need things that I can give you. A
father for your child, and a safe, secure environment for both you and the baby to flourish in.’
She managed to find her voice. ‘I . . . you mean you’re prepared to bring up the baby I’m going to have as your own?’
‘Of course. There’s no need for anyone to know it isn’t mine, is there?’
‘But what about LJ and David? They know the truth.’
‘Don’t worry about them.’ Owen used his hand to metaphorically flick the problem away. ‘So, what do you say, my dear Greta?’
She remained silent.
‘You’re asking yourself why I’d want to do this, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am, Owen.’
‘Would it be too simplistic if I told you your presence here has made me realise how lonely I’ve been? That I feel an affection for you I hadn’t previously thought possible?
Marchmont needs youth . . . life, or it will wither away with me. I believe, in turn, we can give each other what we lack in our respective lives.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I don’t expect you to make up your mind now,’ he said hastily. ‘Take some time to think about it. Go back to Lark Cottage, if you wish.’
‘Yes. No . . . I—’ Greta rubbed her forehead. ‘Would you excuse me, Owen? I’m feeling dreadfully tired.’
‘Of course.’
They stood up. Owen reached for her hand and kissed it softly. ‘Think long and hard, dear girl. Whatever your decision, it’s been a pleasure having you here. Goodnight.’
Greta lay in bed, turning Owen’s proposal over and over in her mind. If she accepted, her baby would have a father and both of them would escape the stigma that haunted illegitimate
children and their mothers. She’d be the mistress of a beautiful house and never have to worry where the next meal was coming from ever again.
The one thing she wouldn’t have was a man she loved. Although Owen
‘Greta?’
‘Yes?’
‘Just remember that you’re not alone any longer.’
‘Thank you.’
Walking slowly up the stairs with Mary, and then, as the maid chattered away whilst helping her into bed, Greta tried to make sense of the evening. She had been convinced that the minute she
told Owen she was expecting a baby he would change his attitude towards her. Yet as she settled down under the blankets and Mary left the room, she realised that in his own brusque way, he had been
flirting with her. But surely he couldn’t possibly be interested in her now he knew the truth?
Over the next week, as the New Year came and went, Greta dined with Owen every night. Now her ankle was better, instead of reading to her in the afternoons he took her for short walks across the
land that formed the Marchmont estate. She began to see that, in his old-fashioned way, he was courting her. She couldn’t understand it. After all, the squire of Marchmont could hardly marry
a woman bearing another man’s child. Could he . . . ?
Yet – despite her heartfelt protestations that she must return to Lark Cottage – when she had been living at the big house for almost a month, Greta knew for certain that Owen
didn’t want her to leave.
One evening after supper they were sitting in the drawing room together after dinner discussing
David Copperfield.
Owen closed the book and silence fell. His
expression suddenly became serious.
‘Greta. I have something I want to ask you.’
‘I see. It’s not something dreadful, is it?’
‘No . . . at least, I hope not. Well’ – he cleared his throat – ‘the thing is, Greta my dear, I have become remarkably fond of you in the short time you’ve
been here. You’ve brought an energy and a zest back to me I thought had long passed. In short, I dread you leaving. So . . . the question I have to ask is: would you do me the honour of
marrying me?’
Greta stared at him, open-mouthed with shock.
‘Of course I’ll understand completely if you couldn’t countenance being the wife of a man so much older than yourself. But it seems to me you need things that I can give you. A
father for your child, and a safe, secure environment for both you and the baby to flourish in.’
She managed to find her voice. ‘I . . . you mean you’re prepared to bring up the baby I’m going to have as your own?’
‘Of course. There’s no need for anyone to know it isn’t mine, is there?’
‘But what about LJ and David? They know the truth.’
‘Don’t worry about them.’ Owen used his hand to metaphorically flick the problem away. ‘So, what do you say, my dear Greta?’
She remained silent.
‘You’re asking yourself why I’d want to do this, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am, Owen.’
‘Would it be too simplistic if I told you your presence here has made me realise how lonely I’ve been? That I feel an affection for you I hadn’t previously thought possible?
Marchmont needs youth . . . life, or it will wither away with me. I believe, in turn, we can give each other what we lack in our respective lives.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I don’t expect you to make up your mind now,’ he said hastily. ‘Take some time to think about it. Go back to Lark Cottage, if you wish.’
‘Yes. No . . . I—’ Greta rubbed her forehead. ‘Would you excuse me, Owen? I’m feeling dreadfully tired.’
‘Of course.’
They stood up. Owen reached for her hand and kissed it softly. ‘Think long and hard, dear girl. Whatever your decision, it’s been a pleasure having you here. Goodnight.’
Greta lay in bed, turning Owen’s proposal over and over in her mind. If she accepted, her baby would have a father and both of them would escape the stigma that haunted illegitimate
children and their mothers. She’d be the mistress of a beautiful house and never have to worry where the next meal was coming from ever again.
The one thing she wouldn’t have was a man she loved. Although Owen
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