Whos ever going to want you with five children in tow? her mother scoffed, pushing Jane, a 32-year-old widow, out the door. Little did she know the old house Jane inherited held not only a legacy, but a mysterious visitor that would change everything.
It was sodden by the graveside. Wet clay squelched beneath Jane Warners worn shoes as she watched the workmen cover over the resting place of her life. David was gone without warningjust thirty-five, and hed dropped at the factory, never to rise again.
Her mother, Mrs. Margaret Warner, shuffled beside her, huddled in a thick fox fur coat, glancing with distaste at the grandchildren pressed against Janes black overcoat.
Thats enough now. Weve wept, weve paid our respects, lets go, her mother intoned loudly as the mound rose. Come on, Jane. No sense catching chills here. We need to talk.
Back at their cramped two-bedroom flatmortgaged to the hiltMargaret made straight for the kitchen and seated herself at the head of the table.
Heres how it stands, she announced, not even removing her hat. The bank will take the flat. Thats settled; youve no way to pay now Davids gone, and youve been on maternity leave forever.
Ill get a job, Jane murmured quietly, cradling one-year-old Michael on her hip.
And wherecleaning? her mother snorted. Youve five children! Five! Whos going to want a woman with five in tow? Id put the older ones, Rose and Patrick, in foster care for now. As for the younger three perhaps Social Services can help.
Jane looked up, her voice a whisper: No.
What? Margaret didnt understand.
Jane spoke, eyes dry and fierce, I wont give up my children. Not for anything. Even if it kills me, Ill see them right.
Her mother sighed dramatically, straightening her coat. You fool. I warned you, didnt I? But noyou and all your dreams. Well, youve made your bed. Dont come running to me for money.
Within a month, the banks letter arrived: two weeks to leave. Jane tried everywhere, asked everyone, but nobody wanted five children under one roof.
Then came a letterfrom the village of Ashwood. A distant cousin Jane barely remembered had willed her an old house. Its falling down, Jane thought, but at least its ours. With nowhere else to go, she loaded her children and their last belongings and set off.
Ashwood met them with a biting wind. The house stood at the edge of a dark copse. The timbers had blackened, the porch sagged, the windows peered at the world, uncertain and cloudy.
Mum, its cold in here, whimpered five-year-old Molly.
Well get the fire going soon, my dear, Jane replied, fighting to steady her voice.
That first night was miserable. The stove smoked, the children coughed, draughts whistled from every crevice. Jane covered them with jackets, blankets, even old rugs. She herself sat awake, listening to Michaels breathing.
Her seven-year-old son, Henry, was illalways weak, with a grave condition. Londons best hospitals had offered to help, but even for admission, the price was more than the flat had costmoney she could never raise.
At dawn, Jane climbed to the chilly attic, hunting for ways to block the gaps. Among piles of dusty papers and moth-eaten coats, she found an old biscuit tin. Hidden inside an oily cloth was something heavya pocket watch, silver, with a thick chain. She rubbed the lid. The tarnished metal revealed a lion and a motto, For Loyalty and Faith.
Pretty, but probably worthless, she sighed, watching the hands stuck at five to twelve. She tucked it away. There were more pressing mattersfood for only three more days, the firewood nearly gone, and Henry barely able to lift his head.
That evening, a blizzard howled outside, trapping them. With the children asleep, Jane sat by the window, lost in despair. Had she done right by her children? Brought them here to fade away?
A knock at the door startled her.
A secondfirm and low.
Grabbing the poker, Jane called, Whos there?
Let me in, miss. Winters wild this night, replied a strange, creaking voice, rough but somehow warm.
Without knowing why, Jane slid back the bolt. On the step stood an old man, small, wrapped in an old coachmans cloak tied with twine, his beard grey and full, his sharp blue eyes shining beneath heavy brows.
Come in, Jane said instinctively.
He stepped past her, but no snow clung to him. He radiated warmth, not chill, like a brick oven.
He peered into the room where Henry lay, breathing heavily.
Your boy is unwell?
Jane nodded, all the pain spilling out in a sigh. He needs helpa surgery, urgently, and Ive nothing.
Moneys dust, the old man replied, sitting on a bench. But time is gold. Did you find something in the attic?
Jane froze. You mean the watch? she whispered.
My watch. Once bestowed to me by a nobleman, when I saved him from drowning. Its waited all these yearsmeant to serve.
I suppose I could sell it for medicine, Jane stammered, hope and nerves mingling. Its silver, at least.
The old man smiled. Dont be quick to sell a thing you havent understood. Theres a little trick insideMr. Burr, the watchmaker, liked secrets. Find a needle and press just under the hingetheres a false bottom within.
He stood to leave. Take heart, Jane. Your name means hope.
Waitat least have some tea! Whats your name? she called, kettle in hand.
They call me Walter, he replied.
But when she turned, the room was empty, the door still bolted, the scent of toast and sandalwood lingering in the air.
Sleep eluded Jane that night. At first light, she brought down the watch, found a sewing needle, and trembling, pressed where the old man had said.
Click.
A secret compartment sprung open. Inside, folded several times, was an old parchment and a heavy gold coinnothing like the trinkets found at pawnshops.
Jane smoothed the paper: With this, the bearer is entitled the old hand hard to read, but there, at the bottom, an elaborate signature.
Grabbing her coat, Jane travelled by bus to the nearest town. At an antiques shop, its shrewd-eyed owner examined her find.
The silvers not muchmight fetch you a few hundred pounds, he muttered, until Jane showed him the coin and the parchment.
He went pale. Where did you get this?
In an old houseI inherited it, Jane said.
Madam, this is a trial Sovereign, issued by the Crown. There are only a handful in the world, and the parchment is a deed signed by a Victorian lord. I cant buy these. They must go to Londonto auction. Theyll fetch you a small fortune.
Within a month, Henry was in Londons best hospital, his cheeks pinking with health. There was money to spare: for a new house, to educate all five children, enough to keep them safe and sound.
Jane returned to Ashwood to lay flowers on a grave she finally foundits headstone faded, worn: Walter Carter, 18881960.
Bowing low, Jane whispered, Thank you, Mr. Carter.
In time, Jane built a new houselarge, bright, warm, and comfortable. The villagers respected her; she was hardworking, firm, and her children neat and cared for.
Six months later, Mrs. Warner reappeared, arriving in a taxi with a box of pastries. She surveyed the new semi-detached, its neat garden, the tidy drive.
Well, Jane dear! she called, flinging her arms wide as if shed not cast Jane out. So youve done well for yourselffound a treasure, they say? Good for you! Im not well, you know, and my pensions a pittance. Surely you can help your mother? So many rooms here
Jane stood in the doorway, her older children watching their grandmother with solemn, wary eyes.
Hello, Mum, Jane replied calmly.
Go on then, invite me in! Mrs. Warner tried for cheer, foot on the step.
No.
What do you mean, no? The smile faltered.
You made your choice when you sent us away, Jane said quietly.
Ill take you to court! Im your mother! You owe me! Mrs. Warners cheeks flushed with rage.
Do as you must, Jane returned, stepping into the hall. But now the twins need their nap. Weve a peaceful home, and thats how it stays.
She closed the heavy oak door with a solid click, shutting out the shouts about ingratitude and five burdens. Jane didnt listen. She walked into her kitchen, where the aroma of baking pies filled the air. On the wall, the old pocket watch ticked away, marking the steady time of their new, happy life.
And so Jane learned, sometimes what life takes from your hands, it may place in your hearta home, hope, strength, and above all, the wisdom to protect what truly matters.
