The Lady's Scandalous Secret (The Discreet Investigations of Lord and Lady Calaway Book 7)

by Issy Brooke

  The rain was battering hard on the windows of the drawing room at Litton but there was a fire roaring and the room was full of light, food, and people. Patrick had been delighting the women for a while with his antics but then he had grown too loud, and too tired, and been carted off by the nurse, his little legs kicking as he wailed in fury.

  Emily smiled the longest after the door had closed.

  She was sitting down in an armchair with a low table in front of her. Her botanical sketches and delicate watercolour paintings were spread out on the table. On the couch opposite, Mrs Macauley and Anne were sitting side by side. Adelia was in another armchair, while Florence Spenning was standing over the table and picking up the paintings one by one, angling them this way and that as she appreciated their fine details.

  Over the past few months since the arrest of Edwin Calcraft, the local women had made a concerted effort to bring Florence Spenning back into the fold. It had been spear-headed, quite remarkably, by Emily Johnson. When all the truth had been revealed, and Adelia had told Emily of Mrs Spenning’s words that fateful night, Emily had retired to her bedroom for three days, and no one quite knew what was going on in her head.

  When she emerged, she declared that she had been unforgivably wrong in her attacks on Mrs Spenning and therefore it was down to her, and her alone to make things right again. She would hear no excuses and allow no one to placate her. Her self-martyrdom was loud, passionate and typically Emily.

  And it was persistent.

  With the vicar’s wife as her impartial ally, Miss Johnson wore down Mrs Spenning’s defences, and finally the brittle, abrasive widow had begun to re-enter society.

  Although, as she confessed herself, she had never been in society in the first place. On her second visit to Litton, to one of Anne’s small At-Homes, she had become unexpectedly overwhelmed. Her tears had shocked almost everyone.

  But not Adelia.

  She recognised the crumbling of a façade. She recognised the scared maid that was underneath Mrs Spenning’s harsh exterior. This was a woman from a modest background who had been plucked from her domestic drudgery, given the title of wife and expected to continue with her domestic drudgery while also appearing to be a good, middle class woman. The strain must have been immense. And Adelia recognised, also, how good Mrs Spenning had been at it. She had watched and copied people; she had learned how to be what Walter Spenning expected her to be. She had tried to be polite, and decent, and follow society’s rules.

  She was never going to be perfect, and no wonder Anne had complained that Mrs Spenning was not quite polite enough for proper society. And Mrs Spenning had known that she was not good enough, too, and so had avoided society as much as she could. She knew she would fail. She knew she’d not measure up. She pre-empted her failure by excluding herself.

  Adelia herself had moved upwards on the social ladder. She knew how it felt to always wonder when you’d be found out – to always be on one’s guard – to always suspect that everyone else was judging you behind your back. She knew.

  “Oh, and look at this one!” Mrs Spenning said, utterly entranced by a delicate rendering of traveller’s joy, Clematis vitalba. Her accent shifted, the layers of acquired respectability dropping away as she said, “When I used to walk to school, the hedges were coated in this. I loved it, as a girl. I still do.” Then she became aware of her rural voice coming through and she looked embarrassed, putting the painting down hastily.

  Miss Johnson smiled. “Thank you. I don’t often share these works.”

  “But you must!” said Mrs Spenning. “I mean…no. I’m sorry.”

  Miss Johnson sighed heavily. She stood up from the armchair and went over to the table where Mrs Spenning stood. “I would like to offer you a public apology,” she said.

  “But there is no need. I don’t dwell on the past. And, anyway, I rather suspect no one here knows why you are apologising.”

  Miss Johnson turned to face the room.

  “Dear Em,” said Anne. “Don’t say anything that you don’t want to say.”

  Oh please do, thought Adelia. I want to know!

  “A number of years ago, I gifted one of my drawings to be auctioned to raise money for Great Yarmouth’s workhouse. I had intended for it to be anonymous of course, as all charitable acts ought to be. My left hand shall not know what my right hand does, as we are instructed in the Scriptures. But it was not to be.”

  Mrs Spenning looked sympathetic. “I was involved, even then, with Mrs Pickworth’s work. I have always been grateful to her. She was a good mistress to me when I was her maid, and has been a source of comfort since. I do not readily confide in people and have no wish to. But I have found solace in working to help others in terrible situations. My comfort comes from bringing comfort to others.”

  Unexpectedly noble, thought Adelia.

  Mrs Spenning went on. “And so, I encountered Miss Johnson at the workhouse when she brought her beautiful painting to be sold to raise funds for us.”

  Miss Johnson winced. “I have always disagreed with women seeking fame or fortune outside of their homes. That is not the lot of women. It is not for us to do. Money and notoriety bring shame to us and blight our households. We have important work to do, and it is to be done behind closed doors. But … I recognise, also, that if I have any talent at all, it is given unto me by God and therefore I ought to use it for good purposes.”

  “So I was always aware that Miss Johnson wanted to keep her donation secret. And so I have told no one,” Mrs Spenning said.

  “But what of your late husband?”

  “It is true that had he found out, he would have used it against you. In that, Miss Johnson, you were quite right. But I never let him know.”

  “Yet I remained in fear,” Miss Johnson explained. “And even after he died … that is what I beg your forgiveness about, Mrs Spenning. I allowed my fear to consume me.”

  “You are forgiven,” Mrs Spenning said. She nodded. “Go and sit down. You do not owe me anything, Miss Johnson. You must be less hard on yourself. You know, you are right when you say you have a divine talent. You could you sell them, you know, not for your own gain but for more noble purposes. Consider it.”

  Adelia winced. She braced herself. Miss Johnson did not do well when pressed.

  Miss Johnson reacted exactly as Adelia expected her to. She went stiff and formal. “I would not sully my art with lowering myself to a tradesman’s calling. Furthermore, it would not be seemly as a woman.” She stalked back to the armchair and flung herself down into it.

  Mrs Spenning’s old defensive nature came flaring back, then, too. “Well, pardon me if I don’t know the right way of things. I was only trying to help.” She turned away and stared out of the rain-streaked window. This was clearly not going to be a rose-tinted reconciliation. Too many emotions ran high, Adelia thought.

  “Oh, come now, dear Emily didn’t mean anything by it,” Mrs Macauley said. “We have been all getting along so well until now. I thought we were beginning to understand one another.”

  Miss Johnson was already angrily gathering up her paintings. “And this is why I don’t show anyone,” she muttered. “All people can see is the pursuit of mammon. What of beauty? What of art? I don’t know why I bother. Do excuse me. I have had enough of revelations for today. Mrs Spenning, I thank you for your well-intention words and your insight. But I am finished here today.” She stamped out of the room, leaving an awkward silence behind.

  Miss Johnson might have changed in some ways but the emotional whirlwind that lay at her core was never going to be calmed, Adelia thought.

  Anne was visibly upset. “Mrs Spenning, do come and sit down. I can only apologise for Miss Johnson. It is a particular foible of hers, I am afraid. I wish I knew why she was like this.”

  Mrs Spenning turned to face them but she remained at the window, apart, aloof, and looking quite miserable. “Why is anyone like anything?” she murmured to herself. “She ought to let herself be herself.”


  Mrs Macauley sighed heavily. “I hate to break a confidence, but I think it is time that I told the truth. This misunderstanding pains me and it has no basis in the truth. I know that dear Emily has longed to reveal this to you for many months, indeed, for years, but the time has never been right. I can see that it is causing a rift here and I think it would be better for all concerned if the truth came out.”

  Adelia was beside herself with curiosity. She shuffled in her seat, and Anne’s face was one of mixed alarm and interest. Even Mrs Spenning allowed herself to come closer and sit down in the chair that Miss Johnson had vacated.

  “Lady Blaisdell-Smith,” she said to Anne, formally and gently. “Do you have any notion about the origin of the funds for the Blaisdell Trust upon which your household survives?”

  “I – what do you know of the Trust? It is a private matter,” said Anne in shock.

  “It should be a private matter and I am sorry to even mention it. But do you know from where the funds originate? Do you know how the balance is maintained?”

  “The interest on the money…?”

  “Would barely keep young Patrick in new clothes. No, my lady. The Blaisdell Trust is not an ever-lasting pot of money that produces interest sufficient to run a household. It is, in fact, an ongoing business venture funded by Miss Johnson, and the money comes from the sale of her paintings.”

  “What?” Adelia cried. Anne gasped. Mrs Spenning put her hand to her mouth. Adelia could not tell what expression she was hiding. Surprise? Laughter? Shock?

  Adelia herself was feeling all three.

  Mrs Spenning croaked, “So she already sells her paintings? In spite of her words? In spite of what she has just said to me?”

  Mrs Macauley nodded. “I have acted as her go-between for years, with my dear Gordon taking care of things at the business end, you know, when he goes to Norwich and London. This house, the food on the table, the clothes on your back – it is all provided by her, and the work of her paintbrush. She is exceptionally talented and she works very hard.”

  “But why has she kept it a secret?”

  “You have seen the reason why. She simply despises what she has had to do. I do believe that she genuinely loathes the idea of a woman working, and she is also an idealist. When she speaks of the purity of art and the dirtiness of money, she is speaking the truth. So for her to have to do what she does … it creates an unbearable conflict deep within her.”

  “But I also make money by my art, such as it is,” Anne said.

  Mrs Spenning looked surprised then. She had no idea. Anne nodded, and said, “It is true. I write rather fanciful gothic romance novels, under various names, of course.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs Macauley. “I was already aware of that. Miss Johnson told me, though she had horror in her voice. I myself find it a delightful idea. And the work that you do is valuable. With that income, plus the little that the poor dear Baron makes, and dear Emily’s work, this household survives. I personally think it is an admirable example of a good strong work ethic and should be celebrated and applauded. But dear Emily feels tarnished by it, I am afraid.”

  “What utter nonsense. She ought to be proud of herself!” Anne said.

  “What one ought to be, and what one is, are often different things,” Mrs Spenning said darkly.

  Anne shook her head in disbelief. “Yet how like Emily! Such a woman of contrasts. She must love herself and hate herself at the very same time.” Anne looked at Adelia then. “Have I not always, always told you that she is a good person at heart?”

  “Yes,” said Adelia. “I find myself admiring her and being frustrated by her all over again. But goodness, isn’t she strong!”

  “What a shame that she did not marry that Archibald,” Mrs Macauley said. “I wonder if there is a chance for them now?”

  Mrs Macauley shook her head sadly. “She would not leave this house now. She could not abandon you all to marry him, even if she wanted to. And, I can tell you this: she does not want to. She wants to stay here.”

  “With us?” said Anne. “Even though…”

  “With you, my lady.” Mrs Macauley spoke fiercely. “She knows, underneath, how valued she is. She has done what she has done in secret and still you have made her feel valued and welcome. She is accepted, she is part of things, and you have never ever made her feel as if she is a burden. She knows it. Dear Lady Blaisdell-Smith, that is entirely down to you. Your generosity has allowed hers to bloom.” She reached out and took Anne’s hands, squeezing them. “She has always been a woman on a knife-edge, pulled in two directions by her uncontrolled emotions. You have set the example, and loved her in spite of her faults, and your path has brought her to safety. You saved her, and she repays you by saving and sustaining your household. You should be very proud of yourself.”

  Anne could not speak. Her eyes shone.

  Adelia had to blink rapidly. When she had arrived at Litton, she had been full of trepidation about her strange, quiet, morose daughter. And now she had found that Anne was one of the very best women she had met. She was not ostentatious, famous, popular, successful, nor social. She was not forging a name for herself or gathering great wealth.

  But here she was, in a sleepy Norfolk backwater, changing lives nonetheless.

  Adelia could have burst with pride.

  Adelia tried to supervise the loading of their things into a carriage but Smith would not hear of it. Adelia was pushed to one side and could only stand by and watch as Smith ordered the servants of Litton around. She stood in the warm sun and looked up at the boxy house. The windows needed painting. There were weeds growing up at the edges of the gravel.

  But a figure moved in an upstairs room, a woman, spinning around with a small boy in her arms, and Adelia smiled. It was a good house.

  She heard footsteps approach and turned to see Mrs Spenning coming her way.

  “Lady Calaway. This is fortuitous. I was hoping to see you before you left.”

  “Mrs Spenning. How might I help you?”

  “It is about Mrs Thubron.”

  “The vicar’s wife?”

  “Yes. She plagues me endlessly about contributing to the church so that the people of the village might benefit. I have avoided her while I have been in mourning but even if I extend my mourning period to the full two years – and who does that anymore? – she will still be there, waiting for me. I confess that … well, you understand my background now. I can speak like you people and I read enough books to know what to say. But I do not quite know how to …”

  “How to shake her off?”

  Mrs Spenning smiled ruefully. “Yes, I suppose that’s it. How dreadful of me!”

  “No, not at all. But Mrs Spenning, there is a problem here in the village and I am afraid that it does fall at your feet.”

  “Mine? No. Lord and Lady Blaisdell-Smith…”

  “You do realise they own none of the land around here? Your late husband was the main landowner. He is the landlord of almost every poor and broken-down house in this village. I would also wager that there are complicated threads of business and finance that will take a trustworthy man a great deal of time to untangle.”

  “Not Mr Hedges?”

  “Absolutely not. I would ask Mrs Macauley for advice. Her husband must know someone in Norwich. That would be your best course of action. As for Mrs Thubron’s demands…they are not without basis, you know.”

  “But what can I do?”

  “Untangle the mess of leases and houses here, and attend to the duties of a landlord.”

  “I am leaving…”

  “Do not leave these people in distress. For they are in distress and it is in your power and your power alone to relieve them. Untangle the money, examine the rents, and invest in making improvements to the houses. Do it before you leave. Engage a trusted steward. Or sell the properties to someone who care about the place.”

  “Who? Who would buy these houses? Would I not run the risk of selling to someone who is a wo
rse landlord than myself?”

  “You would indeed. Which is why I urge you, Mrs Spenning, to get everything in order before you think of leaving. Please. You have endured for so long that a few more months cannot harm.”

  “I hate it here. His memory is everywhere.”

  Adelia nodded. She spoke firmly. “His memory is in grasping miserly actions, his memory is in every cottage that is in disrepair, every household that is crying out in want. You can destroy those memories by acting against him. Otherwise, you will leave and his evil soul lives on here. Challenge what he did in his lifetime. Change things for the villagers before you go.”

  “I am not a decent, moral person. You need Miss Johnson for this sort of project.”

  “Then ask her for help.”

  Mrs Spenning spluttered with mocking laughter. “I do not think that we could possibly work together!”

  “Why not?” Adelia said.

  “Because …”

  “Why not?” she repeated.

  “Because … I am stubborn and so is she.”

  “That is not good enough. Mrs Spenning, you asked for my advice and I have given it to you. There is nothing more that I can do here.”

  Mrs Spenning pressed her lips together. It was not what she had wanted to hear. She nodded in acknowledgement and left, walking slowly, deep in thought.

  Anne had sent her parents off in the carriage with half of the kitchen’s store cupboards, by the looks of things, and Theodore was very happy to face the long trip back south to their own house. They spread out in the carriage, and settled back for the journey.

  He wondered how Bamfylde was. He had left that morning for Norwich, wanting to spend a few days at his leisure there before returning to his own lodgings in London. He had paintings to work on, galleries to negotiate with, and people to meet. The life of an artist seemed to be a full one.

  Theodore still couldn’t quite believe that Miss Johnson was the source of all the household’s income. He shook his head. The silly woman! She ought to be proud of her talent and flaunt it!

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Adelia said.