by Jude Bayton
She waved a gloved hand. “’Tis of no consequence. Our housekeeper, Tricklebank, has your room prepared and will bring you a light repast.” Lady Clayton turned away and went to a small ivory table. She grasped a small bell and rang it sharply. I watched her every move. The profile of her aristocratic face, the silver threads of her elegantly coiffed hair. Immediately the drawing room doors opened, and the elderly butler entered.
“Your Ladyship?”
“Baxter, show Miss Westcott to her room.” She inclined her head toward me and gave a thin smile. “We will speak again in the morning at ten o’clock. We can go over your duties then.”
Dismissed, I turned away and followed the butler from the room, elated that the first part of my plan had succeeded. Lady Blanche Clayton had absolutely no idea who I really was.
I AWOKE WITH THE strange sensation I might still be dreaming. I lay cocooned within a large canopied bed, my body swaddled in linen sheets and warm wool blankets, my head cradled like a baby on soft feather pillows. I smiled with guilty pleasure, and then sat bolt upright as my mind cleared. Was I really at Mowbray Manor? Drowsy layers of slumber fell away as my thoughts arranged themselves in proper order. I glanced about the chamber. The morning light shone through chinks in the curtains, which offered clarity previously denied by lamplight last night.
The room was indeed pleasant. Sumptuous pink cabbage roses papered the walls, a busy backdrop to the multitude of small, framed paintings which depicted all manner of pretty birds. The mantel over a white fireplace was festooned with swarms of tiny china ornaments. At one side of the hearth stood a large wardrobe, painted white with gold trim embossing its doors, and on the other side, a writing desk situated beneath a generous window.
Curious to see what lay outside, I rose to pull back heavy damask curtains. Light swept into my room and painted the walls with bright honey. The winter sun was substantial, and I squinted until my eyes adjusted, only to be rewarded with a most spectacular view.
The grounds were impressive. A carpet of velvet, green grass was bordered by flower beds filled with a riot of heavy-laden rose bushes, the last blooms of the year. The center of the lawn appeared to be dissected by a narrow oblong pond, its somber steel-grey water littered with listless lily pads which floated aimlessly across its glassy surface. Beyond the gardens, my eyes were drawn to a remarkable landscape. For there in the distance lay the dark indigo of the English Channel, shimmering beneath the sunlight like molten sapphires. I could not help but be taken aback by the majesty before me, saturated with the delight of it, and then I thought of my darling, dearest Aramintha.
At Brampton Ladies College destiny had presented me with an education at the mere cost of my pride. All but a servant in status, I was given room and board in exchange for my abilities as a tutor. To the girls of the college I seemed inconspicuous, to its staff, insignificant. Yet to Aramintha Clayton I was a person, an individual whom she endowed with the generous gift of her friendship.
Aramintha had been my salvation. She alone had rescued me from drowning in a sea of loneliness when she plucked me from seclusion and called me all but sister. Indifferent to my social status and unconcerned with my lack of fortune and prospects, in Aramintha, I discovered purpose. My ambition had been solely to pursue knowledge and a good education, but Aramintha showed me the many possibilities within my reach should I acquire both.
“Miss Westcott?” Fingers lightly rapped on my door and roused me from thought.
“Come in.”
Miss Tricklebank, whom I had met briefly the night before, entered my chamber holding a small tray in her hands laden with a pot of tea, boiled egg, and slices of hot buttered toast. She placed it down upon the desk and seemed surprised to see me still in my night attire.
“I trust you were comfortable?” she asked politely, her dour expression reminiscent of the headmistress at Brampton, stern and rather chilly. Her frown rippled with disapproval as she observed my disheveled state, my unbraided hair.
“Most comfortable, thank you, Miss Tricklebank.” I glanced at the tray. “I would have come down to the kitchen—”
“It is customary to take breakfast the first day in your room. You may join the rest of the staff at luncheon and meet everyone then. It will be a full day, Miss Westcott, I can assure you.” She smoothed down her stiff black skirts and absentmindedly patted the back of the brown bun in her hair. “Her ladyship will see you at ten o’clock.”
As soon as the door closed, I set about my meal as though starved. I had never before been so spoiled with my breakfast served thus. I ate, my mouth savoring every bite, while my eyes feasted upon the scene from my window.
It was as I sipped my last drop of tea that I saw him. He strode towards the pond and then stopped as though taken by something which lurked in the water—a tall man, with the breadth of a laborer yet garbed as a gentleman. I could easily make out his form, his black, tousled hair, yet no other detail as he was too far from my vantage point. My mind conjured up the list of characters I had come to know from Aramintha’s colorful stories and entertaining letters. I ran through the names in my head and landed upon his, for who other could it be than Benedict?
Aramintha had often referred to her half-brother as the devil in a sea of angels. For he alone had been the only child of Sir Nigel not gifted with the Clayton golden hair, blue eyes or the family name. She had said the late Lord Clayton’s bastard son was half Romany gypsy, which would account for his swarthy complexion and raven hair. In truth, though I could not see much of the man, he did cut an imposing and formidable figure.
Suddenly his face turned, and he looked directly up at my window. I gasped and leaned back in surprise. Had he seen me watching? I composed myself and chased away my embarrassment for being so foolish. On this my first day at Mowbray Manor, I must settle down and keep my wits about me. I should dress and go downstairs, for I was to meet Lady Clayton within the hour.
I ENTERED THE DRAWING room escorted by the formidable Baxter to find Lady Clayton seated at her writing desk. But upon our arrival she placed her fountain pen down, then turned to look at me waiting self-consciously in my worn workaday dress. The butler departed, and she rose majestically from her seat and moved to a velvet settle.
“Miss Westcott, please do come and sit.” She gestured to an intricately carved armchair, one of a matched pair which faced the sofa. I did as she bade, and rested my hands in my lap, my back ramrod straight as though I sat before a queen. Again, I was struck at the ethereal beauty of the older woman, the paleness of her complexion, the silver hair. Her ice- blue eyes assessed me, the cheapness of my dress, the cut of my collars.
“I trust your room was adequate?” The tone of her voice implied she expected an answer to the positive.
“Indeed, Lady Clayton, thank you, it was most comfortable.”
“Splendid. Now I should like to discuss your position here. I was most satisfied with your credentials, though it is unusual for a young woman of your—" she paused to select her words, “…station, to have attained such a high level of education.”
Attending a ladies’ school without wealth or a position within society was highly uncommon. Therefore, her query seemed understandable. In my quest to be engaged as teacher to the youngest member of the Clayton family, I had intentionally withheld my relationship with Aramintha. My education at Brampton alone gave me the entrée required to join her staff. Lady Blanche would have been mortified to know her privileged daughter had been the best of friends with a personage as low in the social order as myself. But she would never make that connection. In our correspondence Aramintha had always called me Miss Victoria, after our Queen. She loved subterfuge, and it had been the easiest path to conceal a friendship her mother would have forbidden. Now I was glad of it, for I was determined to discover what had happened to my dearest friend.
“I count myself fortunate indeed to have an education, Lady Clayton. My father placed great value upon it. He considered knowledge the best security for my future.
He did not wish me to be vulnerable nor dependent on any other but myself.”
“I see,” she muttered. Her tone suggested she did not. “I am sure you will prove worthy enough to instruct my son. Gideon is a bright boy, yet somewhat high-spirited, though no more than most thirteen-year-olds. My decision to educate him at home may change as I fear he has proven himself to be cleverer than his prior tutors. Not in scholastic endeavors, but rather with his stubbornness and cunning.”
Aramintha had regaled me with many stories of her little brother. I was forewarned, and therefore forearmed. “Gideon and I will make the best of it, Lady Clayton.”
“One hopes so.” She raised her eyebrows. “You understand his past tutors have been men. This will be a trial period for the first month to see how you progress. Do I have your agreement?”
“Indeed.”
“Good. Benedict will make the appropriate financial transactions based upon our contract.” She rose with a rustle of fabric. “Follow me, and I will take you to the schoolroom and introduce Gideon.”
THE CLASSROOM WAS SITUATED at the top of the house, along with what I presumed to be Gideon’s bedroom, a nursery and a playroom. Lady Clayton led me down a short corridor into a spacious chamber, decorated with charts, maps, and diagrams of an educational nature. The front wall was covered in a black chalkboard, with three large desks facing towards where the teacher might conduct lessons. A young blond boy occupied the centre desk, and upon our entrance, he glanced up from his writing. I barely managed to conceal my sudden intake of breath as the boy stared at me with Aramintha’s face. But for his gender, he could be her replica, the same pale blue eyes, butter-yellow hair, full mouth and upturned nose.
“Gideon, here is your new tutor, Miss Westcott,” Lady Clayton spoke sharply. The boy rose to his feet, his fingers still rested on the desk as his gaze fastened on my face. I moved forward and held out a hand in greeting.
“Good morning, Master Gideon, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He blinked at me but ignored my proffered hand, which I quickly dropped. I smiled, but his expression remained impassive, his demeanor far less attractive than his looks.
“Come, Gideon, where are your manners?” Lady Clayton’s face crumpled with displeasure. “Introduce yourself to Miss Westcott at once.”
“Good day to you, ma’am,” he said begrudgingly and then sat back down.
Lady Clayton sighed. “Gideon can be rather sullen at times.” She observed with a glance at me, her light eyes harsh. “I trust you will be able to manage him?”
“Indeed, Lady Clayton.” My voice conveyed more confidence than I felt.
“Then I shall leave you to it,” she stated flatly, and without further ceremony, Lady Clayton left the room.
I went to the chalkboard and retrieved a long piece of chalk, wrote my name, the date and then turned to my unhappy student.
“Well, Master Gideon, I look forward to us working together. To begin, we should discuss the lessons you have had in the past and determine where we shall start.”
He was completely unresponsive. His pale eyes shimmered with obvious disdain; his chin tilted in defiance. Gideon Clayton was an angry boy. But why?
I tried again. “Master Gideon, I am in no doubt you are displeased with my coming. It is usual to feel this way when a new tutor arrives. Perhaps—”
“We have just met,” he interrupted. “Therefore, how can you profess to know anything whatsoever about me?” His voice balanced on the cusp of breaking, teetered between boyhood and maturity, but the tone was clear. Gideon Clayton was irritated.
“True enough,” I agreed. “But in my experience, it is natural to feel animosity towards an individual who implements a change in routine. I am here to teach. My intention is not to upset you nor cause any discomfort. However, I shall engage you in lessons to earn the salary your mother pays me, monies which ensure my survival. Lady Clayton insists you are to be educated, and if not by me, she will bring in another to teach you, or perhaps even send you away. If your objective is to make my task difficult, you only prolong the punishment by making new acquaintances each time a replacement tutor arrives.” I looked straight at the boy who sat listening to my every word.
“Master Gideon, I am here to teach, and that is all. This can be a relatively decent experience, or you can render it more painful. The decision is yours. Please make it.”
He seemed astonished. The expression upon his face spoke volumes. The boy had apparently never been challenged and seemed surprised by my frank words. I cared not. The most important relationship between pupil and teacher had to be respect. We would make little progress if the sulky boy did not accept me.
I recognized the precise moment Gideon allowed the tension to leave his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair, still unsmiling, but less combative.
“Now,” I said. “Let us discuss how far you are come with your various studies.”
THE LUNCH GONG SOUNDED. Time had passed quickly. Gideon and I had examined his previous tutor’s work and registered where my instruction should begin. Still reluctant to converse, he answered my questions with the barest of responses. At least his diminished pout was enough to encourage me our relationship might improve a little by our next meeting. I dismissed Gideon until after luncheon and went down to the kitchen.
I walked into a hive of activity downstairs, due to the preparation of dinner for a certain Mr. Reginald Plumb the parish Vicar, and his wife. I had met several of the kitchen staff after breakfast when returning my tray, but now felt somewhat at a loss. Fearful of causing any strife, I avoided Mrs Oldershaw the cook, and instead asked a young kitchen maid where to partake of a bite to eat. She directed me to the servants’ dining room off the kitchen, and there I enjoyed a slice of crusty fresh bread and a hunk of cheese.
Contemplating my plans for the afternoon, I opted to take Gideon outside for a nature ramble. Doing so might provide a better opportunity to get to know the boy away from the stern confines of the schoolroom. Gideon was dour to be sure. Cherubic in appearance, yet as sullen as a fish. I searched my catalogue of memories to conjure past conversations with Aramintha when she spoke of her family, but found little of him there other than his escapades. I had not learned much about the boy, but it would not take long to form my own opinion, and quickly.
The remaining brother I had yet to see was Gabriel, the current Lord Clayton. This sibling was a frequent subject of Aramintha’s. Her elder by ten years, when she spoke of him, her eyes would grow misty with affection, her words revering as she described his admirable qualities, his handsome stature and pleasant ways. Perhaps I would meet him before the day was out? I considered the half-brother I had seen from my window that morning, Benedict. Of him, Aramintha had said little, yet the impression given suggested he remained somewhat aloof from the rest of the family, though why, she had not commented upon. For a bastard son to keep polite distance from the legitimate children of nobility was not considered unusual. Aramintha had told me Benedict was astute, adept at managing the Clayton estate for the legitimate heir, Gabriel. I had always surmised from her tone she cared well enough for Benedict yet adored Gabriel. I contemplated her opinion. Would mine be the same?
GIDEON AND I SPENT THE better part of a chilly afternoon traversing a well-trodden footpath. We walked along the green clifftops of the Purbeck hills while the frigid sea pounded sandy beaches far below. The air felt damp yet invigorating, and we were both wrapped in our respective thick outer garments. The salty wind stung my cheeks like kissing bees, and my lungs hungrily sucked in the fresh, clean air, so vastly different from London.
As we travelled, I attempted to coerce Gideon from his unwillingness to make conversation, and after a time he begrudgingly began to relent. Initially, we discussed items we studied along our trek, flora and fauna, then identified the variety of seabirds wheeling in the skies and the colorful, comical puffins who inhabited the terrain. But more than anything, I desperately wanted to learn about the Clayton family.
I finally plucked up enough courage to steer the conversation away from our lesson. “Tell me, Gideon, do you spend much time with your siblings? I understand you have a sister and two brothers?”
He did not falter in his step. “Not really. I only have one brother, Gabriel. Benedict is half-brother to me, and he works for the estate.” He continued to walk. I kept abreast of him, my heart picked up speed.
“And what of your sister?” I endeavored to keep the tremble from my voice. “Is she at home often?”
Gideon stopped abruptly, catching me off guard. His solemn face turned to mine. His skin was ashen.
“My sister is dead.”
*****
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The Secret of Mowbray Manor