Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “You think me juvenile, I suppose,” she muttered, “but I’ll ignore that for now. No, no, you needn’t explain. A walk does sound helpful, though. In fact, I’d thought about finding a nice spot near the rose beds, where Mr. Blackwood might photograph me later. I’ve an appointment with him at ten.”

  “The roses only look their best when you are near them,” he said, as he opened the door to the main corridor. “Shall I help you select a spot?”

  “Yes, I’d love that,” she answered, smiling at last as he took her hand. “Thank you for listening, Paul. You’ve been my dearest friend for all my life. Without you, I’d never have been able to endure William during the two years he lived at Branham. I pray our friendship never alters.”

  “It never will,” he promised, kissing her cheek.

  As the earl and duchess stepped into the hallway, a pair of housemaids in freshly pressed dresses of charcoal grey, topped by starched white pinafores, narrowly missed running headlong into the two cousins.

  “Now, now, ladies!” Aubrey called out, laughing. “Is there a fire? Do be careful lest you disturb Lord Haimsbury. He still sleeps within this apartment.”

  The girls stared at the earl and duchess, wide-eyed, completely embarrassed. “Sorry, my lord!” the younger maid blurted out. She gawped at the earl’s curling, chestnut locks and bright blue eyes, and every word in the English language disappeared from her lovestruck mind.

  Aubrey smiled patiently, and then turned to speak to the elder maid. “Aggie MacGowan, isn’t it? You took care of the duchess at Duke James’s castle, correct?”

  MacGowan curtseyed politely. “It’s good o’ you to remember, my lord. Good mornin’, my lady. Please, forgive us interruptin’. This here is Gertrude Trumper. Gertie’s how she likes ta be called. She’s a Londoner and new ta service, but learnin’ quickly. Mrs. Meyer told us ta find Miss Mallory and spend the mornin’ helpin’ ta open up a guest apartment. We’re ever so sorry ta interfere with yer mornin’.”

  “Not at all,” the earl replied easily. “It’s very nice to meet you, Gertie,” he said to Trumper. “Aggie, I imagine that Mrs. MacAnder and Drummond Castle sorely miss you. How are you settling in?”

  MacGowan blushed prettily. “You’re kind ta ask, sir. It’s quite interestin’ here in London, and everyone’s been real nice. I hope you’ll excuse us, my lord. My lady, do forgive us,” she said to the duchess with a slight curtsey, for Aggie felt very uncomfortable. She was certain that she and Trumper had intruded upon a private moment ‘twixt the two cousins.

  Elizabeth touched the girl’s arm kindly. “You’ve nothing to apologise for, Agatha. It’s very nice to meet you, Gertrude—oh, I am sorry. You prefer Gertie, don’t you?”

  Trumper grinned, her eyes still fixed upon Aubrey’s handsome face. “Huh? Oh, tha’s right, my lady. Gertie’s wha’ everyone calls me.”

  Beth laughed, for she had seen many a maid grow lovestruck in the earl’s presence. “I’ll try to remember that. You’ll find Alicia Mallory is a very good teacher. It’s a lovely morning, so the earl and I were just going for a walk. Do be as quiet as possible whilst you work, though. Lord Haimsbury had a rather long, wakeful night.”

  The cousins left, and once alone, the younger maid began to giggle softly. “I reckon we wasn’t s’pposed to see none o’ tha’,” Trumper whispered as they turned down the next hallway. “So is tha’ the real reason the earl moved in ‘ere, I wonder? I mean, ‘e’s go’ his own grand place in London, don’t ‘e? Looks ta me like Lord ‘aimsbury’s sleepin’ through a lo’ more ‘n jus’ the mornin’!”

  “Enough of that sort o’ talk, Gertrude Trumper. What the family does is none o’ yer business,” MacGowan replied stiffly. “Besides, there’s naught amiss about it. They’s good friends, and that’s an end to it. The earl likes ta protect her, is all.”

  “Protectin’ is a funny way ta put it, and I reckon they’s real good friends,” Trumper replied. “My old auntie, rest ‘er soul, called it kissin’ cousins. I’d ‘ave trouble as well, though, iffin I was the duchess. The earl and the marquess is bofe right pretty lookin’. The duchess is spoilt fer choice.”

  Beth’s lady’s maid reached the pair just as the girls rounded the corner. “Hush!” she warned them in a whisper, a finger to her lips. “Keep your voices low, girls. His lordship still sleeps. Come with me now. Mrs. Meyer says I’m to show you the other large apartment in this wing. You’re to ready it for an important visitor.”

  The willowy lady’s maid led the pair westward, along a wide hallway decorated in blue and yellow wallpaper and hung with photographs, framed silhouettes, and watercolour portraits of Elizabeth at various stages of her life. Once through, the trio entered a broad, common area that featured white panelling and a muralled ceiling, depicting pastoral scenes and seascapes from Kent County. In the far corner of the beautiful sitting room, a private but neglected collection of leather-bound, first editions gathered dust upon a tall bookshelf.

  “This part of the house hasn’t been used for many a long year, it looks like,” Mallory said as she twisted a wall switch. A large chandelier flickered to life. “This is the anteroom to what the Branham family calls the second master,” she explained. “I’m told that many dukes, princes, and even two kings have occupied these rooms over the years, but cherished family members often do as well. You’ll see on the left, there is a broad door that leads to a private staircase that guests may use. One flight leads up to a small study. You can see it, there above the little library,” she said, pointing to a balcony railing. “Another flight of this case descends into the conservatory. All this was built by King James the Sixth, when the westernmost section of the house was added in 1592.”

  “Them stairs was meant for a quick getaway, so I were told,” Trumper expounded with a mischievous grin. “Makes it a sight easier fer one cousin to visit ‘nother, I reckon, though sharin’ an apartment must make for easy visits, too.”

  Alicia turned to glare at the girl, her freckled face crimson with a combination of anger and embarrassment. “Enough of that now! We do not gossip in this household, especially about the duchess and her family. My lady and her cousins are kind and caring, and we show our love and respect for them by honouring their privacy. Am I clear, Gertie?”

  “So, is the duchess plannin’ ta marry ‘em bofe?” Trumper continued, unfazed.

  “One more infraction, Gertrude Trumper, and I shall report you to Mrs. Meyer,” Mallory told her sternly.

  “Infraction? What’s tha’?” the Londoner asked.

  “Are you asking to learn or merely to irritate?” Mallory parried back.

  “To learn, ‘course. I ain’t never ‘eard nobody use tha’ word afore.”

  “Ain’t is not a proper word for a servant in a peerage house to use, Gertie. And an ‘infraction’ means to break the rules, something which you seem to do with regularity.” Mallory took a few seconds to regain her calm, and then continued, trying to offer wisdom rather than wroth. “You’re new to service and to the Stuarts, is that right? Well, then you’re unaware of the deep history ‘twixt the earl and the duchess. Their friendship goes back to her very earliest moments upon this earth. Lord Aubrey has been her protector and constant friend for all of her life, and though it is none of our business, I believe they will always love each other. Always.”

  Aggie agreed. “Like I told ya, Gert, there’s naught improper goin’ on with them. Just get that out o’ yer noggin. Have ya ne’er seen the duchess look at Lord Haimsbury? She is over the moon for ‘im, she is! Now, get yer mind on ta’ work.” She turned towards the lady’s maid. “Miss Mallory, are we ta call ya that, or is Miss Alicia more proper?”

  “Just Alicia will do. The only women on staff that you call Miss or Missus—out of respect, you know—are the housekeepers and the cooks. I’m told by Mrs. Meyer and also by Mrs. Partridge over at Haimsbury House that you’re learning very qui
ckly. Now, let’s see if you can put that learning into practise.” She withdrew a ring of keys from her apron and turned the lock to the secondary master suite. “As I said earlier, King James the Sixth...”

  “I thought it were James the First what built the ‘ouse,” Trumper interrupted. “Which is it?”

  “It is both,” Mallory patiently replied. “Scotland knew him as the Sixth, but England lists him as James the First. If you remain on staff, you’ll have opportunity to attend school when we overwinter at Branham, if you wish. I did, and it has helped tremendously. I studied history, spelling, numbers, penmanship, geography, and even learnt enough French and German to get by whenever we travel abroad. As I said, King James the Sixth, as the Stuarts call him, built this house, and he had this apartment installed so that any royal who visited could reside nearby in luxury equal to that of the king. This suite is just as marvellously appointed as the master, but it’s not been occupied for a very long time.”

  She pushed the door open, and they entered the private parlour. “Oh, it’s awfully stuffy in here and so dusty! Look here, girls, since the rains have stopped, let’s open the doors to the bedchambers and see if we might get a cross-breeze going to air things out. Aggie, the door to the second bedroom should be unlocked.”

  MacGowan obeyed and opened the bedchamber door. “It’s all dark in here, Miss. The drapes’re closed.”

  “There’s a switch to the right of the door. Twist it, and the chandelier should light up,” the lady’s maid answered as she pushed into the first bedchamber, turning the light switch, but nothing happened. “Now that’s strange. It’s not working. Aggie, will yours light?”

  A momentary silence was followed by the appearance of the Scottish maid at the entrance to the bedroom. “No, Miss. It’s dark as pitch. I turned the switch, just like you told me, but it does naught. Am I doin’ it wrong? Might there be a fault in the wire? I remember hearin’ the duke talk ‘bout how electrics run through wires like water through a pipe, and if there’s a bend or a break, it can stop it all up.”

  Mallory crossed through the parlour and into the second bedchamber. After trying the switch several times, she shrugged her shoulders and felt her way towards the tall windows. Once there, she parted the blue and gold, velvet drapes, and then tied each panel to a delicately wrought, chased silver bracket alongside. Daylight spilled into the bedchamber, passing through the diamond mullions and painting the corners with ghostly shapes of light and shadow.

  The room had not been slept in since the death of Elizabeth’s mother in 1879, when extended family and friends had gathered for the London memorial service on the twentieth of March before travelling on to Kent County for the funeral on the twenty-fifth. Two large, canopied beds stood side by side along the west wall, each facing a magnificent fireplace, whose chimney stack was shared with that of the parlour. To the north, a hand-painted wardrobe stared at them, its gilded French Empire doors open wide. A beveled mirror had been secured to the door on the right, and its smooth surface played host to a wealth of dust.

  Trumper wrote her name on the mirror, pushing the ten-year-old dust aside. As her finger moved upon the glass, the letters of her name revealed a set of red eyes, and she leapt backwards.

  “Whatever is the matter?” Mallory asked as she turned from the windows. “Are you quite all right, Gertie?”

  “I reckon,” she muttered, for the dusty mirror had miraculously cleaned itself, and now appeared dust-free. No writing. No eyes. Completely and utterly ordinary. “Only...”

  “Only what?” Mallory pressed.

  “Only nuffin’,” the girl whispered.

  The traitorous mirror glittered from inside the cedar-lined interior, where three silk dresses hung alongside a pair of satin embroidered, high-heeled shoes. All had once belonged to the late Duchess Patricia.

  Alicia stood beside the wardrobe. “I wonder why these gowns still hang here?”

  “Do they belong to the duchess?” Aggie MacGowan asked. “They’re so pretty!”

  “They’re ball gowns,” Mallory explained, “but I don’t recall ever seeing the duchess wear them. I’ve certainly never packed them, but then I’ve only served as lady’s maid since last Christmas. These gowns may have belonged to the late duchess.”

  “My lady’s mother, ya mean?” Aggie asked, touching the bodice of a gown made of white chiffon and brocade silk. “I wonder if the duchess might be plannin’ ta use this one as her weddin’ dress. Might that be why it’s hangin’ here, Miss?”

  “I very much doubt it. We’ll ask Mrs. Meyer’s opinion. She’ll know what to do with them. I prefer not to bring it up with the duchess. My lady is very delicate where the topic of her mother is concerned.”

  “Why’s tha’?” Trumper asked, lifting a pale pink, organza gown out of the wardrobe and holding it up to her own waist, as she gazed into the attached mirror. “I reckon the old duchess were right tall. These’d fit me—well, exceptin’ fer the waist. Were she tha’ tiny?”

  “Put the dress back where it belongs, Gert,” Aggie scolded the other maid. “We’re real sorry, Miss Alicia. Both of us.”

  “It’s tempting to want to touch such beautiful dresses. I understand, girls, really I do, but we mustn’t get carried away. Now, Gertie, as you’re proud of being so tall, lend a hand,” Mallory continued. “See if you can reach the latch on those south windows. I’ll try to find a stepstool in the footmen’s cupboard.”

  Though she was a mere whisper shy of five foot eight, even Trumper had trouble reaching the window’s handle, but she stretched as much as she could manage, her fingertips just able to twist the latch to the left. She pulled open the heavy window, and sweet air rushed into the stuffy apartment.

  “Is them the south gardens down there?” the young maid asked as she gazed through the opening. “They’s real pretty from up here. Miss Alicia, who’s tha’ man? I hope ‘e ain’t a gardener, for ‘e is powerful strange ta look at!”

  Alicia had returned with a wooden stepstool and now opened the remaining windows. “What man do you mean, Gertie?”

  “Over near tha’ rowan tree. Sittin’ on a bench. Don’ you see ‘im, Miss? Watchin’ the duchess, I reckon. She just turned out o’ the front doors, and is talkin’ wif Mr. Frame.”

  More formal than the north gardens of Queen Anne Park, the south could be viewed by passersby from the bordering street and featured a rectangular reflecting pool, edged by dense holly bushes, trimmed into elegant spirals. There were low, rock walls filled with fragrant poet’s jasmine, and massive plantings of the mansion’s award winning, signature rose, the Queen Anne White.

  Near to this pool and beneath a small, mountain ash or rowan tree, stood four ragstone benches, and upon one sat a very strange looking man, dressed in a tall hat and frock coat. His angular form seemed almost impossible, for his insect-like length of limb made him appear as if he might stand as tall as nine feet! His elongated face was alternately shaded by the twisting holly bushes, giving his head a peculiar, striped appearance, and the hair of his head spiraled like undulating snakes. Gertrude Trumper found herself deeply disturbed by the visitor, not only because of his peculiar form, but because something about him seemed decidedly evil.

  Alicia shook her head, though she peered straight at the bench. “I see no one.”

  Aggie MacGowan leaned out her window. “Where again, Gert? By the long bed o’ roses near ta the gate?”

  “No!” Trumper insisted, angry that she was doubted. “On tha’ bench ‘neath them rowan trees! ‘ow can you no’ see ‘im? ‘e’s all gangly limbed and shadowy. Like ‘e’s only ‘alf there!”

  “Well, then perhaps he isn’t there at all,” Mallory concluded. “I think the morning sun is throwing strange shadows, Gertie. Nothing more.”

  As the trio of maids peered out the mullioned windows, a coach and four bearing the Drummond crest passed through the great, limestone
and ironwork gate of Queen Anne House, heading towards the main entry. Two footmen and a groom rushed to meet it.

  “Oh, no, it cannot be!” Mallory cried out. “That’s the duke’s coach! Quickly now, girls, hurry and prepare this apartment, for I fear its occupant has arrived seven hours early. Change out all the linens, and see to it that the tub and sink are spotless. Clean towels and sheets are in the linen press—just inside the bath. Yes, that’s the one, Aggie,” she said as MacGowan opened the tall closet. “Make sure, also, that the wardrobe is cleared out. Store the late duchess’s gowns in the attics. Ask a footman to help. I’ll have one of the parlour maids bring up some cut flowers to add to the vases. Oh, and be sure to replenish all the biscuit jars. Chocolate ones, if we have any, as that’s her favourite. If the jars contain anything old, be sure to scrub them out before putting in fresh biscuits. She will notice, if you do not.”

  “Who’s to be stayin’ here?” Aggie asked as she stripped the velvet duvet and silk sheets from the canopied bed.

  “You will meet her soon enough. I’ve spent the better part of the past year at her home in France, and I can tell you this much: Lady Victoria Stuart is a stickler for cleanliness, so make certain there is not a speck of dust! And clear the carpets of anything that might attract a dog. I’m sure she’s brought her terrier, for he travels with her everywhere. I’ll see if we might delay her entrance whilst you clean. Do hurry, girls!”

  Trumper began to inspect the biscuit jars. A strange sense of dread had taken root in her spirit, and she wished she knew how to pray. Mrs. Landsdown, the matron at the Stepney workhouse, had taught all her girls that mankind was nothing more than an evolutionary accident, having risen up from lower animals, so the concept of God was mere foolishness.