“This is my eldest son, Jeffrey Rycroft,” Lady Saxby continued. “His younger brother Timothy is from home just now. He is always from home,” she added with a tinkling laugh. “He would always rather be off with his friends doing whatever young men do.”
Jeffrey Rycroft, who was a little younger than Louisa herself, looked gentlemanlike enough, and nothing more. The product of Lady Saxby’s first marriage, presumably, although she could not quite work it out, since the eldest Miss Saxby looked not much younger than Mr Rycroft. She really should have made more enquiries about the local society before coming here, then she would not be floundering quite so badly. It would be helpful to know who, precisely, was being mourned — Lord Saxby, perhaps? Yet it would be indelicate to ask. She would have to be careful what she said, for it would never do to rampage over the feelings of the recently bereaved.
The meal was excellent, and bespoke a cook almost as accomplished as Louisa’s own… no, not her own, Pamela’s own. Her sister-in-law had inherited the long-fought-for man-cook, just as she had inherited the carriage, the coachman, all the footmen, the well-trained gardeners, her excellent butler and the noble rank that should have been Louisa’s. Not that she cared for the title, but she would love to have kept just a few of the servants. Ah well, repining was pointless.
Not surprisingly, Louisa found herself the main topic of conversation. The questions were diplomatically phrased, but she understood what they wanted to know.
“My husband died just over a year ago. He was the eldest son, but we were never blessed with children, so when my father-in-law died last spring, the younger son inherited. They offered me a permanent home at Roseacre, but once my year of mourning was over, I thought it best to move away from Durham.”
“Ah yes,” Lady Saxby sighed. “That is much for the best. The new mistress will have her own way of doing things, no doubt, and it would be trying for you to see the changes.”
That was not the trying part, but Louisa said nothing of that, merely smiling and praising the sauce with which the woodcocks were served, and sighing even more over the loss of her man-cook.
After dinner, the ladies retreated to the saloon again. Lady Saxby and Honora retired to a matching pair of chaises longues, ‘to rest a little’, Lady Saxby said, closing her eyes and settling down more comfortably to snooze. Agnes commandeered the pianoforte, leaving Louisa to the remaining two sisters. Flora was flicking idly through the pages of a journal to find the fashion plates, so it was left to Cass, the eldest, to politely enquire after Louisa’s home and family. She was so tempted to say, ‘I have no family’, but that would be too impolite for words. Besides, she was here to forget her losses, after all. So she talked of Roseacre and its multitude of dilapidated and rambling wings, but she could not suppress the sigh of envy as she gazed around the elegantly beautiful saloon.
“Roseacre sounds charming,” Cass said. “There is so much history in an older house. I hope you will not miss it too greatly. Are you pleased with the Dower House?”
“Oh yes! Such a cosy little house. I shall be very content there, I am sure. I do love these modern designs. Such lightness and classical simplicity! Such order and regularity, and no danger of going astray and finding oneself in a previously unsuspected wing of the house. Delightful.”
With a chuckle, Cass said, “Some would say the Hall is too austere, but it has its charms too. Would you like to see the library?”
She would. They left Flora to her journal, and Cass took a candelabrum and led the way back to the hall and then through a richly appointed room decorated in a deep crimson, to a short corridor. Cass had a pronounced limp, more noticeable this evening, but it would not be polite to enquire what had happened to her.
Cass halted. “I will let you enter first, Mrs Middlehope. You will see why.” Then she threw open one of the doors to the library and stood aside for Louisa to enter.
The room was flooded with light. There were deep windows on three sides, and the moon must be full, for it filled the room with a ghostly luminance. And there above the far wall—
Louisa cried out in amazement, for the lunette was filled with colour, a Biblical scene in painted glass that was lit up by the moonlight. “That is astonishing!” she said, as Cass followed her into the room. “How lucky you are to live in a house with such wonders.”
Cass grimaced. “Not for much longer, unfortunately. We live from day to day, as we wait for the lawyers to find the new Lord Saxby, who will promptly turn us out of our home.”
“So it is your father whom you mourn,” Louisa said.
“And my brother, Miles,” she said quietly. “A curricle accident, not two months ago. Papa was killed instantly, and Miles… poor Miles lingered for a fortnight.”
“My dear, how awful for you all. Your poor mama! And the heir… you do not know who it is?”
“Not the slightest idea. Not a near relation, anyway, for all the uncles and cousins we know of are dead now. The lawyers are going back to the third earl, or even earlier, to find a living male descendant. Mama is certain he will be a disgrace to the family name — a coal miner, or a pie seller, or some such. I think myself he is more likely to be an attorney or a clergyman.”
“Yes, very likely,” Louisa said. “But what a shock for him! There he will be, stuck in some rural wasteland far from civilisation, struggling to maintain a wife and seven children on a hundred pounds a year, and one day a man in a black suit and a wig will arrive on his doorstep and inform him that he is Lord Saxby, and a rich man, and insist that he must leave his hovel and move into your lovely house. Poor fellow.”
“You pity him?” Cass said, although she smiled. “We are in worse case, I should have thought.”
“No, because you will know how to go on. You will always have a respectable place in society, not just because of your family name, but because you know how to behave. You will be received everywhere, whereas he will be treated with contempt wherever he goes. If he tries to act the great lord, he will be scorned, and if he takes the meat before the soup or prefers ale to claret, he will be mocked. His own servants will bow and ‘Yes, my lord’ him, and laugh at him behind his back. Poor fellow, indeed.”
“I had not thought of it like that,” Cass said slowly. “Yes, he is much to be pitied, whoever he is. Let us hope he may be found quickly so that he can begin to grow accustomed to his new life, and we can begin to grow accustomed to ours. Is it hard, the change from a house like this with a full complement of servants to something much simpler?”
“I cannot tell you,” Louisa said with a smile. “I left Roseacre not two weeks ago, stayed a few nights with my friend in Shrewsbury and then — here I am! My first day of something simpler.”
“But why here?” Cass said, smiling back in a friendly way. “Great Maeswood is so out of the way, and such a long way from Durham that I cannot imagine what made you choose to settle here.”
“No one knows me,” Louisa said at once. “I am, if you like, a slate wiped clean, and, perhaps more pertinently, I am free at last of other people’s expectations. Consider, Miss Saxby. I spent seventeen years under my father’s very careful control. I was married practically from the schoolroom, and spent twelve years bowing to the wishes of my husband and his father, who avoided company. Then there was a year of mourning. I was not at all discontented with my lot, for my path was laid down for me and I knew no other. But now… I am set free, and with only my own wishes to consider, I intend to go out into the world at last and be sociable and enjoy life.”
“Well,” Cass said, eyebrows raised. “Prepare to be gay to dissipation, Mrs Middlehope. On Tuesdays, Miss Gage holds a card party for select friends, with a small glass of sherry on arrival at eight o’clock, whist until eleven, then a cold supper, with a glass of claret. On Thursdays, Miss Beasley returns the compliment, except that we get ratafia to drink and a hot supper with Tokay. Once a month, one or other of the carriage families holds a dinner. And twice a year — do try not to allow your an
ticipation to overwhelm you — there is an assembly at the Boar’s Head, where as many as fourteen or fifteen couples of dairymaids and farm labourers tread on each other’s toes. Can you bear the excitement, do you suppose?”
Louisa laughed. “It sounds perfect!”
2: The Widow
“The widow has arrived!”
Laurence looked up from his book. Then, stifling a sigh, he marked his place, closed the book and set it down on the table. When his sister had news of such momentous import, there was no possibility of keeping it for the dinner table.
“Is she old or young?” his daughter Henrietta said, laying down her paintbrush and pushing her sketchpad aside. “Is she very beautiful?”
His son Edward heaved a theatrical sigh. At twelve, the widow was of less interest than the Latin passage he was engaged in translating, but he knew his work would be impossible until the new arrival had been thoroughly discussed.
“Edward, you may take your book next door, if you wish,” Laurence said gently.
“It will be freezing in there.”
“Well, try the drawing room, and if the fire is not yet lit, you may light it yourself. Tell Skeates I gave you permission.”
Edward scooped up an armful of books and papers and writing materials, and trotted out of the room.
“It is not natural, the studying that boy does,” Viola said, unfastening her bonnet with nimble fingers. “He will wear himself out.”
Laurence smiled, for it was an old argument. “If he enjoys it, there is no harm. You would not have him remain in ignorance of the world, surely, sister?”
“Of the modern world, no, but the ancient Greeks and Romans have been dead for a long time. Henrietta, you have dripped paint on your gown.”
“Oh!” She jumped up and dabbed ineffectually at it with a cloth already liberally bespattered with paint.
Viola clucked at her. “Go and find Becky, and get yourself cleaned up. And put that paintbrush somewhere safe.”
“May I not hear about the widow?” Henrietta said hopefully. “Papa?”
“You will hear all your aunt’s news at dinner. Go along now.”
Viola waited until the door had closed behind Henrietta before saying, as she had a thousand times before, “That girl is getting quite wild, Laurence. You spoil her, of course. You spoil both of them, if you want my opinion. It never answers to be too lenient, just because they are motherless. You should marry again so that they would have a proper mother at last. I do my best, but an aunt is not attended to in the same way. But there, they are yours and not mine, so my advice will not weigh with you, I suppose.”
“Your advice always weighs with me, Viola, as you well know, but I do not see the faults in them that are so glaring to you. They are children still, and I should like them to remain so for as long as possible.”
“Henrietta is fifteen and on the verge of womanhood, Laurence, and how she is to attract a good husband is more than I can tell, when you never stir from your own hearth.”
“I am very fond of my hearth, especially with a comfortable chair, plenty of books, my dogs at my feet and a supply of sherry. As for Henrietta, her aunt will bring her out when the time is right, and her godmother will present her at court. Her mother’s money will pay the costs and a decent dowry, too, but if she returns home unwed, I shall not be in any way disappointed in her. She may marry for love or not at all, as she pleases, and there is an end to it. Shall I order some tea for you?”
His sister knew better than to argue the point. They disagreed on this, as on most other matters. Viola liked to be busy managing people, and especially children and servants, being quite sure that nothing would get done at all, or at least not properly, if she did not constantly issue reminders. Laurence, on the other hand, was of the opinion that everyone would go along perfectly well without any more than an occasional nudge now and then.
Heaving a reproachful sigh, Viola flopped into a chair. “The tea will be here shortly. I have already suggested to Skeates that you might like some. So…” She settled herself more comfortably into her chair with a wriggle of pure enjoyment. There was nothing Viola liked better than a juicy piece of news. “Let me tell you about the widow. She arrived not an hour since, in a hired post-chaise and pair, and the most disreputable postilion Mrs Timpson had ever seen. Went through the village at a dangerous pace, too, so that all the chickens were a-squawk and one of the Preece boys was almost run down. Although what he was doing outside the shop I cannot imagine, for he should be making himself useful at home. Mrs Preece is too lax with him by half, if you want my opinion. However, that is nothing to the point. According to Mrs Timpson, there were just two boxes on top and one on the back, but she could not see the widow herself, for the chaise went by so fast. She wore a multitude of feathers on her hat, that much she could see.”
Laurence was not much interested in feathers. “Has anyone actually seen the lady yet?”
“Well, no, and no one knows much about her, either. The manservant and a maid arrived on Saturday last, and they have been eating at the Boar’s Head, but they know nothing. They are from an agency in Shrewsbury, seemingly. All we know is the lady’s name, Mrs Middlecott… Middlecombe… no, Middleton, that was it. She has her own maid, but there are no children with her, so she must be an older lady, I suppose. Too old for you, I daresay.”
“Or too young, perhaps,” he said, smiling at her. “Now, do not be matchmaking, Vi, I beg you. Unless she is as beautiful as an angel and very, very rich, she will not do for me at all. I am very particular as to wives, you know.”
“Well, well, Catherine was a paragon in your eyes, we all know that,” Viola said indulgently. “You will not find another such, I am sure.”
“Certainly not in Great Maeswood,” Laurence said equably. “And even if by some astonishing quirk of fate another such should appear, she would hardly be interested in a dull old stick like me. One must not expect two miracles in one lifetime. Ah, there you are, Skeates. I had begun to think you had fallen down the well.”
The elderly butler smiled at the familiar sally as he set the tea tray down on the sideboard. He replied, as always, “Not today, sir. Not today.”
“What cake have you brought, Skeates?” Viola said.
“Macaroons and lemon cakes, madam.”
“No treacle buns? Mr Gage is very partial to treacle buns.”
Laurence got to his feet, and the dogs wagged their tails in happy anticipation. “I shall just give the dogs a bit of a run before the light goes.”
“Will you not stay for tea? Oh well, I shall just have to drink it myself. It would be a pity to waste it. You will not go far, so late in the day?” She reached for a macaroon as she spoke.
“Not far. I shall see you at dinner. What have you ordered for us today? Something tasty?”
“I have a fine haunch of beef from Mr Vale, and some salmon.”
“Excellent, excellent.”
The rain had cleared, but the air was still damp and chilly. Laurence did not mind. In some ways, he felt more alive out here, striding about the grounds with the dogs, than he did sitting beside his own fire, despite Viola’s words. He could breathe and think and be grateful for all that he had — his house, his children, an income that was… adequate, if no more. And his memories. He had enjoyed seven years of blissful happiness with his wife, and he had thanked God for every one of them. To have known such joy, even for a short time, was more than he deserved, and certainly more than he ever expected to experience again.
The dogs followed their usual evening route, through the shrubbery and then through the gap in the hedge to the lane until they reached the road. They turned at once through the gates onto the drive, but Laurence stopped, gazing across the road at the Dower House. It had not been lived in since he was a boy — getting on for thirty years ago. But now the shutters were open, lights shone out from the windows and smoke rose from the chimneys. The widow had arrived, and the village would be in a bustle for weeks u
ntil every scrap of information about her had been gone over and discussed and worried at. And then something else would happen to stir the gossips to action and Mrs Middleton would be forgotten. Poor Mrs Middleton, elderly and alone. He hoped she would like Great Maeswood, and not find it too dull.
Calling the dogs to heel, he turned and made his way home.
~~~~~
Louisa woke early, no doubt because of the unfamiliar bed, or perhaps it was the light that roused her. She was so used to a curtained bed that she had forgotten to draw the window curtains and now the room was filled with the grey light of pre-dawn. Never one to lie abed, she pushed back the covers and went to the window. The view was depressing — a weedy mess where once there must have been a pleasant garden. A few paths were just about visible through the jungle, and she could make out the brick base of what might once have been a glasshouse. An elegant stone wall curved around the perimeter with an intriguing gate set in the centre.
She must explore! At once! Not wanting to rouse Marie, she bundled her hair into an untidy knot, dressed hastily in her gardening gown and travelling pelisse, and sped down the stairs and out through the drawing room door. The garden was an immediate deterrent. From above it had merely looked weedy. Once she had descended the steps to the ravages of a lawn, she could see that the weeds were above her head in places. She went back inside, through the house and out of the front door, where at least the drive was passable.
The short drive led her to the road, a moderately well-used one, to judge by the width and the copious ruts. The centre of the village must lie to her left and she had no wish to submit herself to the stares of the locals so early in the day, not until Marie had attended to her hair. How vain she was for a widow of thirty years, surely past the age of worrying about her looks. Did women ever stop caring about their looks? Perhaps not. Still, it was always advisable to present one’s best face to the world, so she would not go to the village, not yet.
Stranger at the Dower House (Strangers Book 1) Page 2