Stranger at the Dower House (Strangers Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  For some time, there was no sound in the room but the shifting of coals on the fire, the slight rustle of the newspaper or the scratch of Edward’s pen as he made notes. From outside, the occasional crunch of carriage wheels on gravel suggested that callers were arriving or leaving, but that did not concern Laurence. Mostly it was Viola’s female friends, and he was happy to leave them to gossip away uninhibited by a masculine presence. He knew he would be summoned if their social superiors from the Hall called, or if there should be a gentleman visitor.

  John, the footman, came in to tend the fire. “Been busy today, sir,” he volunteered, as he raked the coals. “Quite a few callers.”

  It was so unusual for John to offer such information unsolicited that Laurence laid down his newspaper in curiosity and waited.

  “I see that Mrs Middlehope just a-comin’ up the drive, sir,” he added.

  “Is that so?” Laurence said. “Good. I should like a word with her… about her wine order.”

  John grinned, and reached for the coal scuttle.

  Laurence ambled across the entrance hall, where Skeates waited patiently for visitors, and entered the Roman Saloon, so called because it boasted several busts of Roman emperors in niches around the walls. He had never liked the room, but that had more to do with the many hours of boredom spent in there while his mother had entertained a succession of dull matriarchs and their even duller daughters. As soon as he had married, he had said very firmly that he was happy to attend if courtesy demanded it, but otherwise receiving callers was ladies’ business. Catherine had laughed and said that of course it was, and he should run away and hide in his study like a true gentleman. His mother had not minded either. She had got on so well with Catherine. Now they were both gone, and he had Viola to do the honours. But there was no point being maudlin.

  Miss Beasley was the only caller when he arrived, but he had barely made his bow and enquired how she was than Skeates arrived.

  “Mrs Middlehope, madam.”

  She was pleased to see him, he was sure. She smiled at all of them, but he was certain her smile was a little warmer for him. How pleasant it was to know that an attractive young woman was happy to find herself in his company, as he was happy to be in hers. And how wonderful to have such a woman as a friend, without the slightest thought of matrimony on either side.

  “You may be the first to know, Mrs Middlehope,” Viola said with tight lips, “that we are holding a dinner for a few friends… and acquaintances next Wednesday, and you will be receiving an invitation.”

  “How delightful!” Mrs Middlehope cried, seeming quite sincere. “I shall look forward to it with the greatest pleasure.”

  “I am to be there, too,” Henrietta said with shining eyes. “My very first formal dinner.”

  “But how exciting!” Mrs Middlehope said. “Have you decided what you will wear?”

  “No,” Henrietta said, her face falling. “I have nothing suitable.”

  “Your white muslin will do very well,” Viola said.

  “But I wear that almost every night,” Henrietta said in despairing tones. “Is it too late to have something new made up?”

  “Was that the one you wore when I dined with you last week?” Mrs Middlehope said. “I thought it was charming, and admirably suited your colouring.”

  “Oh… do you think so?”

  “I do, and it is always possible to give an outfit a new touch through one’s accessories. A scarf, a little bit of lace, a ribbon or two, or silk flowers, if you have them. And the choice of jewellery makes a great difference.”

  “But I have no jewellery,” Henrietta said mournfully.

  “Yes, you do,” Laurence said. “Your mother’s jewels are yours now. You have never needed them before, but you may choose something to wear for the dinner.” Then, seeing her face light up, he said gently, “Would you like to see them now?”

  “May I?” And then, to his surprise, she added, “Perhaps Mrs Middlehope might advise me on what to choose.”

  “That would be a matter for your aunt, Miss Gage,” she said at once.

  But Viola shuddered. “Oh no, no, no! I cannot look at dear Catherine’s things. Pray do not ask me.”

  “Then perhaps Mrs Middlehope would be so good as to advise us,” Laurence said at once, and was out of reason triumphant when she rose and followed him and Henrietta out of the room.

  She and Henrietta both looked round with interest at Catherine’s bedroom, as immaculate as the day she had left it. So tidy, his wife! She never left a thing out of place, her sewing things always put neatly away before she left her chair. He crossed to the rosewood davenport, Catherine’s elegant little writing desk. Unlocking and lifting the lid, he opened a drawer and found the key to the side drawers. Mrs Middlehope cried out in amazement at the book inside.

  “Oh, such exquisite needlework! Your wife made this cover, I assume?”

  She picked up the book, its silk covering embroidered with the words ‘Catherine Gage ~ Her Diary ~ Volume IX’ and a pattern of flowers, touching it almost with reverence. To his surprise, he found he did not mind. He felt he should have resented any handling of Catherine’s things, but Mrs Middlehope was so respectful that he could not object.

  “Mama was very good at sewing,” Henrietta said. “She made these cushions, and all the fire screens in the house.”

  “How very accomplished she was,” Mrs Middlehope said, laying the diary down again, and straightening it carefully so that it lay just as it had before. “I am ashamed to admit that I never sew at all now if I can help it, and even when I made the effort I could never have created anything so wonderful.”

  “I dislike sewing, too,” Henrietta said. “And music. I practise, but I am not a very good performer.”

  “Ah, now, music is perhaps my one accomplishment,” Mrs Middlehope said. “Not that I have any great talent, but I love to play and I have never let my lack of skill stand in the way of performing when asked.”

  “Then we must be sure to ask on Wednesday,” Laurence said, with a smile.

  “I should enjoy that very much,” she said at once, with an answering smile. “My own instrument is still somewhere between here and Durham, so I shall be grateful for a chance to exercise my fingers once more. And perhaps Miss Gage will play for the company, too?”

  Henrietta gulped, but nodded gamely.

  “Here is your mama’s jewel box,” Laurence said, lifting it out of its drawer. “These are just the trinkets. The serious jewellery is at the bank, safely locked away, and most of it you will not need until you marry, but there are some diamonds and garnets you might wear when you go to town for the season, and a very pretty pearl set.” Henrietta’s eyes widened at the mention of serious jewellery. He had always assumed that she knew about all that, but perhaps he had never quite mentioned such things explicitly. “It is all yours,” he said gently. “She left you everything of that kind — her clothes, hairbrushes, perfume bottles, fans, all her personal effects. Even the fire screens,” he added, making her laugh. “Now then, have a look through and see what you would like to wear on Wednesday.”

  It was a large box, and so there were numerous necklaces, bracelets, combs and aigrettes to be sorted through. He stood aside as the ladies opened every tiny drawer and exclaimed over the treasures within.

  “With a white gown, you will want a bit of colour,” Mrs Middlehope said, lifting up a necklace studded with tiny sapphires. “This is very pretty… oh but this would be better with a square neckline. Something round, you see.” She held up a pendant with amber and diamonds. “There is a pair of bracelets to match. I would wear just one of those. You will not need this headpiece, which is rather too heavy for a quiet dinner with friends, but this comb at the back, like so, and an orange ribbon threaded through to match the amber, and curls just here… and here… That would be charming, and very suitable, in my opinion, but of course, you will discuss it all with your aunt. She is the best person to guide you in such matters.”
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br />   “Oh, but you are so… so stylish,” Henrietta said. “Aunt Viola likes everything very plain.”

  Mrs Middlehope nodded sagely. “There is something to that. Your aunt must decide how best to show herself to the world, but you are your father’s daughter and must represent him when you move in society. Always remember that you are Miss Gage of Lower Maeswood Grove and have a position to uphold. You must be a credit to your papa, and to your mama, as well.”

  Henrietta lifted her chin and straightened her back a little. “I shall do my very best, but what shall I do if Aunt Viola thinks the amber is unsuitable?”

  “Then you will accept her guidance with a good grace, like the well-brought-up young lady you are,” she said.

  Solemnly, she nodded, and Laurence could see that she understood. How wise Mrs Middlehope was! And it crossed his mind that she would be a much better chaperon and companion for Henrietta than his rather stiff and censorious sister.

  ~~~~~

  Louisa dressed with care for Wednesday’s dinner engagement. There was no need to agonise over her choice of gown, for having worn the peach velvet for her last dinner at the Grove, she must necessarily wear the green silk, but she spent some time pondering her accessories. The silk shawl that precisely matched the gown was still in transit, so she had to use the cream one, but jewels were problematic. Her best items were still in the bank in Shrewsbury, and would stay there until she had installed a safe. In the end, she settled for the same diamond pendant and aigrette she had worn to the Hall, although it pained her to wear precisely the same outfit twice.

  The weather was still fine enough for her to walk, and since the charming Mr Truman had offered to escort her for the ten minutes it would take to reach the Grove, she enjoyed a pleasant stroll. He was excellent company, and she arrived at the house in good spirits. The company assembled in the saloon, a splendid chamber two stories high, with magnificent plasterwork on the ceiling. Once dinner was announced, they processed up a spiral staircase and then along the balcony which ran round the upper level, admiring the many paintings adorning the walls, before entering the large and elegantly appointed dining room.

  Louisa was invited to sit beside Laurence in the guest of honour’s position, which at least guaranteed her some stimulating conversation, and perhaps more wine than was usually offered to ladies. On her other side was a Mr Platt, the oldest of three siblings from Astley Cloverstone, a rather impoverished family, to judge by the shabby nature of their clothes. The squire and his son she had encountered before, but this was the first time she had met Susannah Winslade, a pleasant, sensible woman a few years younger than Louisa, whom she had heard spoken of sadly as ‘A most capable woman, but such a pity she is so dreadfully plain!’ She was indeed plain in repose, but when animated her sparkling eyes and generous mouth gave her an aura of prettiness. The final member of their company was Miss Cokely, usually mentioned as ‘Poor Miss Cokely’, a woman in her middle years who had come down in the world lately, and now supplemented her elderly mother’s meagre annuity by making bonnets. She was reputed to be a very skilled milliner, so Louisa was very happy to make her acquaintance.

  By the time the covers were removed, the Mr Platts and Mr Henry Winslade had begun to be rather loud, and were monopolising the rest of the table. Louisa felt it safe, under cover of the noise, to talk more freely to Mr Gage on a matter which intrigued her.

  “Now that I understand your wife’s talent with a needle, I have been seeing examples of it everywhere,” she began cautiously. “Every room has one of her beautiful fire screens, and there are cushions and cloths and framed pieces to admire. They are works of art.”

  He beamed at her. “They are wonderful, are they not? She had such a delicate hand, and such fine work, although I used to worry about her bent over her embroidery frame. It would have ruined her eyesight, in time. I used to tell her so, but she laughed and said she loved to do it and would continue as long as she could.”

  “The covers on her diary are a particularly beautiful example,” Louisa said, venturing a little nearer to her object. “I should never have thought of covering a book so. Are all her diaries enhanced in that way?”

  “Every one, although the earlier ones are not so elegantly executed. The first was begun when she was just sixteen, on her birthday, in fact, and she continued right up to the day she died.”

  “Did she keep a proper diary, with an entry for every day?” Louisa said, pleased to find him willing to continue the subject. “Like most women, I keep a journal of sorts, but I add to it very sporadically, only when my mind is overfull of thoughts and I have no one with whom to share them, so they spill into my journal. I write about books I have read or interesting conversations that I continue to ponder. But many women like to write about their everyday lives — calls made and received, the children’s activities, that sort of thing. Or secrets! Sometimes a diary is the repository of thoughts and inclinations that cannot be shared with anyone. But I do not suppose Mrs Gage had any secrets to be concealed.”

  “I do not imagine that she did,” he said, smiling softly, clearly enjoying fond remembrances. “She wrote in it every day, that much I know for she told me so, but as to what she wrote about I can tell you nothing.”

  Louisa raised her eyebrows. “You have not read them?”

  “Naturally not,” he said, with a sudden shuttering of his open countenance. “I would not dream of intruding upon my wife’s private thoughts.”

  That surprised her. No wonder he thought his wife perfect if he had never ventured beyond the mask she presented to the world. “Have you never wanted to?” she ventured. “Obviously you would not while she was alive, but now—”

  “It makes no difference,” he said, in some agitation.

  “But do you never wonder what was hidden inside — the hopes and dreams, her resentments and discontents, the untamed corners of her mind?”

  “There was no untamed corner of her mind,” he said firmly. “Nothing was hidden with Catherine. She was just as she appeared to be — a tranquil and contented wife and mother, with nothing concealed.”

  “There is always something concealed,” she said. “Every one of us has feelings and needs that we share with no one. To have secrets is to be human, Mr Gage, in my experience, and if your wife had none at all, then she was very much an exception.”

  “She was exceptional,” he said quietly.

  There was no possible answer to that.

  9: A Mystery

  Laurence decided this was exactly how a dinner for friends should be. There was lively conversation, good food and wine, an amicable atmosphere with everyone ready to be pleased, and a beautiful woman to add spice. Actually, there were three beautiful women. Mrs Middlehope took the palm, naturally, but Miss Platt was in bloom, too. And then there was Henrietta. When had his little girl turned into a beautiful young woman? Even with a gown she had worn a score of times before, she looked quite different.

  There had been a fuss from Viola as soon as she heard what was proposed, but he had expected that and simply told her exactly what Mrs Middlehope had said — that Henrietta was Miss Gage of Lower Maeswood Grove and must dress according to her station in life. Then he had gone to see Hannah, Catherine’s lady’s maid, kept on after her death to take care of Viola and then Henrietta. He told her all that Mrs Middlehope had said, and apart from asking him precisely how she had described the hair, she understood it all at once.

  “Just what I would have suggested myself, sir. Miss Henrietta’s been ready for something a little more grown up for a while now. Do her good, it will, to be in company now and then.”

  A little more grown up? He could hardly believe the transformation when she entered the saloon, her head diffidently lowered. There was the amber pendant and bracelet, the comb in the hair with some ribbon and artificial flowers, and the curls around her face. He recognised one of Catherine’s shawls draped over her arms, and perhaps the gloves were hers, too. Henrietta looked enchanting, and s
o he told her.

  She instantly went pink. “Do you like the way my hair is done? Hannah spent ages curling it.”

  “I do. It suits you very well.”

  Mrs Middlehope thought so too when she arrived. “How well you look this evening, Miss Gage. What lovely curls! You have the perfect type of hair for the current styles, you lucky creature.”

  Laurence was momentarily disappointed not to see the peach velvet gown, but when he observed how the pale green silk she wore clung to her hips while foaming gracefully around her feet, he felt himself adequately compensated. Again her shoulders were almost bare, but they were admirable shoulders, smooth and white, and no ugly bones protruding. He so disliked the sight of collar bones. A woman needed a bit of flesh, he decided. Then with a twinge of guilt, he remembered Catherine’s slender frame. She had not needed a bit of flesh to make her womanly… but she was different, queenly and composed, not a bit like Mrs Middlehope, who was… curvaceous? Alluring? Voluptuous, he decided. Yes, very different from his dear Catherine.

  There had only been one awkward moment, when Mrs Middlehope had wondered if he had ever read Catherine’s diaries. As if he would! Not that there would be anything to dismay him within their covers, but still it would not be right to pry.

  But the rest of the evening was pure delight. Henrietta behaved with maidenly poise, and managed not to spill or drop anything except a glove as she rose from the table, which the youngest Platt boy rushed forward to retrieve with an energy which made both of them blush. There was the pleasure of listening to all the young ladies performing on the instrument, and there were songs, too, for Mr William Platt had a fine baritone which he exercised with enthusiasm. Then there were cards and supper, and all too soon they were in the hall awaiting the carriages.

  “Gage, are you free tomorrow?” the squire said. “Beasley and I would like to discuss our findings with you and Mrs Middlehope. I have already asked the lady, and she said she will make herself available whenever convenient, so it is up to you.”