11: Books, Gowns And A Square Pianoforte
Louisa did not stay long with the gentlemen, for they began to talk about ways of identifying the mysterious body from the wine cellar, and the details of that did not interest her. So she returned to the drawing room and virtuously made herself agreeable to Miss Gage. Knowing her to be an inveterate gossip, Louisa allowed herself to be drawn into a discussion about the Roseacre family. She was too polite to relate the more opprobrious tales of Pamela, but there was no hiding her background, and it was amusing to watch Miss Gage attempt to reconcile the deference due to a baroness with her contempt for the merchant class. And somewhere at the back of her mind was the thought that if ever Pamela should encroach herself all the way to Shropshire, preferably with her delightfully vulgar father, the ghastliness would be greatly ameliorated by observing their encounters with Miss Gage.
The gentlemen lingered so long over their port that Miss Gage was visibly yawning and even Louisa’s good manners were stretched to find sufficient conversation to keep her awake. But eventually they came, the four gentlemen settling down for whist and Miss Gage, who was clearly determined not to leave Louisa alone with them, insisting on a game of cribbage, even though she was visibly dropping from tiredness.
Louisa took pity on her and left rather earlier than she would have liked, escorted on the ten minute walk by Captain Edgerton and Mr Chandry, irrepressible rogues the pair of them. She would have preferred Mr Gage’s company, in the interests of advancing her project, but she could wait. She was a patient woman, and she was finding the chase just as enjoyable as the anticipated reward.
~~~~~
Three days of continuous rain kept Louisa trapped at home. She was not such a delicate flower as to shun wet weather, but her lack of changes of clothes prohibited it for the moment. Instead, she made good use of the time by trying to teach Mrs Nokes some receipts more sophisticated than mutton and boiled beef. The result was a tolerable ragoût and a blancmange, three new soups, one of them rather good, and some pigeons in a wine sauce, which Mrs Nokes thought a shocking waste of good Madeira. There was also an almond pudding that was almost of a standard to serve to guests. Perhaps in another year or two there might be hope of a soufflé. Or perhaps she should simply be done with it and request the agency in London to find her a man-cook. A French man-cook.
Finally the sun came out and Louisa felt able to brave the puddles and walk to the centre of the village. She no longer needed to patronise the bakery, for Mrs Nokes was competent enough with bread and buns, but Mr Timpson might have some interesting spices to liven up one or two dishes. How she longed for a proper curry, but that was not part of Mrs Nokes’ repertoire and Louisa was not familiar enough with the necessary ingredients to teach her. She would have to write to the ever-helpful Mr Moffat for a cookery book. She could not find spices, but Mr Timpson had newly-arrived supplies of quills, of which one could never have too many, and a box of parasols, just arrived from London in all the most fashionable styles, he assured her. Louisa could not quite agree, but she found one that would match a summer gown she owned. The gown itself was still presumably on the road somewhere, but it would no doubt arrive before summer, next year’s if not this.
A visit to the Boar’s Head brought forth many treasures — half a dozen letters, happily none of them from Pamela, and a large parcel of books from Mr Moffat. When she returned to the Dower House, she was delighted to find even more treasures being unloaded from a large wagon — her first consignment of wine from William Matley and Sons, wine importers and vintners of Bristol.
The wagon had only just lumbered down the drive and onto the road when a smart carriage turned in, a very elegant and very familiar carriage, now bearing a nobleman’s coat of arms on its door. Behind it, a larger, more elderly conveyance, piled high with luggage. Louisa groaned so loudly that William and Sarah, engaged in shifting barrels of wine, looked at her in alarm.
“Well,” she said, struggling to regain her composure. “It seems we have visitors.”
Then, affixing a smile to her face, she stepped out of the front door to greet the arrivals decanting from the carriage.
“Pamela. What a surprise. And Mr Pritchard, too. How… how unexpected. The letter bearing notice of your arrival must have gone astray.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be near so much fun if we’d told you aforehand,” the lady trilled happily. “We was packing up all your things, you know, and I was fretting over sending them such a distance, and what would happen if there was some mishap and your lovely things got lost or damaged, and Pa said ‘Why should we not go ourselves, to keep an eye on them?’ Well, I was not sure, because Lottie had such a bad earache that I hardly liked to leave her side, but I’ve been that worried about you, stuck here all on your own — Shropshire! Why, it’s practically in Wales! So far from anywhere, and not a soul here that you know. So lonely you must be, you poor thing. And your letter — so short and not a word about friends or company. I was that upset to read it, but Pa said, ‘Let’s go and cheer her up’, and that settled it. So here we are, although we cannot stay more than a few days, so you must try not to be too upset when we leave.”
Lady Mountsea was a dumpy woman who had once been pretty but had lost her bloom early and was descending rapidly into her matronly middle years. Once her daughters were old enough to go into society, she would blend effortlessly into the ranks of gossipy, optimistic mamas on the chaperons’ benches. Her father, Mr Pritchard, was a jolly man with a penchant for vivid waistcoats and a multitude of gold fobs. He beamed genially at Louisa.
“There now, isn’t this a grand surprise, Mrs M?”
“It is indeed a surprise,” she murmured. Then, catching sight of the coachman smiling and nodding at her, she said, “Whitmer! How are you? And Mrs Whitmer? Is her leg better? And Sally… has she had her baby yet?”
He chuckled. “Aye, we’re all fine, ma’am, thank you for asking. Our Sally had a boy two weeks since, a fine lusty little chap. Just like his grandad he is, and just as bonnie a head as me.” He lifted his wig to show his bald pate, making her laugh.
Spotting the two footmen unloading luggage and the under-coachman and a groom on the luggage coach she waved to them, but said, “I am very pleased to see you all, but you will have to put up at the inn, I am afraid.”
“Aye, we expected that, ma’am.”
“Nonsense,” Pamela said. “You must have plenty of room here, a house this big.”
“The house is certainly big enough,” Louisa said, “but the stables are not, and my cook can barely cope with feeding me and four servants. You and Mr Pritchard and your maid and valet may stay here, but the rest must go to the Boar’s Head with the coaches and horses. They will be very comfortable there. Do come inside, Pamela. You will want some tea, I am sure.”
The hall was still cluttered with wine and Louisa’s parcels from the village, and the two Roseacre footmen were piling boxes and oddly shaped packages in every available space. Louisa looked around for her own footman, hovering uncertainly by the service stairs.
“William, Lady Mountsea and Mr Pritchard will be staying for a few days. Tell Mrs Nokes there will be two extra for the dining room and two more below stairs, and bring some tea to the drawing room. Ah, Sarah, there you are. The two front bedrooms will need to be prepared. Broughton and Harvey will tell you what their master and mistress require for their comfort, but get fires lit as soon as you can. John, Matthew, do not bring any more boxes in until we have cleared what is here. Get this lot down to the wine cellar first. William has the keys. After that, anything that is for me can go into the parlour here. Move the furniture aside to fit it all in, if need be. Pamela, Mr Pritchard, do come into the drawing room until order has been restored. It is a pity you gave me no warning of your coming, for I am not at all prepared for you.”
“Is this wine? All of it?” Pamela said in astonished tones.
“It is,” Louisa said curtly, not feeling any necessity to explain herself.
>
“Good heavens, Lou, and only you in the house! How will you possibly drink so much?”
“One glass at a time, savouring every mouthful. And I shall entertain my friends, if ever my cook is up to the task.”
“Oh, you have friends, do you? Well, that is a relief.” But she sounded rather cross about it.
“Naturally I have friends. I am not a hermit, and have dined out several times since I arrived, not to mention card parties twice a week. Do come into the drawing room, Pamela, and take off your bonnet. Have you come far today? What are the roads like after the rain?”
“Yes, but— Careful with that, Matthew! No, that one is for my room, but not the other. Do you have a box room, Lou?”
“Only the attic, but no one has been up there for twenty-five years, at least,” Louisa said. “Put it in the parlour, Matthew. Oh… is that my pianoforte?” She shivered with excitement. At last, she would have music again. How much she had missed it! “In the drawing room, if you please, and unwrap it at once. I have just the space for it. Mr Pritchard? That is the dining room. The drawing room is in here.”
Finally she got Pamela and Mr Pritchard into the drawing room, while the footmen gently carried the instrument to the place she had set aside for it. It was a little bigger than she remembered and only just fitted, but perhaps that was the quantity of felt and sacking that protected it. Not until all the wrappings were removed did she realise the truth.
“This is the clavichord, Pamela, not the pianoforte.”
“It is the Broadwood, the square Broadwood — that was what you asked for, wasn’t it?”
“The square pianoforte from the winter parlour. There are three Broadwoods at Roseacre, and this is the clavichord from the music room.”
“Oh. Well, it is just as good, I am sure. Is that your garden? There is not much growing in it. The children send you their best love, and are wild to hear how you go on. I was a bit surprised you made no mention of them in your letter, but there, I suppose it distresses you too much. Ah, tea! How lovely. Goodness, I am thirsty.”
“Did you have room for all my boxes of books, and my clothes?” Louisa said in some trepidation. She had left very clear instructions about what to pack, but she no longer had any confidence that they would arrive.
“Oh, your clothes, certainly, but the books… it would have depleted the library considerably to send all that you asked for. It must have been a quarter of the entire collection!”
“But they are mine,” Louisa said resentfully. “Mostly my father’s but also those I have bought with my own money. I will have them, Pamela, and the square pianoforte, which was a wedding gift from Ned. What about the pictures? Have you brought those? Ned left me those in his will, you know that perfectly well.”
“Aye, we brought those,” Mr Pritchard said, looking up from the newspaper he had picked up. “Lord M right down insisted. And your horse. Said that was yours, too. He didn’t know about the books, I’ll wager, but I’ll make sure he knows and sends what’s yours.”
“My horse? You have brought Gaius Valerius?” Without warning, her legs weakened, she collapsed into the nearest chair and burst into tears. Such an unlooked-for kindness!
“Aye, Spencer’s bringing him,” Mr Pritchard said. “He just stopped at the inn to bespeak accommodation, in case you couldn’t cope with us all here. We had no idea how big the house was. Lord, Mrs M, don’t cry. Have you any brandy in the house? Any that’s not still in the barrel, that is.” He chuckled at his own wit, and went off to find William.
Gaius Valerius! He was not, strictly speaking, hers, for Ned and his father had always said that whatever was in the stables was for anyone to use, family and guests alike, and her previous mount, a placid mare, had been ridden by a great many ladies over the years. However, when Pulcheria had grown too infirm to carry her, her father-in-law had bought Gaius Valerius, and no one had ever ridden him but Louisa, and Spencer, her groom.
Mr Pritchard put his head round the door. “Here’s your horse arriving now, Mrs M, and your man’s finding some brandy.”
“Never mind the brandy!” Louisa cried, jumping to her feet and dashing away her tears impatiently. “Just let me see Gaius and I shall be better.”
She rushed through the obstacle-strewn hall and through the open front door, and there he was, her magnificent grey, and Spencer on his own horse, leading him. Gaius Valerius whickered with delight at the sight of her, and tossed his head. Louisa raced down the steps and buried her face in his soft mane. “Quomodo es, amica mea? Beati estis ad me? Ego sum gauisus ut vos.” How are you, my friend? Are you pleased to see me? I am happy to have you.
And she sighed with pleasure.
~~~~~
“Mrs Middlehope has visitors!”
Laurence marked his place and closed his book. “Anyone exciting?” He was alone in the study, the children having been drawn into helping Captain Edgerton in his enquiries around the village, and for once he was interested in Viola’s gossip.
“Lady Mountsea! There now, what do you think of that? All the way from Derbyshire to see—”
“Durham.”
“—her sister-in-law, and brought such a quantity of luggage, Mrs Timpson says, so they must be staying for a while. Oh, and a horse, rather a fine one, by all accounts, a big grey creature, not at all a lady’s horse so it must belong to the gentleman who is with Lady Mountsea, whoever he is.”
“Lord Mountsea, conceivably?” Laurence hazarded.
“That was what Mrs Timpson thought at first, but Beth Brownsmith said not. The groom went in there to ask about accommodation, and bespeak two good rooms for Lady Mountsea and the gentleman, and Beth asked outright if it was Lord Mountsea, and he said not. A Mr Richard or some such. Ditchford… something of the sort. I did not quite catch it. But they are not to stay there after all, they will stay with Mrs Middlehope and only the coachmen and footmen will stay at the Boar. What do you think of that? Another baroness in Great Maeswood! Although her origins— But then nobility is still nobility, no matter who her father is. I wonder if I should pop over to the Dower House and ask if they need anything. Imagine, two distinguished visitors descending unannounced and who knows if poor Mrs Middlehope has all she needs for their comfort.”
“By unannounced, I presume that you mean that you were unaware of it,” Laurence said, amused. “Mrs Middlehope may have known all about it. Besides, if these visitors are so distinguished, they will travel with their own sheets.”
“Oh, sheets! It is not sheets I am thinking of, it is… it is… well, I cannot say what she may need.”
“Whatever it is, she knows us well enough to ask for it,” he said mildly. “I will send John over with some of the fish. There is too much for us anyway.”
“At least she will not be short of wine,” she said acidly. “Phyllida says the Matley cart went by earlier, and it did not come here, and the Saxbys order from that fellow in Market Clunbury. I think I will just pop across and see if Mrs Middlehope needs any help.”
Laurence hesitated, and then wondered why he should do so. He need not be browbeaten by his own sister. “If they are to stay with Mrs Middlehope for a few days we might invite them for dinner. Her cook’s repertoire is limited to mutton and boiled potatoes, apparently, so it would be a kindness.”
Viola narrowed her eyes in suspicion, and for a moment he could almost see her weighing the advantage of entertaining a baroness to dinner against the disadvantage of encouraging what she saw as the widow’s pretensions. Abruptly she sat down, then blurted, “Laurence, are you… have you formed an attachment to Mrs Middlehope?”
He had picked up his glass of Madeira from the table beside him, but now he set it down again and steepled his fingers. Such a question deserved an honest answer, so he said carefully, “I enjoy her company but there is nothing more to it than that, Vi. I have told you before that I have no intention of marrying again, and, despite what you may think, nor has Mrs Middlehope. She has told me so explicitly. You need h
ave no fears on that score.”
This reassurance did not have the expected effect on Viola. Her face remained anxious, and she chewed her lips fretfully. “But that is not the only possible outcome,” she said hesitantly. “I know you see nothing wrong in her behaviour, brother, and to be sure a married woman is permitted far greater freedom, but to my mind she is a little too forward with gentlemen, and especially so with you. My real fear… the worst that could possibly happen… is that she might draw you in to… to a liaison, and that would be too dreadful to contemplate. The disgrace! The humiliation! I should have to leave this house, leave you and the dear children, and what would become of them? It would be the ruination of Henrietta.”
“Sister, you refine too much upon Mrs Middlehope’s natural liveliness,” he said gently. “You insult her, and you insult me, too, in imagining either of us capable of such behaviour.”
Her face brightened. “Then… you would not do it?”
“I give you my word as a gentleman that I would never, ever do anything of that nature. I would not cause you such hurt, nor would I so dishonour Catherine’s memory.”
He meant it, too, every word. And yet there was something, some tiny niggle at the back of his mind that felt suspiciously like disappointment.
12: Cooks And Grooms
APRIL
Louisa could not wait for Pamela to leave. Since she had travelled two hundred miles and could not be expected to set off again immediately, she knew she would have to suffer her sister-in-law for several days. Mr Pritchard was no trouble, for Mr Gage swept him off to shoot and fish and visit other gentlemen, but Pamela was another matter. Whatever Louisa did, Pamela would be there. If she walked into the village, Pamela went too, chattering away volubly to everyone they met. If she tried to do some gardening, there the woman was again, rattling on and on about her own garden at Roseacre — which Louisa had largely created — or her multitude of children or some boring detail of one of her army of uninteresting relations, until Louisa wanted to scream.
Stranger at the Dower House (Strangers Book 1) Page 12