Stranger at the Dower House (Strangers Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  “That she was a flighty piece who set out to entrap a son of the house into matrimony,” Edgerton said promptly. “Being found out, she was hastily bundled off to another job with a glowing reference, to avoid any scandal. These references are uniformly effusive. She was a paragon of a governess, one would suppose, to read these.”

  “They are rather colourful,” Laurence said, scanning them quickly. “‘The most effective governess we have ever employed… very sorry to lose her… well versed in all the subjects necessary for the most refined education… one has the utmost confidence in her…’ And so on and so on, and nothing about why she left after so short a time. Definitely suspicious. I assume that the next step is to locate the originators of these letters and see what may be discovered about Miss Labett.”

  “Exactly!” Captain Edgerton said, enthusiastically. “Who knows what interesting tidbits may come to light? We are gradually gaining a clearer picture of our long-dead governess. We will uncover her murderer yet.”

  Dinner that evening was enlivened by Captain Edgerton and Edward planning a complex campaign to visit the writers of the three notes. When Laurence asked mildly if it was necessary to travel all the way to Kent, Hertfordshire and Norfolk, when there was a perfectly good mail service, Edgerton told him that it was necessary to look someone in the eye to determine whether he or she might be lying.

  “I am not sure why these ladies would bother to lie about so trivial a matter,” Laurence said. “It is more likely they would remember nothing at all and your journey would be wasted.”

  “True, and they may have moved away or even have died by now,” Edgerton said. “But these houses always have servants who were raised on the estate and know everyone who passed through the servants’ hall, so someone will remember Miss Labett, even after a quarter century.”

  Laurence said no more, and the conversation moved on. Viola and the children left the table and the men lingered over their port, talking about the latest news from London but also, to Laurence’s surprise, deeply interested in village news and the prospects for locating the late Lord Saxby’s heir. Willerton-Forbes’ uncle was involved in the search and was presently in Suffolk tracking down some long-lost descendant of the Third Baron, although he was not optimistic.

  “What happens if no living heir can be found?” Chandry asked.

  “The title would become extinct, but the property would be divided amongst the female descendants,” Willerton-Forbes said. “However, there is hope yet. If the Third Baron’s line peters out, there is still the Second Baron or even the First Baron. One of them is sure to have a male descendant yet living.”

  When the port had been passed around sufficient times and the captain and Chandry were clearly growing restless to return to the drawing room, Willerton-Forbes said, “Yes, go, both of you, but if you would be so good as to stay a moment longer, Mr Gage, I should like a word with you.”

  Laurence assented, rather curious to know what private matter concerned the lawyer. Was it something to do with Louisa? Surely not. But if not that, he could not guess.

  “Mr Gage, I shall not try your patience by speaking as a lawyer, in roundaboutation,” Willerton-Forbes said. “Let me speak plainly, therefore. You have most generously offered to underwrite the expenses of our little investigative band, and for that we are grateful. However, so far, we have lived under your roof at very little additional cost to you — except in port,” he added, swirling his glass, “which we very much appreciate. However, if the good captain is permitted to go galloping all over the country to trace someone who might remember Miss Labett from twenty-seven years ago, well, I must be honest, the costs will increase enormously.”

  “And you think I cannot afford it, is that it?” Laurence said, amused. “You want to be sure that I am good for it.”

  “Oh, indeed, no! Nothing of the sort! Naturally the bill will be met, no one doubts it for a moment, but one does not wish to put you to excessive expenditure, Mr Gage. As you so correctly point out, everything that Michael wishes to do may be achieved just as readily by way of the written word, and… one hears rumours, you understand. Hints… gossip, perhaps, and not necessarily reliable. One never knows, does one? However, it is said that your financial affairs are not as robust as they once were. But forgive me, it is not my intention to pry, only to point out that there is no need to undertake additional costs if you do not wish to. Our activities are entirely yours to command.”

  “You are very thoughtful, sir,” Laurence said. “In this case, rumour is quite accurate. The estate fell into financial difficulties in my grandfather’s day, and my father was unable to improve the situation. I was so fortunate as to marry a wealthy woman, and so for a while there was plenty of money. We made extensive improvements to the house — redecoration and new furnishings within, repairs without, the shrubbery replanted, that sort of thing. Many such improvements were done to please my wife, who was particular in her notions of beauty. With that accomplished, I had just begun to recover some portions of land lost from the estate in earlier times, which would have improved my income substantially, when my wife died. Her fortune was settled in such a way that the income from it was lost to me, and so I am reduced to… not poverty, certainly not that, but I must once again be careful with my expenditure. Even so, Captain Edgerton may travel the length of the country with my blessing, if it will help to bring a killer to justice.”

  Willerton-Forbes nodded thoughtfully. “That is generous, sir, but, I must say that it is unusual for a lady’s dowry to revert to the family after her death, especially when there are children.”

  “The capital is held in trust for my daughter, but the income goes to my wife’s mother until Henrietta comes of age or marries.”

  “Indeed!” Willerton-Forbes’ eyebrows shot up. “I have never heard of such an arrangement before. That is most singular, Mr Gage. You had the interest while your wife lived, but after her death it all went to her mother?”

  “Not quite. To be precise, Catherine’s fortune produced about four thousand a year. When we married, it was agreed that her mother would have one thousand of it, Catherine would have one thousand as pin money and I would have the remaining two thousand. Combined with my own two and a half thousand, that was a very good income. But then she died…” He stopped, grief welling up inside. Surely he should be in better command of himself by now, especially knowing that Catherine had not married him for love.

  “May I ask… who drew up the settlements?” Willerton-Forbes said gently. “You had your own lawyers involved, I take it?”

  Laurence frowned. “Not the usual family attorney, for this all happened in Bath. I hired a man there, but it all seemed very straightforward to me. I read it, naturally, before I signed, but perhaps I did not read it carefully enough, for I have no memory of the section determining what would happen after Catherine’s death. It was a great shock when the will was read. But then I do not understand these things.”

  “Of course you do not, Mr Gage,” Willerton-Forbes said, beaming at him. “That is lawyer’s work, to make sense of the intricacies of a legal contract. I wonder… it is impertinent of me, I know, so do not hesitate to refuse if I step too far, but might I be permitted to examine the settlement document? It would be fascinating to read such unusual clauses.”

  “By all means, if it would interest you,” Laurence said, amused.

  He retrieved the papers from the safe, and Willerton-Forbes settled down to peruse them, a brandy glass at his elbow. Apart from a request to see Catherine’s will also, he spoke not a word for the entire evening, ignoring even the temptations of the card table. It was past midnight, Viola had long since retired to bed and even Edgerton and Chandry were yawning over their cards, but still Willerton-Forbes read on.

  “Is it so fascinating, sir?” Laurence said.

  “Hmm? Oh, indeed, most interesting. Tell me, is Mrs Haywood still alive?”

  “Certainly. She is still in Bath. The children write to her periodic
ally, and she sometimes writes back. She recovered remarkably well.”

  “Recovered?” Willerton-Forbes said.

  “From whatever illness drew her to Bath sixteen years ago. She was there to take the waters and was so ill she went nowhere except to the Pump Room every day. She looked robust enough to me, but there are unseen weaknesses that do not manifest themselves visibly, are there not?”

  “Very likely,” Willerton-Forbes said, but his eyes gleamed.

  Laurence laughed. “You have something in mind, Willerton-Forbes, I can tell.”

  “Pettigrew always has something in mind,” Edgerton said, looking up from his task of gathering together the cards. “It comes from being a lawyer, and is quite incurable, unfortunately.”

  Willerton-Forbes chuckled gently. “Let us say merely that my interest is piqued, Mr Gage. Some men are excited by business transactions or politics or financial affairs, but I find personal contracts far more intriguing. Wills, marriage settlements, trust funds… such documents are windows into the past, you see. I suppose you do not have a copy of your wife’s father’s will here? No, I did not expect it. May I ask where his residence was?”

  “Myrtle House, near Hereford.”

  “Hereford,” he murmured. “Perhaps I may make a journey to Hereford, just for my own amusement, you understand, Mr Gage. Nothing at all to do with our present enquiries into Miss Labett. I confess I am very curious.”

  “By all means go and ferret about Herefordshire if it interests you,” Laurence said. “I will write you letters of introduction, if you wish. Let me know what excuse you want to give for your visit, and I will write first thing tomorrow.”

  ~~~~~

  Louisa’s reserves of civility were sorely tested by Dr Deerham. She had nothing against clergymen in general, and most of them were too lax by half, in her opinion, living indolent lives on their rich tithes while a harassed curate did the work of the parish, so a little devoutness was to be respected. Still, Mr Truman was more her style, for he combined the air of a gentleman with a reasonable degree of attention to his duties and admirably short sermons. Dr Deerham never seemed to set aside his piety to enjoy a pleasant evening of conversation, he must always be preaching, and a more tedious, prosy and sanctimonious bore she had never met.

  Nevertheless, she could tolerate his company if necessary, and even smile occasionally, if only she had not lost her friend to him. For a few days Esther had been her old self, enjoying sherry in the mornings and long, gossipy chats about anything and everything. With Dr Deerham’s arrival, that Esther had vanished, to be replaced by a strangely timid creature whose whole life revolved around her husband. Wifely devotion was laudable, but not when it turned to foolishness. Esther could not sit at breakfast without constantly checking that her husband’s coffee was the right temperature, or the eggs were cooked to his satisfaction, or that his preferred type of preserve was within his reach. If she had buttered his toast for him, Louisa would not have been surprised. After that, the whole day would be given over to the man’s wishes. Would he like some tea? A walk in the garden? Might he wish to go for a drive later? Was his cushion comfortable? He, of course, basked in such attention and took advantage of it to send her here and there for a book or his spectacles or to adjust the curtains to admit or exclude the sun, as if there were not servants enough for such tasks.

  Dr Deerham had arrived on Wednesday and by Friday Louisa was heartily tired of him, especially as she had felt obliged to miss the Beasleys’ card party on Thursday evening to entertain her guest, since Esther could not possibly go. “Cards, Mrs Deerham?” her husband had said in shocked tones when the subject was tentatively raised. “Games of chance are the devil’s work.” And so they sat around decorously in the drawing room, Louisa trying to read while Esther sewed and Dr Deerham wrote one of his sermons. This would have been peaceful if the good doctor had not felt obliged to submit the most felicitous phrases to his wife’s raptures. Since this happened every few minutes, whereupon she then repeated each one, saying, “Is that not most happily worded, Louisa? Do you not agree?”, Louisa quickly abandoned her book altogether. Oh, for Laurence’s easy company, with a glass of brandy and the dogs at their feet!

  Had it not been for her two pups, Louisa might have gone quietly mad. Twice a day she was able to escape the house and take them for long, energetic walks, and it was hard to say which of the three of them enjoyed themselves the most. Possibly Louisa, for she had the pleasure of meeting Laurence more often than not on these outings, and they would stop and chat for twenty minutes or half an hour while the five dogs raced about the Glebe or snuffled happily through the woods.

  Laurence was one of several of the local gentlemen who came in a steady procession to pay their respects to the great orator now residing at the Dower House. Squire Winslade and his son, the Rycroft brothers from the Hall, Dr Beasley, Mr Truman and many others came to receive the doctor’s words of wisdom, and, at least in Laurence’s case, to suppress their yawns as best they might.

  “Is he always like that?” Laurence said to Louisa, as the dogs ran about on the Glebe one morning.

  “Invariably.”

  “How on earth do you stand it?”

  That made her laugh. “I stand it because I know he will go away again soon. It is the question of how Esther stands it that exercises my mind.”

  “Yes, poor Mrs Deerham. Why ever did she marry the man?”

  But Louisa could find no rational explanation. “She seems contented enough, I suppose,” was all she could find to say on the subject.

  Easter Sunday arrived, and Dr Deerham was gratified by the ecstatic response to his appearance at St Ann’s church, where he accorded some slight praise to the rather fine Norman tower, and thanked Mr Truman graciously for his sermon. There was some wonderment at his presence in such humble surroundings, for the villagers were united in feeling that his stature required the backdrop of a cathedral or at least an imposing town church, but Louisa suspected that he had left home in a huff after not receiving an invitation to preach at any Easter service worthy of his talents. Nor would he condescend to minister to any of his own parishes, leaving them to the care of his curates.

  By Tuesday, Louisa had decided that she would go to the Grove that evening for cards and conversation and two or three hours free of sanctimony. Her spirits lifted greatly at this decision, even though she knew Dr Deerham would wear his most disapproving expression. She was even cheerful as she walked down to the Boar’s Head that afternoon to leave her letters for the mail carrier and collect the arriving mail.

  “Franked one for you today, Mrs Middlehope,” John Brownsmith, the innkeeper said, handing it to her personally. “That’ll be from her ladyship up north, I ’spect.”

  “I expect it will,” Louisa said, taking it eagerly. At last there would be news of Chambers’ arrival!

  She was right about that, but there was just a small snag — Pamela planned to convey Chambers personally.

  ‘We are on our way and expect to be with you on Thursday. So looking forward to the ball at the Manor!’

  Louisa’s spirits plummeted.

  21: Settlements

  The Grove seemed empty. Laurence had become so used to having Mr Willerton-Forbes, Captain Edgerton and Mr Chandry around that he was rather sorry when they left. There was no longer a guaranteed four for whist in the evenings, or adult male conversation over the port, or any counterweight to Viola’s incessant chatter. He loved his sister, but sometimes he wished that she were a little less feather-headed. Now his guests were scattered, Edgerton and Chandry to trace the writers of the references for Miss Labett, and Willerton-Forbes to Hereford, to investigate the background to Catherine’s will and the marriage settlements.

  The will! Laurence could hardly remember that day when the will was read out. Such a terrible time, with all the arrangements to bring her back from Bristol, and then the burial. His only memory was of Crossley, the attorney, saying to him over and over, “Do you understa
nd, Mr Gage? Do you understand?”

  But he had not, of course. It was not until several months later, when he had requested some money from the bank for a land transaction, and been told, calmly but firmly, that they would advance the amount as an unsecured loan this time, but in future they would require collateral, that he had realised something was amiss. Crossley had patiently explained it all — that all the income from Catherine’s fortune now went to her mother, and Laurence had only the income from his own holdings to live on. He had cancelled the purchase of land, and set about revising his budget.

  Now that he looked back on it, everything about the business had been odd. The marriage settlements with their unusual clauses… he had known nothing of such matters at the time, and was too dazzled by the prospect of marrying Catherine to take notice, but he was a little more cognisant now of how such things customarily worked. No matter how tightly Catherine’s fortune had been bound up for the future generation, the income from it should have been in his own hands, both before and after her death. That was the usual way. Willerton-Forbes’ interest in it set him wondering for the first time.

  With his thoughts thus turned back to Catherine, he began to read the diaries again. Each night when he retired, and sometimes when he had an hour free during the day, he would retreat to his room and read on. Would there be any mention of the marriage settlements in the weeks before the marriage? There was not. Catherine’s thoughts were entirely occupied with spending the newly-released tranche of funds from her fortune to allow her to buy wedding clothes. Each day’s entries were a catalogue of fabrics and shops and milliners and seamstresses and the difficulties of finding a button of the exact style to match a particular gown. Neither Malcolm nor Laurence himself rated a mention. The wedding itself, the most glorious day of Laurence’s life, drew only two words — ‘Was married.’

  Their brief honeymoon in Cheltenham, accompanied at Catherine’s request by Mrs Haywood, Mrs Fossett and Mr Slythe, merited an outbreak of descriptive prose in the diary, and again when the couple, finally free of her family, reached Shropshire and Catherine saw her new home. She was not effusive, merely describing everything she found dispassionately. ‘The saloon is large and elegant, a forty foot cube, with a balcony around the upper level. A few good pictures, but many gaps. The upper floor would overlook a fine prospect were it not for a much overgrown shrubbery. I shall have the dining room here… The kitchens are spacious enough but will need much improvement… The library is smaller than expected, but I do not intend to use it.’