Oh, there are changes sometimes, of course there are. Families move out of the county and new ones move in. There are marriages which take young people – daughters mostly – elsewhere, or bring in brides from other places. County society isn’t closed. But it is still cohesive enough to make it wise, when in the company of people one doesn’t know very well, to guard one’s tongue.
For instance, when dining out and encountering new faces, don’t ask your neighbour who the fierce-looking lady at the far end of the table is, yes, the one in purple, with the vast open ruff and the high-bridged nose and the pursed mouth. She may well turn out to be the mother-in-law of your neighbour’s sister. And when watching a tennis match at a gathering where, again, there are people you don’t know well, or at all, don’t enquire of a chance-met acquaintance if he knows who the noisy man over there is. Your new acquaintance is all too likely to say, oh yes, that’s my second cousin.
That being so, there was nothing very strange in the fact that Eric Lake, who owned a small manor near Guildford and had married my ward Kate Ferguson, was the half-brother of a man called George Harrison, whose wife Marjorie had from girlhood been a friend of my Aunt Tabitha. Aunt Tabitha was an example of a girl who had left the county as a bride, for though she had married my Uncle Herbert and gone to live with him in Sussex, she had been born and brought up in Surrey.
I knew that Eric Lake had a relative called Marjorie Harrison but I didn’t know of her link to my Aunt Tabitha until the grim business of that year began. There was nothing odd about that, either. Nor was there anything odd in the fact that a man who lived in Sheffield and whose business was buying fur pelts and turning them into cloaks and coverlets and the like should from time to time make the long journey to Penzance in Cornwall. Rare furs from the New World arrived at Penzance regularly. The only real coincidences in the affair were that two women, respectively called Catherine Parker and Alice Devine, chanced to die that spring – and that just then, Aunt Tabitha finally lost patience with Uncle Herbert’s increasingly irritable temper.
She wrote to me, asking me to visit her at their Sussex home, Faldene, and I decided to go.
My relationship with Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha had never been easy. When my mother was sent away from court, pregnant by a man she would not name, her brother Herbert and his wife took her in. Their parents were dead and there was no one else to help her. My uncle and aunt did give her a home, and when I was born, they gave me a home as well, yes, and an education too, for I was allowed to share my cousins’ tutors. But in other ways, they were not very kind either to my mother or to me. They took satisfaction in reminding us that we were dependent on their charity (which might be withdrawn if we offended them), and I was beaten for the smallest misdoings. Unhappiness wore my mother down and she died when I was sixteen. However, I suppose I can claim that I avenged her, for when I was twenty, I eloped with my cousin Mary’s betrothed, Gerald Blanchard, and married him.
Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha were understandably furious, and even more furious when, later on, as a result of one of my early ventures as a secret agent, my uncle was arrested and spent some time in the Tower of London. Yet the breach was mended to some extent in the end, because they called on me for help in a crisis, involving their son, my cousin Edward. After that, we had an up-and-down relationship. They held by the old religion, and thought themselves very virtuous and were appalled when I gave birth to Harry. Oh, I had once been married to his father, Matthew de la Roche, but the marriage was annulled and I then became the wife of Hugh Stannard, my dear Hugh. After he was gone, I met Matthew again, and we came together briefly, with Harry as a result.
As I pointed out, in a letter to my scandalized relatives, Matthew was a Papist, I had married him according to Catholic rites and in their view had surely still been married when we met again, so why were they complaining? There was silence after that, but although I sometimes visited my second home, Withysham, which was in Sussex and not far from Faldene, I didn’t go to see them. Until Aunt Tabitha’s cry for help arrived.
… I fear that your Uncle Herbert is grown very irascible, for he still suffers from gout and now he has the joint evil, which pains him greatly. I pity him most sincerely. But I would be glad of your company for a while, if you can spare a little time. Believe me, I need distraction sometimes …
‘Well, ma’am,’ said my tirewoman, Frances Dale, ‘you haven’t visited Withysham for a long while now. This would be an opportunity. I like Withysham. It has such a calm atmosphere.’
‘Probably because it was once an abbey, before the monasteries were disbanded,’ I said. I looked at the letter in my hand. ‘I feel sorry for my uncle and aunt. They’re growing old and my uncle is ailing and it’s true that they did give me and my mother a roof over our heads and enough to eat, even though …’
I didn’t go on. Even now, when I was a woman of property and experience and status and was myself nearing middle age, the memory of Aunt Tabitha’s birch was still bitter.
‘It would be a kindness to them,’ Dale ventured.
I smiled at her. Dale was her maiden name and out of habit I still called her that, but in my service she had met and married Roger Brockley and no one ever had more trustworthy and careful servants than those two. Though, for Dale, being my tirewoman had sometimes been a demanding post. I had on several occasions led her into danger and Dale didn’t like danger. She had pockmarks from a childhood attack of smallpox and when she was frightened they always seemed more noticeable. I had caused them to be noticeable rather too often and I regretted it.
However, they were not much in evidence now, and her slightly protuberant blue eyes were smiling back to me. I knew that she liked Withysham, and she approved of acts of kindness.
We were in the small parlour at Hawkswood House and looking together at the letter when Sybil Jester, my gentlewoman companion, came into the room. I held the letter up. ‘This is from my Aunt Tabitha at Faldene. She wants me to visit her.’
‘I saw the courier arrive,’ said Sybil. ‘I wondered who had sent him. Is your aunt in some kind of difficulty?’
‘It would be very unlike my Aunt Tabitha to send for me unless she was in trouble!’ I agreed with some asperity. ‘My uncle is unwell and I think she’s finding life wearisome. Admittedly, it doesn’t sound too serious.’
‘Shall you go?’ asked Sybil.
I hesitated and then made up my mind. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll go. Is the courier still here?’
‘In the kitchen, taking refreshment,’ said Sybil.
‘Ask Wilder to tell him to wait. I’ll write an answer for him to take back to Faldene. We’ll set off … let me see, I need a day to prepare. The day after tomorrow, I think.’
The next day was taken up by the preparations for a journey, with deciding what to take and who to take, as well. I had instantly accepted Dale’s hint that we might stay at Withysham, rather than with my uncle and aunt at Faldene. Withysham was only three miles from Faldene and if I based myself there, I could have Harry with me. I couldn’t very well take him to Faldene, since my uncle and aunt disapproved of his existence.
Sybil had met Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha and didn’t care for them. Therefore, I left Sybil in charge at Hawkswood, along with my tall, calm steward, Adam Wilder. Adam was the son of one of Hugh’s tenant farmers and had been at Hawkswood all his life. He had worked his way up from odd-job boy to steward, had married one of the maids, been widowed and had four children who were all out in service elsewhere. Hawkswood was his life and I could trust him completely.
Taking Harry of course meant taking his nursemaid, Tessie. A timid little thing when she first came to the house, Tessie had grown into a sensible and pretty young woman. Harry loved her, and I had lately noticed that the young groom Joseph was paying attention to her. It would be a suitable match and I wished to encourage it. I decided that Joseph should come, to help with the horses and continue courting Tessie.
I travelled, therefor
e, with Tessie, Harry, Dale and Brockley. Brockley rode his cob Mealy and I rode my black mare, Jewel, while the rest of the party went in our coach, with its team of four, and my elderly coachman, Arthur Watts, did the driving. I no longer used Arthur for long journeys because he was getting old and tired easily, but he knew the road to Withysham well, and if we set off early, we could get there by mid-afternoon.
We did this, and on arrival, we found that the Withysham steward, a competent middle-aged man called Robert Hanley, was well prepared for us.
‘I didn’t know if you would dine on the road, madam, and I have made preparations in case you did not. The squab pie only needs to be heated, and I have mutton chops ready to be fried. Hot water is ready so that you can all wash when you choose. I have had towels and facecloths placed in all your rooms in readiness, and a tray of wine in yours, madam.’ Hanley was an excellent man.
Hawkswood was my preferred home, but Withysham had been a gift from the queen, for my services as an agent, and I treasured it for that reason. Besides, although it was in some ways a shadowy place, with narrow windows and low ceilings and a feeling of austerity which probably came from its history as a women’s abbey, Dale was right about its tranquil atmosphere. It was restful.
However, I had little time to enjoy its atmosphere. Next morning, leaving Harry in Tessie’s charge, I took Dale and Brockley and with Dale perched behind Brockley on the cob, we set out for Faldene on horseback.
Faldene was an old house. Indeed, mine was an old family. My ancestors had lived there since before the Conquest and Faldene was not only the name of our home; it was also our surname. The house had undergone many changes through the years; indeed, through the centuries. It was still thatched, as it had always been, and its hall had the narrow, lance-headed windows of bygone days, but at some point, before I was born, it had acquired a gatehouse and a modern wing, with mullioned windows. The house had a beautiful position, on the side of a hill, with its fields spreading down the hillside into the valley below and a view of the downs to the south. I never saw it without thinking: I could have been so happy here as a girl. If only …
If only my uncle and aunt had been more gentle. They still kept the household sternly in order. As soon as we were through the gatehouse, grooms appeared at a run, and within moments, we were out of our saddles and the horses were being led away, while a butler – a new man that I hadn’t seen before – was leading us inside. He took us straight to the great hall, where we found my uncle and aunt playing cards.
The hall was as I remembered it; the rushes underfoot fresh and mixed with rosemary, the walnut panelling polished. I had never liked the one tapestry, which depicted the assassination of Julius Caesar in gruesome detail. I glanced at it once and then glanced away, repelled as always by the graphic portrayal of blood. My aunt and uncle presumably admired it.
My uncle stood up as the butler announced us, reaching for a walking stick that had been propped against the card table. Then he swore and sat down again. Aunt Tabitha left her seat and came to meet us. It was a long time since I had last seen her and she had aged. Her face was wrinkled now and her plain black gown hung loosely on a shrunken frame. Her hair, which had once been brown, was coiled into a net at the back and topped by a white cap but as far I could see, it was now entirely grey.
‘Aunt Tabitha. Uncle Herbert,’ I said formally, bobbing respectfully. So did Dale, while Brockley made a bow.
‘Sorry I can’t stand up for long,’ said my uncle gruffly. ‘Gout and bad joints.’ Unlike his wife, Uncle Herbert had put on weight. He always had been fleshy; now he was gross, with sagging, red-veined cheeks. His brown doublet looked as though his breakfast had splashed something on to it. There had once been a vague family resemblance between us, since his hair was black like mine and we had the same greenish hazel eyes, but little of that resemblance was now noticeable.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.
‘Refreshments, Alderton,’ Aunt Tabitha said sharply to the butler and I noticed that her dark, snapping eyes at least were unchanged. The butler vanished as if by magic and I knew that a maidservant with a tray would appear in his stead within a minute or two. My aunt looked at the Brockleys and said: ‘I see that you have your usual entourage, Ursula, and have brought them into my presence as if they were your kin, instead of sending them to the kitchens. You never did have a proper sense of what was fitting. Well, be seated, all of you, since that’s what I suppose you expect, niece.’
I had come in answer to an appeal from her, but she never could resist prodding me. I made no reply. Brockley and Dale tactfully took unassuming stools. I placed myself on a settle and said the appropriate things, asking after the health of my uncle and aunt, sympathizing with Uncle Herbert about his swollen joints, enquiring after my cousins. The firstborn, Francis, was in Norway, attached to the embassy there. ‘It’s a permanent position; he works with whoever is the ambassador,’ Aunt Tabitha said. He had a wife and a family but none of them had been back to England for years.
The second boy, Edward, had died long since and his widow had married again and gone to Gloucestershire, taking her two little girls with her. ‘We hear from them now and then. They are all well,’ said my aunt. Her own two daughters were also married and both lived some distance away. I learned that they too were in touch on occasion but rarely visited Faldene.
While all this was going on, the expected refreshments arrived, but Uncle Herbert picked up a cake, bit it, and then glared at the maidservant who brought them and barked: ‘These saffron cakes are yesterday’s. I know there was a fresh baking this morning; I smelt it. Take these away! Bring us something that’s still warm!’ The maidservant went pink and scuttled away. ‘What’s the matter with this house today?’ Uncle Herbert demanded, of the air.
It was actually a reasonable question, for as I sat there, making suitable conversation, I had noticed that after all, the house was not quite as orderly as usual. There was a sideboard in the hall, where there was a display of silver, but today there was a half-unrolled scroll of paper there as well, held open by a misplaced flagon, creating an oddly untidy effect. Somewhere, I could hear hurrying footsteps and a woman’s voice chivvying someone, and on a low table I had observed a big hamper, its lid thrown back, and what looked like clothes inside. Also, as the maidservant opened the door to leave, I saw a man hurry past with a second hamper in his arms.
‘Are you expecting to travel somewhere soon?’ I asked my aunt.
‘I’m not,’ said Uncle Herbert. ‘But she is, yes. A lot of women’s nonsense, that’s what I say.’
Aunt Tabitha took no notice of him. ‘I had a letter yesterday,’ she said. ‘From Marjorie Harrison. Is the name familiar to you?’
‘Well, yes, in a distant way,’ I said. ‘She’s connected to Master Lake – the man my ward, Kate Ferguson, has married.’
‘That’s right. Your ward has married Eric, has she? I didn’t know you knew him,’ said Aunt Tabitha. ‘Marjorie married one of Master Lake’s half-brothers. They’re much older than Eric is. His mother married twice and had Eric when she wasn’t far off fifty. I wonder it didn’t kill her,’ said my aunt with a sniff. ‘But to keep to the point, Marjorie is actually a very old friend of mine. I’ve known her since I was a girl. My parents followed the custom of sending their children to other households to learn social graces from people who wouldn’t indulge them as parents are apt to do. Not that I ever did. I was always firm with you children, as no doubt you recall.’
She had been much firmer with me than with her own offspring. Once more, however, I held my tongue.
‘When I was about twelve,’ said my aunt, ‘I was sent to a family called Dacre, near Leatherhead. You know Leatherhead, I suppose – it’s a small town in north Surrey.’ I nodded. ‘The Dacres had two little girls of their own,’ said Aunt Tabitha. ‘Marjorie and Catherine, both younger than I, but we made friends and have remained so. Catherine was the younger one and she was a good girl. Her parents arranged for h
er to wed a Hampshire gentleman, well off and with land, and she did as she was bid and it was a happy marriage, though there were no children. But Marjorie!’
Aunt Tabitha’s voice was full of exasperation. ‘Young people should be guided by their elders!’ This was an intentional dig at my outrageous theft of my cousin Mary’s betrothed. Yet again, I replied with silence. Disappointed of a reaction, Aunt Tabitha continued.
‘Marjorie fell in love – love! Sentimental nonsense! The man she fell in love with was George Harrison, one of your Master Lake’s half-brothers. He didn’t come from a family of any standing – they were smallholders and poor ones at that – the kind of people whose corn gets wheat rust and their poultry and pigs are forever getting diseases too. George didn’t choose to stay there once he was grown up. He said his younger brother Edmund was welcome to the family holding and with that, George went out into the world to make his way, which one could respect, except that instead of seeking a post in a worthy house, where he might hope to earn well and acquire savings or even gifts of land in due course, he went and apprenticed himself to the furrier’s trade!’
Aunt Tabitha paused here to draw breath and also to snort in disapproval. ‘Still, it might have turned out well,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But when his apprenticeship was finished, instead of allying himself to a successful business and hoping for a partnership one day, he must needs strike out on his own. Foolishness! He started a business in Guildford, buying pelts and fashioning them into cloaks and coverlets and rugs! But he had no capital, so he couldn’t buy the best pelts and he didn’t do well.’
Again, a pause, this time to make tch noises. To encourage the narrative further, I said: ‘But Marjorie married him?’
A Deadly Betrothal Page 2