‘I’m Mistress Stannard!’ I said. ‘I’ve visited Mistress Harrison before.’ I was cold all through and Dale was shivering. ‘We’ve been caught in the downpour – we were nearby so we came here to ask shelter.’
‘Who is it, Mary?’ Marjorie had appeared behind the maid. She stared for a moment, and no doubt, in my saturated cloak and hat, with water streaming down my face and a strand of soaking hair plastered to one cheek, I was scarcely recognizable. I started to repeat my introduction. Halfway through, Marjorie’s face cleared.
‘Of course, of course! Mistress Stannard … Oh, you poor things, come in, come in! Is that your man out there? Call to him to go round to the stables; he’ll remember the way, won’t he?’
We were made welcome at astonishing speed. Brockley vanished with the horses to see them stabled; I knew that within minutes he and Marjorie’s own groom would be wiping them down with handfuls of hay and straw and finding cloths to put over their backs. Marjorie looked tired and harried, but she was brisk about leading us indoors. She had apparently been working with Mary in the kitchen when we arrived, for she had an apron on, over a dun-coloured working dress, and wasn’t wearing a ruff.
Dale and I were taken straight to the kitchen, where there was a fire, the only one in the house. Our wet cloaks and hats were taken away and towels were found so that we could dry our faces. Marjorie herself set about preparing mulled wine and at her orders, Mary took a pot of hot water off the trivet over the fire. ‘We heated that to boil a cabbage, but I expect your man will want it now,’ Marjorie said.
She was quite right. As we thankfully sipped the wine, Brockley came to the back door. He had a horse blanket thrown over his head and was carrying his own wet cloak and hat. ‘Can I leave these here to dry? Is there any hot water? The horses need bran mash!’
‘Water’s ready,’ said Marjorie, presenting him with the pot, along with a cloth to protect his hands from scorching. ‘Blessed forethought,’ said Brockley, and departed, carrying it. Outside, the rain continued to pour down and there was a rumble of thunder.
‘What terrible weather,’ Marjorie said. ‘Well, you’re in time for dinner as it happens; I have a meat pie in my oven and some beans ready to fry, and there will be sweet pancakes with quince preserves to follow. Mary, put on more water for the cabbage and then prepare some extra beans.’
The kitchen door opened, to admit George with another, younger man. ‘We heard someone arriving.’ George said, glancing at me and Dale without apparently recognizing us. ‘They’ll be dining, I suppose,’ he said to Marjorie. ‘They can’t ride on in this. Why isn’t the table being set in the dining room? Surely we’re not going to eat in here? It’s hardly the proper thing when we have visitors.’
George had very much the air of the master of the house and I saw Marjorie bristle. He sat down on one of the stools that encircled the kitchen table. His companion patted his shoulder and said: ‘Well, we eat here quite happily when it’s just family. Our guests probably find the fire welcome. We heard you ask for shelter,’ he added, speaking to me directly. ‘You must have been drenched.’
‘We were,’ I said. ‘And yes, we’re glad of warmth. We don’t mind eating here.’
‘Just who are our guests?’ George enquired.
‘This is Mistress Ursula Stannard and her woman, Frances Brockley,’ said Marjorie over her shoulder, while she busied herself with cutting up a cabbage and Mary shook white beans into a pan of hot fat. ‘You have met Mistress Stannard before. That’ll be enough, Mary. Put some salt with them. Their groom, Brockley, is out in the stable now; he’ll want some food as well. And my dear, I really do think we should eat here in the kitchen where it’s warm. It’s amazing, how cold that storm has made the air, all of a sudden.’
‘Mistress Stannard. Of course. I didn’t know you at first. You look so bedraggled,’ said George with tactless candour. He turned to his companion. ‘Mistress Stannard is related to your mother’s friend Mistress Tabitha Faldene. And a former ward of hers is now married to your Uncle Eric. The society of Surrey resembles knitting.’
‘After a kitten has played with the wool?’ said the younger man dryly. He wasn’t so very young; I estimated his age as the mid-thirties. ‘I am happy to meet you, Mistress Stannard. I am Robert, the son of the house. I live in France normally but I came over when I heard of my Uncle Edmund’s death. I’ve stayed on for a while, as there has been much to do.’
‘The news was sent to me and George the day it happened,’ said Marjorie. ‘George sent off a messenger to France at once and Robert was here in time for the funeral.’
‘Both the messenger and I were lucky with getting passages across the Channel,’ said Robert. ‘Such a sad business, Uncle Edmund’s death.’
He offered his hand and I shook it. I looked at him with interest. So this was Robert, the son who had been so long out of touch with his mother and had helped to saddle her with his father. He didn’t look much like either of his parents except that he had the light brown eyes and sensual mouth that seemed to be characteristic of the Harrison males. The person he resembled most, I thought, was his now deceased uncle, Edmund. He had the same thickset build and his hair, which curled as Edmund’s had done, was sandy.
Like his father and his uncle, he clearly had a taste for good clothes, and his were quite new. George was in the same smart, if not new, outfit that he had worn the first time we met but there were no repairs or scuffings to be seen on Robert’s lightweight summer doublet. It was of a rich blue with silvery slashes on its sleeves and looked as though it had silk in its weave. Its big buttons were surely lapis set in silver. Each glowing blue stone had a little motif carved into it. His hose was blue and silver and his leather shoes had been dyed to match the doublet. I glanced at Marjorie in her dull dun gown, and wondered at the contrast.
Dale was still shivering, however, and I myself mulled some more wine for her. It seemed that the maid Mary was Marjorie’s only servant. I began to dislike the male Harrisons. They were anxious enough to wear showy clothes but neither had thought to provide Marjorie with more help in the house now that she had two men to look after.
Brockley reappeared before long, accompanied by Marjorie’s groom, both of them swathed in horse blankets, which they removed and hung round the fire to dry. It seemed that the whole household normally ate together. Both Marjorie and Mary were constantly up and down, handing dishes round. The dinner was good, though, and blessedly warming. To make polite conversation, I asked Robert about his work abroad and gathered that he served as an assistant to a successful wine grower.
‘A Huguenot. They weren’t all killed in the Massacre of St Bartholomew and there is more tolerance now in France. I seek out customers and help with the grape harvest too,’ he said, and smiled at my obvious surprise. ‘Yes, I know, I am something of a dandy, am I not? But I can roll up my sleeves and go out to the vineyards with a wooden pail and scratch my hands on tough vines with the best of them. I hope this storm isn’t raging in France as well and afflicting our grapes!’ The downpour was still heavy and he had to raise his voice to be heard above the sound of thunder. ‘I enjoy winemaking,’ he said. ‘It’s an intriguing process.’
‘I believe there is a great deal to it,’ I said politely. ‘More perhaps than most people realize.’
‘Yes, indeed. Since I have been obliged to come to England, I shall take the opportunity of calling on some of our English customers, hoping that they will renew their orders. Then I must go back for this year’s harvest, though it won’t begin till well into September. Meanwhile, of course, I must help as much as I can with the aftermath of my uncle’s death.’
‘There is much to do,’ said George. ‘The property in Cornwall has to be handed over to Master Lake, there are decisions to be taken and documents to be signed and personal belongings to distribute or dispose of. Though I have no doubt,’ he added dryly, ‘that you will, as you say, go wandering off to see your employer’s English customers, Robert.’
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br /> ‘My employer would be annoyed if I didn’t,’ said Robert. ‘It’s important to him to run a profitable business. I agree with him.’ He grinned. ‘You could say that we are always on the side of the angels, whether winged or golden.’
He had a curiously feral grin; presenting one with a fine display of teeth, right back to the molars. He made me uneasy in a way I couldn’t quite explain. It was an atmosphere, an aura. I recognized it, because Walsingham had a similar one. It suggested an underlying harshness, even ruthlessness. I laughed at his jest, however, and the grin softened into a smile, this time without exposing his back teeth. Whereupon, I unexpectedly became even more uneasy. I tried to push the feeling away but then I met his eyes, and was startled to read in them something I certainly did not want to see. I hoped I was imagining things.
A moment later, he confirmed that I was not. Turning to Marjorie, he said: ‘Mother, I find it a great pleasure to be with you again after so long, but I am doubly happy to find you have such a charming and beautiful acquaintance.’
He then turned back to me and said: ‘I hope you will not mind the compliment, Mistress Stannard? Mother has talked of you and told me how kind you are, and what pleasant company. What she has said, has impressed me very much. I am delighted to have met you myself and had speech with you.’
And now the timbre of his voice echoed the expression in his eyes. I had heard and seen them both in the past, in other voices, in other eyes, and I could not mistake them. I was, after all, a widow, still (just) of childbearing years and with property. I lived in a practical world and since Hugh’s death, I had had to fend off several unwanted advances. Here, I foresaw the danger of another. The man was younger than me, but that would be no hindrance, not with the example currently being set by the queen. Silently, I cursed.
‘I thank you, sir,’ I said, aware that Dale was now gazing out of the window at the front garden with its hollyhocks and foxgloves and its faded larkspur as fixedly as though a camelopard were straying there, while Brockley’s face had frozen. I said: ‘The thunder is passing.’
It was still raining, though. I longed to get away but Dale had sneezed three times and I didn’t want to drag her back into the wet. We would have to wait.
And wait we did, all through the afternoon, passing the time with games of backgammon and listening as Marjorie played a spinet, probably the one that her sister had left her. The groom went back to the stables but Brockley stayed with us and I was glad to have him as a partner at the backgammon board, since it kept me away from Robert Harrison, who partnered his father. I gathered anyway that they were both skilled players, which I was not. I found backgammon a complicated game and Brockley seemed to feel the same.
Eventually, the sky cleared but Dale sneezed again and looked exhausted and Brockley said: ‘I think Fran shouldn’t have to ride on too far today, madam. I don’t think we should try to reach Hawkswood tonight.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Marjorie looked worried. ‘I would give you beds, only, with Robert staying …’
And with George presumably still occupying one of the spare rooms – somehow, because there were nuances in the way they spoke to each other, I was fairly sure that Marjorie had kept to her original decision and not let him into hers – there wouldn’t be enough space for us. Thank goodness for that. I need not spend any longer under the same roof as Robert. ‘We’ll go to the Running Horse,’ I said.
The Running Horse, fortunately, had rooms for us, and the stables had stalls for our animals. We had a late supper there and retired thankfully to comfortable beds. But in the morning, I answered a knock on my bedchamber door and found Brockley there, looking anxious.
‘Madam, it’s Fran. She’s not at all well. I fear she got a chill yesterday when we were caught in the rain. She has a bad throat and I think she’s feverish. I recommend that we go no further today.’
‘Let me see her,’ I said.
One look was enough. ‘Stay in bed, Dale,’ I told her. ‘We’ll stay here till you’re better.’
Poor Dale was somewhat prone to illnesses of this kind. I had seen it all before, but I always felt concerned about her. The innkeeper and his wife were helpful, supplying hot herbal drinks and mulled wine and soft foods like porridge, and bread soaked in milk and honey, which an invalid with a bad sore throat could swallow easily.
The next day, mercifully, the cold broke. The bad throat got better, although Dale continued to sneeze violently and had to blow her nose so much that I had to go out into Leatherhead to buy extra handkerchiefs. It was three days before her fever abated and five altogether before she could leave her bed. It was nearly a week before she was able once more to mount behind Brockley and ride on to Hawkswood.
We were all thankful to be home. As soon as we were off our horses, I told Dale to go to her bed.
‘I’ve been dressing myself for days,’ I said when she protested. ‘I can go on doing it.’ At the Running Horse, one of the maids had helped me with difficult fastenings and here at home there was no shortage of maidservants. Dale departed, looking relieved, the groom Joseph and Simon, another of my grooms, came to see to our horses, and Brockley, having heaved the saddlebags off, carried them indoors. I followed, going in through the door that led directly to the great hall. In the doorway, I came face to face with my steward Adam Wilder, looking harassed.
‘Madam! My apologies – I was occupied and didn’t realize you had ridden in, or I would have come out to you at once …’
‘What is it, Wilder? Is something wrong?’
‘Well, yes, madam, in a way. Oh, not something wrong here but … well …’
‘Wilder, what are you havering about? Tell me!’
‘Master Lake, Mistress Kate’s husband, is here and …’
But I had already seen him, for Eric had appeared behind him. He still looked like a pagan god, but now he was a worried god, with a creased brow and unhappy eyes. ‘I came to tell you – Kate sent me to tell you—’
‘Is Kate all right?’ I jumped to the wrong conclusion. ‘Is it the baby? Has something gone amiss?’
‘No, no, Kate is perfectly well. But Mistress Lisa Harrison has been to see us … she is frantic. It’s her son, Thomas. It seems,’ said Eric in a bewildered tone, ‘that Thomas has … has … well, he’s disappeared.’
ELEVEN
The Only Possible Place
‘We can’t discuss this in the doorway,’ I said and steered us all into the hall, where I found Sybil and Gladys both with anxious faces. Brockley joined us and I gathered us all round.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘what is all this?’
‘Lisa came to West Leys to see us yesterday,’ said Eric. ‘Distraught! It happened two days before, it seems. It …’
‘Is Lisa still at West Leys?’
‘No, she has gone home again. She didn’t want to be away for long, in case Thomas was found, or came home, or … only she wanted to let us know and ask for help. I couldn’t offer much. There has already been a thorough search. But I thought of you and she agreed. You have a reputation, you know. Kate said yes, surely you would try to help, and sent me here to find you. To find that you were not at home! You have arrived at just the right moment, thank heaven.’
‘I see.’
We had all sat down by this time, except for Eric, who kept pacing about. ‘Just what happened?’ I asked.
‘Lisa said it was just an ordinary day,’ Eric said. ‘You know she is living at Firtrees again – she went back after Edmund died. George is the owner now but he is letting her stay, to look after the place. It’s convenient, he says, whatever may have happened in the past.’
‘Yes, I know about that. Let him who is without sin, cast the first stone. Go on.’
Eric, typically, failed to grasp the oblique reference to the misdemeanours of George and looked puzzled. However, he didn’t pursue the matter. ‘Have you ever been to Firtrees?’
‘No, I haven’t. Go on! And Eric, please sit down.’
Reluctantly,
he did. ‘It’s a bit to the south of here,’ he said. ‘It’s a quiet place. The nearest farmhouse, Badgers, is about a mile away. Their fields and the Firtrees ones are in between. Firtrees also has a wood of pines and silver firs that provide timber and oils. The house is about the same size as ours at West Leys. There are gardens, flower and kitchen, at the back and a stable yard alongside, a gate at the rear and a small courtyard in the front, and a wall that encloses it all. There’s a little gatehouse but no porter. Lisa keeps the front gate open all day though it’s bolted at night. There’s an apple tree in the courtyard.’
‘Yes? And?’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m trying to give you all the details, as Lisa gave them to me. I know the place, so I can picture it all, but you can’t do that. It was in the morning. Thomas went out to look at the apple tree, to see what kind of crop it was likely to produce this year. Lisa was in her parlour and could see him from the window. She saw him looking at the tree and then he turned towards the gatehouse as though he had heard something – someone calling him, perhaps, because he suddenly ran outside into the lane. Lisa couldn’t see who might be calling, but he’s friendly with the two boys from Badgers and she thought they might have come to see him. She thought no more of it for an hour or so – she had this and that to do and was busy – but when the twins’ tutor arrived to start their lessons for the day, Thomas couldn’t be found.’
My senior maid, Phoebe, came in just then, bringing wine and ale. I poured for everyone and Eric gulped half a beaker of ale straightaway, as though he were in desperate need of a stimulant.
‘It seems that Jane was already in the schoolroom with her books,’ he explained. ‘Jane likes her studies. But Thomas doesn’t and as there was no sign of him, Lisa thought he was just playing some boyish game. He’s been known to hide when it’s time for lessons. She thought he might have come back into the grounds and gone to the stables – he’s often there – but he hadn’t. She asked the grooms to help find him. They searched the tack room, the hayloft, the grain store and a garden shed that Thomas finds interesting – it’s where shears and spades and ladders are kept, and a wheelbarrow and trugs and other oddments. But there was still no trace of him.’
A Deadly Betrothal Page 9