‘Then perhaps you will tell me first who you are, and secondly how it comes to pass that although my man of business told me that there was a bailiff, he has absented himself.’
The man looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Mayhap I will, if’n you’ll tell me by what right you’re axin’ me these questions,’ he responded, in a reasonable tone.
Max had walked up to the door, prepared to act the part of haughty aristocrat to whoever had admitted him. His unconventional welcome had completely taken the wind out of his sails and he could feel his ready sense of humour rising to the surface. It was all that he could do to stop himself from erupting into gales of laughter in front of them all, and he was obliged to turn away to hide his expression.
‘My good man—’ Barnes began, in outraged tones.
Max silenced him with a gesture, without turning round. ‘Leave be,’ he said. ‘It’s a fair enough question. I might be anybody; I happen to be Haslingfield.’
The man’s eyes widened. ‘Him what owns this place?’
‘The same,’ Max answered, turning, the ghost of a smile remaining on his lips. ‘And who would I be addressing?’
‘Davis, sir,’ said the man, belatedly knuckling his forehead.
‘Then, Davis, perhaps you might tell me who there is available to attend Barnes and see to the disposal of my luggage,’ said Max, indicating the various trunks and boxes just inside the door.
‘Just me, Y’r Honour. And little Jilly.’
‘The one who shrieked and then ran off?
‘Ay, that’s her.’
‘What is her role here?
‘I’m her granfer. I keep an eye on her for her mother.’
‘And I take it that you are the caretaker?’ Max asked, fascinated.
‘I was the odd-job man. After the last owner died, all the indoor staff was laid off. Mr Snelson stayed on to look after the estate and Mr Kilver tends the horses.’
‘And Mr Snelson is.?’
‘The bailiff, sir. Kilver’s the head groom.’
‘Barnes, take a look upstairs and assign us some quarters. Davis, you can show us into one of the downstairs rooms. We’ve stood about in the hall for quite long enough.’
‘You’d best come this way then, sir.’ Davis led Max and Abdas into a drawing room, which, by its higher ceiling and plastered walls, was clearly of a later date than the hall that they had just left. The furniture was covered with dust sheets, and the curtains and carpet showed signs of wear.
None of these things concerned Max, however, for from the window he caught a glimpse of a most welcome sight. ‘Look, Abdas,’ he exclaimed, forgetting his role as he hurried to the window. ‘The sea!’
‘Ay, well that’s natural at the coast,’ remarked Davis laconically.
Max opened his mouth to declare that for a sailor like himself, the view from the window was indeed a sight for sore eyes, when he remembered the part that he was supposed to be playing.
‘Doubtless,’ he murmured, turning his back on the view, and taking his place by the mantelpiece, with one foot on the fender.
‘Now tell me about the bailiff.’
‘Bailiff ain’t here, sir.’
‘Yes, so you’ve already told me,’ said Max, rapidly becoming exasperated. ‘Where is he, man?’
‘Gone to visit his relations, sir. “I’ve put everything in order on the estate and the farm,” says he. “Ain’t nobody expected.”’
Max turned to look at Abdas. ‘So no letter was received from London,’ he remarked, with perfect truth. He turned back to Davis. ‘I’ll need you to show us round the house presently. For now, go and give Barnes what assistance you can.’
After Davis had gone, Max said to Abdas, ‘The skeleton staff which we were promised in London seems to be even more skeletal than I had anticipated. It seems like you’re going to be very busy, my friend. What job do you fancy? Housekeeper? Cook? Remind me to keep a careful tally of my expenditure, so that I can present Alistair with a bill!’
‘I’ll take a look at the kitchens,’ said Abdas, grinning, as he crossed to the door. ‘None of us can live if we don’t eat.’
‘Send Davis to procure eggs, milk and bread from a local farm. For now, we can take most of our meals at a nearby inn.’
Left alone, Max walked over to the window again, and looked out towards the sea. He heaved a sigh. The sun was shining, and the water looked blue and inviting, although he knew that the North Sea would be exceedingly cold, even in summer. What he wouldn’t give to take a boat out on the sea today, and leave all this imbroglio behind! At least he had ample funds to draw upon to provide the service that he required for the present. Promising himself a trip out on the water as soon as he could manage it, he wandered out to the hall, to encounter his valet coming down the stairs.
‘Well, Barnes, there’s no bailiff, and no indoor servants to speak of, save an elderly man and a small child who has yet to say a comprehensible word. We’re on our own.’
‘It’s not what we expected, Your Grace,’ was the reply.
‘We’ve both coped with worse – haven’t we?’ Max responded, raising a quizzical eyebrow as he looked at the servant.
Barnes permitted himself a small smile. ‘Perhaps. I am exceedingly perturbed at the way things have turned out. Plans have been made very carelessly, in my opinion.’
‘Look at it this way: the less people around, the less people there are to see.’
‘There is that, Your Grace.’
‘Come on then, Barnesy,’ said Max, clapping the manservant on the back, and making him wince as much from the inappropriateness of the words and gesture as from any discomfort caused. ‘Show me where I am to sleep.’
Chapter Ten
Mr Fellowes’s great love, apart from his books, was his garden. As the day was fine, the ladies were not at all surprised on their return to find him outside, tending his roses. He looked up at the sound of the gig, and smiled broadly from under the wide brim of his country hat. ‘I thought you were intending to come home yesterday,’ he remarked, straightening, and wiping his hands on his coarse apron.
Miss Fellowes explained about Constance’s headache. ‘I hope you weren’t worried,’ she said. ‘There was no way of letting you know.’
‘As long as she’s well now,’ he replied, looking up at his niece from beneath a pair of shaggy grey brows.
‘Very well, thank you, Uncle,’ Miss Church answered with a twinkle.
‘I’m glad you’re better. How was the visit?’
‘It was delightful,’ Miss Fellowes answered him. ‘No, pray don’t help me down with those grimy hands. I shall manage very well on my own.’
‘Why don’t you both get down?’ he suggested. ‘I’ll take the gig round to Beacon Tower.’ The house in which they lived was about fifty years old. Named The Brambles after the prolific blackberry bushes which bordered part of the orchard, it nestled comfortably in a hollow just above the village of West Runton. It was known locally as a cottage, even though it had a book room, two dining rooms of different sizes, three parlours and a spacious kitchen, with plenty of bedrooms for the family as well as guests. A lack of stables was its weakness, so as a consequence, Mr Fellowes had an arrangement with the head groom at Beacon Tower, to stable his gig and his horse there. Apart from Mr Snelson’s mount, Kilver only had the horses from the home farm to tend, and he was more than happy to keep an eye on Patch.
‘Certainly not,’ said Miss Fellowes indignantly. ‘I will not have you going out in public in all your dirt. You look like a vagrant. Constance will not mind driving that little extra way, will you, my dear?’
‘Not at all,’ Constance answered cheerfully, as her uncle lifted their baggage down from the back of the gig. ‘I shall be glad of the walk back.’
She tooled the gig the short distance to Beacon Tower, allowing Patch to set his own pace, since they were travelling uphill. He hardly needed directing. ‘Glad to be going back to your stable, old fellow?’ she said affect
ionately. Patch nodded, snorting gently as if in agreement.
Constance much preferred this version of the journey: driving up the hill and walking down it. It was not that she was lazy, or disliked the walk, it was simply that on the return journey, she would have the benefit of the sea view.
Although she had not grown up close to the sea, she would have been the first to admit that she would now find it a wrench to live away from it. She looked up at Beacon Tower. On one occasion, she had been privileged to climb the structure which gave the house its name. The window in the room at the top offered a fine view of the sea. She could well imagine that if she were a child, she would be up there playing games of being on board ship, and keeping watch from the crow’s nest. She smiled. It had been some years since it had been a family home, from all she had heard.
She guided Patch around to the stables, and was surprised to find it much busier than she had ever known it to be. A number of the stalls that had previously been empty were now occupied. There was more equipment about, and the whole area gave the unmistakable impression of being more populated. Naturally there was no sign of Colin Snelson’s horse; she knew him to be on his way to Cambridge, and was conscious of a feeling of relief. Perhaps he would have forgotten that stupid piece of encouragement that she had given him by the time he returned.
At the sound of her arrival, a man of late middle years with a compact build and grizzled hair came out of one of the buildings. ‘I thought that was the sound of your gig, Miss Church,’ he said, going to Patch’s head.
‘Good day, Kilver,’ said Constance, climbing down. ‘You are busier than usual, I see. Would you rather I drove on to the New Inn?’ This hostelry was in Cromer. It was from there that Mr Fellowes had sometimes hired a travelling carriage.
‘No need of that, miss,’ Kilver responded. ‘There’s room enough for Patch and your little gig.’
‘Thank you. What’s the cause of all this unexpected activity? To whom does all this’ – she waved her hand in the direction of the additional livestock – ‘belong?’
‘The owner, miss.’
‘Baron Runton? So someone has inherited?’
‘Aye, miss; and turned up here and thrown everything into sixes and sevens.’
Constance looked around her. ‘Everything seems organized to your usually high standard,’ she remarked truthfully.
‘Aye, we’re all right over here,’ he agreed. ‘I meant up at the house. Nobody had any notice of his arrival, see, although apparently some was sent. And what with Mr Snelson going off to see his relatives, there’s no one to see to his requirements, ‘cept old Davis.’
‘When did the baron arrive?’
‘Just yesterday, miss, with his few servants, and two carriages and more horses arrived this morning. I don’t think he’s a baron, though.’
‘No, I don’t think he is, either,’ her uncle agreed, after she told him about her conversation with Beacon Tower’s head groom.
‘Probably he didn’t inherit in the direct line,’ she surmised.
Fellowes nodded. ‘Although I seem to recall that he does have a title. I’ll go and pay him a visit.’
‘As tomorrow’s Sunday, we may well see him at church,’ his niece replied.
The fine weather which had favoured Miss Church and Miss Fellowes on their journey broke overnight, and they were obliged to don all-enveloping cloaks, calash bonnets and stout shoes to protect themselves as they walked to church the next day. Not for the first time, Miss Fellowes bemoaned the fact that they did not keep a closed carriage at home. ‘For,’ she said, ‘we would be protected from this tiresome rain.’
‘And be put to the expense of maintaining a stable, which for the majority of the time we do not need at all,’ answered her brother from beneath the broad brim of his hat.
The rain was steady but light and, as they were all seasoned walkers, they accomplished the short journey to Runton parish church within a very short space of time. A regrettable delay occurred at the church gate where a carriage was setting down its passenger, over whom a servant was carefully holding an umbrella. Other than barging past, there was no alternative but to wait whilst this party made a stately progress down the church path. Fortunately, the delay was slight, and they were soon inside being relieved of their cloaks and calashes by the sidesman, who hung them up to dry. By then, the individuals who had delayed them had taken their places.
Mr and Miss Fellowes and their niece were well known in the neighbourhood, and they acknowledged a number of polite inclinations of the head as they walked to their places. Although they did not rent a pew of their own, they were accustomed to sitting in much the same place each week, towards the front on the right, just behind the seats occupied by the vicarage party.
Hearing their footsteps, Miss Matilda Mawsby, the vicar’s daughter, turned her head to greet Miss Church. The two ladies were much of an age, and were sometimes thrust into one another’s company, although Constance sometimes found Matilda to be a little narrow-minded, and rather inclined to gossip.
They only had time to exchange a few words before Mr Mawsby made his entrance, and the service began. It was not until after the opening responses and prayers had been concluded, therefore, that Constance realized that the pew which belonged to the master of Beacon Tower was now occupied by two gentlemen. Unfortunately, that was as much as she could detect, the position of the seat that she occupied ensuring that she could not get a proper look at the newcomer without craning her neck in a vulgar and unbecoming manner.
The service proceeded along the usual lines, Mr Mawsby delivering a sermon which did not hold much of Constance’s attention since she could remember having heard it at least twice before. Instead, she went over in her mind the journey so recently undertaken, and the different events that had punctuated it. She found herself thinking about the moment when she had stood at the window of their friend’s house in Diss, and caught a glimpse of the swarthy buccaneer with flowing dark curls, who had blown her a kiss. Was it just her imagination that painted him as being rather handsome? Pretty pink and white china misses were probably greeted in such a way every day of the week. No doubt it was because such experiences seldom came her way that she was dwelling upon it in this manner. In church, too! Such inappropriate behaviour, she scolded herself crossly. This was not the first time that she had reproved herself over this matter. Why could she not get him out of her mind? She turned her thoughts back to the service, only to discover that it was nearly over.
Mr Mawsby delivered the blessing, and walked down the aisle in order to say a word of greeting to each member of the congregation as they left. In keeping with accepted practice, the occupants of the Beacon Tower pew left first, whilst the congregation took the opportunity to have a closer look.
Constance was unable to see them properly until they were almost upon her. Then she gasped involuntarily, for the man in front was one whom she recognized immediately, and had hoped never to see again. He was walking down the aisle with a measured tread, his carriage athletic rather than graceful, his gaze fixed straight ahead of him. He was even wearing the same violet striped silk coat that he had had on when she had first seen him. Almost as if he had heard her swift intake of breath, his eyes flickered briefly towards her as he walked past. Even so, he neither acknowledged her presence nor checked his pace. Just behind him walked his black servant, dressed in a dark-green coat and tan breeches, with a snowy white wig on his head.
For perhaps five seconds, she managed to resist turning round. Then, as she looked back, she caught a glimpse of his servant helping him on with his coat.
Swiftly she turned to her aunt, who had been sitting furthest from the aisle. ‘Did you see him?’ she asked ‘The dandy-brute duke!’
‘Hush,’ answered her aunt, glancing about her to see if anyone had overheard. ‘No, I did not. Was it indeed he?’
‘Yes it was; and looking just as arrogant as usual. And he had his slave dancing attendance upon him.’
&nb
sp; ‘Forgive me for interrupting,’ said Miss Mawsby in rather sharp, inquisitive tones. ‘Are you speaking of the new owner of Beacon Tower? I could not help overhearing. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.’
‘Of course not,’ Miss Fellowes answered, directing another accusatory glance at Constance, with whom she had had cause to remonstrate upon more than one occasion for her forthright remarks. ‘We did meet the gentleman as we travelled back from visiting our friends recently.’
Constance snorted. ‘Gentleman!’ she exclaimed scornfully, as her aunt turned to speak to someone who had attracted her attention from the pew behind. ‘He is one of the most arrogant men whom I have ever met. I am sorry that he is living so close for I have no desire to resume my acquaintance with him.’
‘Oh dear, that is very unfortunate,’ said Miss Mawsby, the gleam in her eye at variance with the sentiment that she was expressing. ‘He is intending to consult Papa about employing servants from the village.’
Constance made a face. ‘They had better be thick-skinned,’ she said frankly. ‘From what I have seen, he is an unreasonable employer, and I’m afraid that he even keeps a slave.’
The vicar’s wife had been exchanging remarks with a parishioner; now, she joined her daughter and Constance. ‘Who keeps a slave?’ she asked.
‘The new owner of Beacon Tower, Mama,’ said Miss Mawsby.
Mrs Mawsby’s face grew rigid with disapproval. ‘I must inform Peter,’ she said. ‘He will not want to recommend anyone to work for such a person.’
After this, the vicar’s wife’s attention was claimed by someone else. Constance and her aunt were eagerly greeted by other members of the congregation who had missed them during their absence, and it took them long enough to reach the door. By the time they had done so, the duke had left.
The rain had exhausted itself during the church service, and a rather weak sun was now struggling to shine between the clouds, so the congregation was glad to stand and chat for a little. Constance glanced towards the church door, and observed Miss Mawsby talking earnestly to one or two ladies. The tale of the duke’s brutality and his slave-owning propensities would no doubt soon be bruited about the village. For a brief moment she felt guilty, until she recalled the haughty aristocrat’s behaviour. Serve him right, she said to herself stoutly, before tucking her hand into her uncle’s left arm, whilst her aunt took his right.
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