by Joan Vincent
“We are unacquainted with his lordship, but his welcome might prove more Christian,” the baroness returned, her voice cold and hard.
Contrition at once washed over the firmly built face. “My humble apologies once more, my ladies. I did not mean to be brusque. The times have bred a disagreeable caution.
You are most welcome in our home, but I feel honour bound to add that your staying with us will probably not increase your welcome at Lord Pergrine’s.”
“The little we have heard of his lordship does not incline us to value his opinion. Am I not correct, sisters?” Lady Brienne asked.
Both nodded in agreement.
A weary smile came to the minister’s face. “Would my eldest, Sarita, have anything to do with your estimation?”
“We found your daughter most pleasant, and I daresay truthful in most matters,” the baroness noted.
“I did not mean to imply the contrary,” Reverend Durham returned with a wry smile. He straightened from his tired, slumped stance. “She is merely opinionated and rightfully so, I fear.”
“John, you are exhausted.” Mrs. Durham fluttered to his side. “Please sit and have a cup of tea. Sarita is—seeing to supper, I suppose,” she ended, frowning quizzically.
“Yes, Reverend Durham, don’t stand on our account. We place little value on formality,” Lady Phillippa urged him while motioning to a chair near her own.
“Has your fatigue to do with Lord Pergrine?” Lady Brienne questioned, giving him her full attention.
Sitting with welcome relief, Reverend Durham slowly sipped at the refreshing tea, before he answered. “There have been long-standing problems in our area, but until late they were of tolerable proportions.” Creases of concern hardened the lines about his eyes. “These past few years Lord Pergrine has raised his rents but has refused to make repairs or allow funds for new equipment and other necessary improvements. As a result, the ill will which already existed has fermented.” Anger appeared in the calm, brown eyes.
“Six months ago his lordship had an honest man, who was well-liked and respected, whipped and sent to gaol for poaching. Tempers exploded. Matters worsened when he had the man’s wife and children removed from their cottage—a mere hovel. The men of the area swarmed like angry hornets to Pergrine Manor, but his lordship was ready for them with a crew of hired brigands. Luckily no one was killed in the fray.
“Since then there has been an incident each month. Lord Pergrine keeps his hold with the use of his ruffians. Three men have died—murdered for no known reason.”
“Three? But there have only been two . . ..” Deborah’s voice trailed off as comprehension dawned. “Who?” she breathed.
“Old Taylor.”
“But who would want to harm that kind old man?”
“I don’t know. But the deed has been done. If you ladies will excuse me,” Reverend Durham rose tiredly. “I must prepare something for the service on the morrow.”
“You believe Lord Pergrine is involved in these deaths?” Lady Brienne asked speculatively.
The minister shook his head. “I do not know, my lady, but something must be done.” He rubbed his brow, then bowed. “I shall see you at supper.”
* * * *
“It was very thoughtful of Miss Durham to have Josh and that young Mr. Traunt fetch our portmanteaux from the coach,” Lady Imogene noted as the three sisters gathered in Lady Brienne’s chamber after having excused themselves for the evening.
They had been given a set of three interconnecting bedchambers on the west side of the rectory’s upper storey, between Sarita and Deborah’s shared chamber in the tower at the front and Reverend and Mrs. Durham’s at the rear of the manor house.
“Did you notice how exhausted Miss Sarita looked at supper?” Lady Phillippa plopped down on the baroness’s bed. “One would have thought she had readied our rooms and cooked supper, too.”
“I thought it a trifle odd that there was no one to serve supper other than the daughters,” said Lady Imogene, joining the marchioness on the bed. “But it was a most succulent stew. I have never tasted better. ‘Twas odd, though. As delicious as the stew was, I could not quite decide on the meat. A distinctive flavour. What did you think of it, Brienne?”
The baroness turned from the dressing table’s looking glass to face the bed. “It was—edible.”
“Pon my soul, my lady, is that why you had third portions,” teased Lady Phillippa with a gentle laugh. “It was good to see you with such a hearty appetite, Brenny,” she said, quite serious.
“I was uncommonly hungry. The walk, I imagine. But come, let us turn our minds to more serious matters than supper’s fare. Have there not been many suspicious, nay, mysterious occurrences hinted?”
“Oh, Brienne, are we going to stay?” Lady Imogene clapped her plump hands in delighted anticipation. “I had so hoped we would. The architectural features of this house are amazing. I could add so much to my notes on sixteenth-century manor houses.”
“Yes, and we have those two lovely young women,” Lady Phillippa took up the conversation, “although I must admit to being partial to Miss Sarita. Do you think she favours Mr. Traunt? Did she not call him Clem?”
“My ladies, I was not thinking of such nonsense,” Lady Brienne interrupted their ramblings. “No. I was wondering about the Durhams’ odd behaviour and this Lord Pergrine. He presents a complicated shadow. Even allowing for the eccentricities of an autocratic lord, he has handled matters strangely. I would like to meet the man.”
“If your mind insists on such a turn,” said Lady Imogene, “why not ponder why he allows two Frenchmen to reside there for no apparent rent, while plaguing his lifelong tenants.”
“Exactly.” Lady Brienne pounced on the words, her eyes bright and full of life. “There is much to be learned here.”
“But how will we manage it?” Lady Phillippa questioned eagerly. “Oh, Brenny, you have a plan.”
“Perhaps.” She leaned back contemplatively. “Let us sleep, and on the morrow we shall see what Mr. Caine has learned. It would not surprise me if the wheelwright in Pordean has proven unhelpful. Don’t you recall Sarita’s reaction?”
Lady Imogene, who had not been paying attention, wondered aloud, “Mrs. Durham is an odd one for a minister’s wife. Do you sense that somehow she is being shielded by the family? One moment she appears the same as you and I and yet—”
“There is a fragility of the mind,” the marchioness agreed.
“Miss Durham—Sarita, that is—certainly has none,” the baroness gave a compliment, “despite the daintiness of her slender form. She strikes me as quite sensible and very capable, no matter what the task given her.”
At this moment the capable Miss Durham was trudging slowly towards the stairs, her shoulders slumped, her dark hair frizzed from standing over hot dishwater.
Reverend Durham came from the shadows. “Sarita, how are you, child? Didn’t Deborah—”
“I sent her to bed a short time ago. She was exhausted.”
“And you?”
“A day’s work, well done, is not harmful.” She attempted a smile.
“If the dowagers are to remain another day, I insist you get Tessy to help. Now don’t object. Her husband has been wanting someone to repair his long case clock, and you know she misses helping out here.”
“But you haven’t time enough now for all you do,” Sarita objected.
“Who just said a day’s work, well done, does no harm?” He laughed, putting his arm about her shoulders.
“A day’s work, not a night’s too,” she returned sharply.
“We are both tired and morn shall come before we would have it.” Reverend Durham kissed his daughter’s brow. “Well done, little princess. We named you well.” Pride glowed in his eyes as he looked at her tenderly.
Sarita rose on tiptoe and brushed her father’s cheek with a kiss. “The ‘little’ I cannot deny,” she shook her head, “but my day’s tasks are not those of a princess. But—Good slee
p, Father. She trudged up the stairs.
The hushed whispers coming from Lady Brienne’s bedchamber caught Sarita’s attention as she neared the door. She had imagined the three would be quickly asleep after the day’s excitement. A sudden bubble of laughter floating from the room halted her. Drawn by curiosity, she slowly edged closer to the door.
“Yes,” she overheard the baroness, “I imagine Mr. Caine will be truly relieved when he finds our note. I think the dear man thought us finally gone mad after our last halt. But here we have acceptable rooms—”
“Don’t forget the edible food,” mimicked Lady Imogene.
“A welcome respite from—” Lady Phillippa began.
Sarita forced herself to walk on. It was as she had thought. These ladies, titled or not, two sweet and one slightly sour, were upon hard times. Why—I wonder—does the coach really need repair? she asked, stepping quietly into her shared bedchamber. Ah, well, pride is a hard taskmaster. Her thoughts continued as she undressed and washed herself. Sarita then pulled on her nightdress, extinguished the candle, and sat upon the bed.
Savouring the softness of the feather bed, she eased between the cool sheets and slowly relaxed.
“Sarita, are you still awake?” Deborah’s whispered question reached her from across the room.
“No,” she answered.
“What do you think of the ladies?” Eagerness echoed in her words.
“At this moment I would like to not think of them,” Sarita threw back softly, thinking of all the tasks that lay before her on the morrow because of the trio.
“I think they have been sent to us,” Deborah said with firm conviction. “You know how I have been praying we would be released from this place.”
“And how are their ladyships going to assist us in that?” Sarita’s aching body resisted her compassionate nature. “Are you thinking of becoming their abigail?”
“You know Father would never permit such a thing! Indeed, why should I become an abigail?” her sister challenged indignantly.
“We are both tired, Debs. To sleep.” Sarita turned over and hugged her pillow, her eyes refused to remain open any longer.
“Oh, Sarita, listen to me. Isn’t it possible they shall be grateful for all our care and attention while their coach is being repaired? They seem favourably impressed by Father, and Mother has told them of our connection with Lord Snold.”
“What has that to do with anything?” Sarita mumbled.
“Why, don’t you see? They will return to London and send for us. I just know it,” Deborah whispered excitedly.
“Imagine what it would be like to be among real lords and ladies, especially the eligibles. Think, we could make splendid matches, perhaps even gain a title.”
Sarita heard the words as she slowly drifted into a deep sleep. “Lords and ladies,” she mouthed and a wry laugh escaped as dreams of richly dressed dancers swirled to the tempo of the forbidden waltz. The dowagers edged into the vision clothed in rich brocades. Strands of pearls and jewels weighted their necks. Deborah stood beside them, similarly bedecked. Then Sarita saw herself, in plain dove brown, scurrying too and fro trying to satisfy all.
Suddenly Pierre Mandel and Clem Traunt appeared in her dream, both urged her to come. Just as she was about to step forward a hand stayed her, and she turned and saw her mother.
Awakening with a start, Sarita shook dread away. She realized it was her mother’s voice she heard calling. Her feet touched the floor before she even thought to go.
Lady Brienne also heard Mrs. Durham’s fearful calls and rose. She eased her door open after she heard Sarita’s footsteps hurry past and followed. Listening to the soft crooning of the young woman’s voice, the baroness heard a heavy tread on the stairs and hastened to hide in another doorway.
“I’ll care for her now,” she heard Reverend Durham speak. “You need your rest. She is calmer now; it will pass. Go on.”
Waiting until Sarita had returned to her room, Lady Brienne scurried down the hall to her own bedchamber. There was much to be learned on the morrow.
Chapter 4
Wild whoops of childish mischievousness and scurrying feet echoed into the vast Hall where Lady Imogene studied the intricacies of the wood carving above the huge fireplace on the north wall. Mrs. Durham’s plaintive voice rose and fell amid the uproar. The countess’s usual absorption was broken repeatedly by these distractions. She finally laid aside her note pad and began an angry waddle towards the door.
Lady Brienne entered the Hall. She was surprised to see her usually placid sister moving at such a fast pace and even more confounded by the uncommon scowl upon her round face. “Why Imogene, what has bristled your ire?” A fresh burst of cacophonous sound echoed into the Hall.
“Where is that tumult coming from?” Lady Brienne asked. “Surely not from Mrs. Durham’s class?”
Lady Imogene bobbed her head in assent. “It has been like this ever since the children arrived,” she snorted. The bedlam peaked and then diminished. A door slammed. Mrs. Durham stalked past one of the Hall’s doorways.
“It appears the barbarians have been victorious,” the baroness noted dryly. “Let us review the horde.”
“But they are—children,” Lady Imogene gasped. “You— you dislike children, Brienne. Besides, what can we possibly do with them?” she questioned.
“I know you often taught your own two children, Imogene. Don’t deny it. Follow me.”
Utter silence fell as the two elderly women entered the solarium. They surveyed the suddenly frozen panorama of mischief.
“Boys, replace the inkwells and release the girls,” Lady Brienne ordered curtly. “You smaller children, pick up your slates and papers from the floor.” As the children scurried about, the dowagers walked to the raised dais at one end of the room.
One of the larger boys decided to challenge these new adversaries. “We ain’t got to do what you says. Mrs. Durham be teacher here, and she says class be o’er fer the day.”
The other children paused, awaited the outcome.
“Your name, young man?” the baroness asked softly.
“Lum. Lum Wicket. And I says we’re leavin’.”
“Mr. Wicket, would you care to be pilloried? I happened to see such a device, most conveniently placed nearby, during my walk this morn.”
“Ha! Ye wouldn’t . . . couldn’t put me in it.” He laughed derisively.
“I am the Dowager Baroness of Mickle, and this,” she motioned to Lady Imogene, “is the Dowager Countess of Lackland. Now, will you assist the others, or do I call my footmen who are waiting just beyond the door?” she asked with iron-toned coldness, her eyes hard upon the lad.
The boy wavered, the manner of this lady being far afield from Mrs. Durham. His eyes fell from her gaze and he bent to retrieve a slate board at his feet. Following his example, the others returned to their work. Soon the solarium was restored to order. The unruly students quietly seated, awaited the Baroness Mickle’s pleasure.
Lady Brienne looked at each child individually before she spoke. “You are here for the rudiments of an education and so shall it be. We,” she motioned to herself and her sister, “shall conduct today’s class.”
Lady Imogene’s gasp was matched by the baroness’ mental one. You cannot tolerate children, much less instruct them. Have you gone mad?
“Take up your slates and let us see what you have learned thus far,” Lady Brienne continued despite an inner quailing.
* * * *
The warm June day brought small beads of perspiration to Sarita’s forehead as she plucked weeds from among the spinach plants. Straightening and stretching to ease her aching back, she saw her mother ambling along the edge of the woods, which ran behind the garden and rectory.
“Mother, have you dismissed your class early?” she called out. Sarita raised her skirts and stepped haphazardly over the rows of vegetables.
“Class? Did I have class today?” Mrs. Durham asked. “Oh, yes, I believe I did, but that was
much earlier,” she said with a happy smile, dispelling the confusion which had raised Sarita’s suspicions. “I am going for a walk, my dear.”
“Mother, your class? Did Deborah help you with it?” Sarita asked when she reached her mother’s side.
“I sent her to the Swaites with some of those lovely apples the ladies gave us. You know the grandmother has been feeling poorly.”
“But the children, did they leave?”
Mrs. Durham reached out and patted Sarita’s hand. “You fret far too much, my dear. Why don’t you walk with me?” She smiled brightly.
“No, Mother, you go on. I will finish the weeding,” Sarita told her.
“Such a good daughter,” the older woman sighed. “You work far too much. I must speak with your father about . . ..” Without completing the thought, she sauntered off.
Sarita watched her mother’s back for a few moments, then picked up her skirts and dashed past the church to the kitchen door. Halting, she leaned against the kitchen table, gasping for air.
It is quiet, she thought, too much so. Half running, she made her way towards the solarium. Apprehension slowed her steps as she neared the chamber.
The measured tones of recitation caused Sarita to pause outside the door. Had Deborah returned in time to take the class? She shook her head. No, even Debs had difficulty controlling the youngsters. Slowly she eased the door open and was utterly astonished to see Lady Imogene working quietly with the youngest children in one corner and Lady Brienne solemnly listening to the older ones reciting verses from the Bible.
Seeing Sarita, the baroness nodded imperiously to her. “Very good, Mr. Wicket. That will be all for today. Class will be held before services on Sunday for the remainder of the summer season. Be prompt. You may go as soon as Countess Lackland finishes.”
Lady Imogene bade her students return to their benches after a few moments and joined the baroness on the dais.
In one body the children rose. The boys bowed while the girls curtsied. They all straightened awkwardly. “Good day, Baroness Mickle, Countess Lackland,” came as a general murmur. Then slowly, silently, they filed past Sarita out of the solarium.