by Nicola Slade
Lady Granville, her fine eyes narrowed, had been staring thoughtfully at the stricken captain, her hand held to her heart, her face, first pale but now suffused with an angry flush. Now a frown further darkened her brow as she stared round the room but Charlotte could see no reason for the lady’s dismay. Her husband, now safe from other women, was gossiping with some visiting gentlemen, and her long-suffering son was firmly clamped to her side. As Charlotte herself glanced around, all the while exhorting Melicent Penbury to compose herself, she saw Miss Nightingale pull out a small notebook from her pocket. Beneath the reddish-brown hair, the famous heroine’s furrowed brow became smooth once more and a grim smile lightened her face as the august lady scanned the list therein, making pencil marks as she did so. It was evident that she was adding the sums written down and that the total had proved satisfactory. This task completed, Charlotte was amused to see that the lady had no further use for Finchbourne or its inhabitants. However, she had underestimated Miss Nightingale’s determination.
‘Another word, if you please, Mrs Richmond,’ beckoned the great lady who, if she was much the same age as Charlotte’s thankfully-deceased husband, could only be about thirty-eight, although illness made her look older. ‘I understand you are lately come from India, and before that, from Australia?’
Charlotte submitted to a brief interrogation. Yes, she had been caught up in the Mutiny last year in India when her stepfather had sadly succumbed to a fever, and yes, she had indeed been married, and promptly widowed, shortly afterwards.
‘But was there not some tale of your husband, Major Richmond, having been falsely declared dead?’ Miss Nightingale’s handsome eyes expressed a lively interest.
‘Indeed yes,’ Charlotte’s response was brief and guarded. ‘He was injured, but he was able to make his way home where he died of a fever.’ Not for all the tea in China would Charlotte go into details of that return and death, nor would she be pressed upon her upbringing in Australia, however imperiously Miss Nightingale enquired. No, she thought decidedly, it is no business of anyone else if my mother and stepfather were transported, and not the free citizens they had claimed to be.
She decided to throw the lady a sop. ‘My godmother was Lady Margaret Fenton,’ she said casually, suppressing a smile at the image of that illustrious lady beating an importunate admirer about the head with her parasol. Meg had declared, in her impeccably well-bred accent, ‘I may be a whore, sir, but I promised my brother, the earl, that I would be a circumspect whore. He would never allow me to stoop to an affair with a pork butcher.’ Charlotte stifled the bubble of laughter that threatened to escape her lips as she recalled Meg’s afterthought. ‘That is, unless the pork butcher in question were to offer me a very large inducement in guineas.’
‘I see that you suspect me of vulgar curiosity,’ Florence Nightingale surprised her. ‘Acquit me of that, Mrs Richmond, for I have a scheme in mind that could work to our mutual advantage.’
At that point, Barnard bustled into the room bent on jollying his guests into further excesses of food and drink and managed, by deafening her with his jovial bellow, to bully Miss Nightingale into tasting the wassail brew.
‘Here we are, here we are,’ he cried, seizing the silver ladle and starting to dole out generous helpings of the steaming, spicy liquid from the enormous silver bucket Lily had unearthed in the cellar. ‘All the traditional ingredients,’ he announced, though Charlotte was well aware that Lily and her cook, having despaired of finding a recipe, had concocted their own. ‘Wine and spices and currants, slices of oranges and apples, um, other fruits, berries, you name it. What do you call ’em? Er, yes, raisins, that’s right, you’ll find ’em all in the Finchbourne Wassail.’
He looked so absurdly pleased with himself that those of his guests who were clustered around the dining-table laughed and shrugged and suffered him to hand them a glass. Charlotte, glad to see no evidence of rats or kittens swimming in this particular brew, looked askance at the cinnamon and spices floating on her drink along with odds and ends of candied fruit, but she nodded and smiled and raised her glass, so Barnard was satisfied. It was warming on a cold day, she supposed, though the taste of cinnamon was strongly dominant and that was not a spice she particularly relished.
‘As long as it’s hot and wet and alcoholic,’ as her beloved stepfather, Will Glover, had once remarked, ‘it’ll do the trick.’ That was when someone had handed him a glass of something resembling rum, distilled somewhere on a sugar cane plantation. Hot, certainly; the temperature had made a mockery of the thin muslins and sunbonnets that Charlotte and her mother were wearing, and everyone who tasted the potion had become instantly flushed in the face. Wet also, and potent too, in spite of the cornucopia of berries floating on the amber liquid. Charlotte could recall, as clearly as though it were yesterday rather than ten years earlier, the startled widening of Will’s blue eyes as the full force of the alcohol he had injudiciously gulped down, had struck him.
Soon most of the guests were willingly toasting the baby’s health along with hearty greetings for Christmas and the New Year. Lord Granville was there, nodding and smiling, genial as usual, but still, Charlotte thought, peering round at every lady who came within his orbit. She had been watching Lady Granville skilfully circumvent her lord’s every attempt to approach any female guest. He would bob up in one direction, only to find his wife appearing from another. It was like watching a dance, Charlotte reflected, deciding that his lordship was quite outflanked by his determined lady. Indeed, as Charlotte watched idly, the gentleman shook his head disconsolately, perhaps believing himself to be mistaken. He shrugged and allowed his wife to shepherd him towards Lily Richmond at the other end of the room.
The delighted Lily was not likely to give up her prize easily and Lady Granville left him in her clutches while, with young Oz in tow, she made her way to the small crowd clustered about the table. There, she fussed about giving the boy a taste of the wassail punch. Charlotte had just raised a glass to her own lips when she spotted the elder of Lily’s new friends take a sip of the brew and wrinkle her nose. She murmured something to her sister who laughed and took the glass from her. Charlotte overheard her say, ‘Well, I certainly have no objection to the taste of cinnamon, my dear Sibella; in fact I’ll drink a second glass with pleasure.’
Charlotte heard Lady Granville exclaim aloud, though what she said was indistinct as Dr Chant chose that moment to lean forward and speak to his wife as she sipped at her drink.
‘Pray take no more punch, Verena, it is very strong and cannot be considered a suitable drink for a lady in your position.’ He bit off his remark, as she laughed in response, and continued. ‘Besides, the carriage is outside now and waiting to take you and your sister back to Winchester. Pray do not delay, it will not do to keep the horses waiting in this inclement weather.’
‘In my position, dear husband?’ The young lady’s blue eyes snapped in what looked like malicious amusement. ‘As the wife of Prince Albert’s trusted confidant? Or….’ Yes, Charlotte thought, there was definitely malice there. ‘Perhaps you meant to say – in my delicate situation, did you, my dear husband?’ The glance she shot at him was arch and suggestive and her husband, about to turn on his heel, halted and stared at her, his face darkening.
Charlotte raised an eyebrow but young Mrs Chant only laughed carelessly and turned to her sister. The incident passed mercifully without the embarrassment of an altercation in public between husband and wife and probably no-one but Charlotte was aware of a momentary silence in the group of people in her immediate neighbourhood, as they looked at the young lady on hearing her husband’s admonition. Melicent Penbury held her glass of punch to her lips, while one or two other guests looked up before they once more tucked in to more of the sweetmeats displayed on silver shell dishes.
Lady Granville, who looked a trifle pale, had resumed her expression of glacial indifference, moved to her son’s side and Dr Chant, still poised to leave the group, stayed a moment longer, h
is eyes narrowed at his wife’s careless peal of laughter as she drained her glass.
As she watched from the outskirts of the group, Charlotte was teased by a sudden thought that failed however, to make itself clear. The elder sister, Miss Armstrong, wore a slightly troubled look, quickly replaced by a resigned smile, and the only person present who looked completely uninterested was the fair-haired boy, Oz Granville, who was surreptitiously nibbling at the candied fruits laid out temptingly before him. Oz, Charlotte surmised, was patently unaware that he was the object of scrutiny, not only of his parents, for he was accustomed to that circumstance, but that the fashionable doctor had glanced at him several times, with pursed lips. Not only that, but the two visiting ladies were both acutely aware of the boy, although they tried to disguise that interest.
Charlotte was surprised when Lady Granville accosted her with a complaint upon her lips.
‘Did you observe that, Mrs Richmond?’ Her lips formed a tight line and her eyebrows frowned over her dark and disapproving eyes, as she stared at young Mrs Chant who was now donning her warm cloak. ‘That young lady or perhaps the other – well, whichever one of them it was, I believe she snatched the glass I had thought to give my dear boy, Osbert.’
Charlotte turned a startled gaze upon her. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Lady Granville,’ she felt she should apologise on behalf of her brother and sister-in-law, their hosts. ‘I’m afraid I did not observe that, I think there was somebody obscuring my view at the time. What an uncomfortable thing to happen.’
‘It is no matter,’ sniffed the lady, evidently mollified by this apology. ‘It is merely an example of London manners, I suppose, something that has made me both impatient and weary so that I was glad to take leave of the capital. I am most relieved that Lord Granville has decided to relinquish some of his London responsibilities so that we will be spending a great deal more time at home in Hampshire.’
Charlotte was glad to recall something that might interest the lady and deflect her complaints. ‘I believe I heard somewhere that you are the creator of a wonderful mediaeval garden, are you not?’ It was probably politic to avoid mention of her discussion with the Granville boy lest his mother take umbrage. ‘I was so interested to hear of it. As you might not be aware, I was born and brought up in Australia so anything of historical, old-world significance is most intriguing to me.’
‘Really?’ Lady Granville’s gaunt, but still-handsome features took on a lively expression as she turned eagerly to the younger woman, shaken out of her indifference by the reference to her pastime. ‘I did not know that. Indeed, I should be delighted to show you my garden, Mrs Richmond, if you are sure that it would be of interest you? Do, pray, allow me the pleasure of inviting you to tea tomorrow at Brambrook Abbey. My garden is indeed my great treasure, apart…’ her fond smile enlivened and lifted her sallow face from its habitual air of chill and ruined beauty as she beheld her son, ‘apart, I should say, from my very greatest treasure, of course: my son Osbert.’
Her expression grew even more gracious as Charlotte turned to look at the object of Lady Granville’s adoration and smiled in her turn as Oz – poor lad, she thought, no wonder he refuses to answer to Osbert – backed silently out of the room with both hands filled with sugar plums that he had grabbed from one of Lily’s best silver side dishes in passing. Alas for his attempt at escape. In his haste to elude his parent, Oz bumped into Charlotte’s bugbear, Melicent Penbury, and had to make hasty apologies while the other ladies, his father and Dr Chant all turned to watch him.
Pricked by conscience and feeling that, as a member of the family she owed a duty to her hosts, Charlotte was immediately at the ready to offer assistance, knowing that, years earlier, Melicent had lost a leg in an unfortunate carriage accident. This made her sometimes unsteady on the artificial one but on this occasion the former governess righted herself with the clumsy but willing help of the Granville boy, whose friendly smile was wiped from his face when Melicent began to gush.
‘Why thank you, Master Granville.’ The boy gave an awkward bow and was about to escape when Melicent, with the archness she always assumed in male company of any age, continued, ‘What do you have to say about the dreadful event that occurred so recently in your own grounds? But there, young lads thrive upon such excitements, do they not?’ Charlotte bit her lip in exasperation and made to move forward as the boy glared at his persecutor, his cheeks suddenly pale. He turned on his heel and walked away. Charlotte relaxed for a moment until she heard a sudden sound, a sharp intake of breath perhaps, or a slight groan. She whipped round, puzzled, and wondering if someone had been taken ill. Lady Granville was staring at the group still standing by the wassail bowl, her face looking unaccountably drawn and heavy, as she looked from one to the other then cast a glance in the direction of her son’s fast-disappearing back view.
‘Is something wrong, Lady Granville?’ Charlotte’s whisper was discreet as she wondered whether the lady was feeling quite the thing. Indeed, Charlotte considered, since the recent contretemps concerning the glass of punch, the older woman was looking distinctly unwell, a light sheen of sweat masking her face.
‘No – no, thank you,’ came the response, followed by a slight gesture, her fingers tightening on a handkerchief she clutched, as she reinforced the negative. Then she paused, still staring over at the other guests. ‘No,’ she said slowly, looking round at Charlotte, her expression very thoughtful, with narrowed eyes and tightly folded lips. She hesitated and started to speak again. ‘No, indeed.’ She glanced across the room once more and seemed to straighten her shoulders. ‘I cannot say. It is just that….’ She pressed the folded linen handkerchief to her lips for a moment, then shook her head once more, but Charlotte glimpsed an odd glimmer in the large dark brown eyes as Lady Granville, after a final, considering stare at Charlotte, turned away, muttering, ‘Three times. I believe that is three times…. What can it mean?’
Good gracious, Charlotte thought, and stood politely aside to let the illustrious guest precede her. Wondering about that enigmatic little aside, she accompanied Lady Granville to find her outdoor wrappings, when something that had been teasing her about the lady’s manner suddenly dawned upon her. Sarah Siddons, the great tragic actress; that was who was called to mind by Lady Granville’s air of simmering anxiety. Not that Charlotte had ever been privileged to attend one of the lady’s dramatic performances, but her godmother, Lady Meg, had certainly done so as a young girl.
‘Astonishing woman,’ Meg had told her, shaking her head. ‘I had nightmares for weeks after I saw her as Lady Macbeth.’
There was no need to act as ladies’ maid, for the nondescript companion must have been on constant watch and was on hand to shroud her mistress in a sumptuous sealskin mantle
‘Pray do not forget, Mrs Richmond,’ Lady Granville, who now resembled nothing so much as an enormous Arctic mammal, turned a surprisingly gracious smile to Charlotte, all tragic undertones now vanished. ‘I shall be delighted to show you my garden tomorrow and to give you tea. I believe you reside with Lady Frampton? Naturally if she would care to accompany you I should be delighted. Shall we say at a quarter to three? If you like to arrive a little early there will be daylight enough to take a brief turn round the garden, although sadly this is not the most favourable time to be looking at plants.’ She took her husband’s arm. ‘Come, my dear,’ she said firmly, as she beckoned her son to her side.
When most of the remaining guests had been waved on their way, Lady Frampton was happily enthroned in her favourite seat by the hearth and in no hurry to go home to Rowan Lodge, so Charlotte went in search of her hostess to see if she could be of any help.
A chance remark soon had Lily Richmond opening her eyes wide and turning up her already distressingly retroussé nose.
‘What’s that you say, Char? Barnard? Barnard, come here at once and listen to this, I never heard of such a thing.’ Her light voice, with its little girl notes, was rising with indignation. ‘Now look here, Barnard.
Here is Charlotte telling me that she has been invited to take tea with Lady Granville tomorrow afternoon. What can have put such a notion into her ladyship’s head?’
Charlotte sighed, recognising the signs of an impending tantrum, as an ominous frown drew Lily’s finely drawn dark brows together and the rosebud lips formed a distinct pout. ‘But, Lily.…’ she began.
‘I cannot understand it,’ Lily continued, ignoring the interruption, a tinge of ice entering her voice. ‘Why her ladyship has not even invited me to take tea with her, and we are quite the most intimate of friends now. So why in heaven’s name do you suppose she should she invite Charlotte, whom she has never seen before in her life?’
‘Well, Lily,’ Barnard Richmond weighed in with well-meaning goodwill, rolling an anguished eye nonetheless at Charlotte as he spoke. ‘I daresay her ladyship means it as a compliment to you, my dear.’ He floundered as he met Lily’s scornful gaze. ‘I mean, er, I expect she is merely being kind to our dear Charlotte.’
Charlotte hastened to his rescue. ‘Of course she is, Lily dear,’ she said in a soothing tone. ‘Why, she is naturally aware that, apart from taking tea at the Deanery the other day, you are not officially visiting at the moment, because of dear little Algy being so very young. I believe Lady Granville only decided to invite me as a very poor second choice.’ Lily’s brow showed signs of looking less thundery so Charlotte persevered. ‘It is only that she wishes to show me her garden, after all. I have observed that dedicated garden lovers will seize on the most unlikely persons to enthuse about their plants and walks and shrubberies and so forth, and I believe the invitation to tea was a mere polite afterthought. Besides, you must not forget that I am quite unusual in these parts; someone who has come from the other side of the world. She probably thinks I’m something of a curiosity. Like a talking pig.’