The Dead Queen's Garden

by Nicola Slade

  She picked up her cup and hesitated. ‘Suppose you give the notion due consideration? I shan’t press you for an answer and Miss Nightingale will surely not be offended if I delay my answer until tomorrow morning, but you must be aware of the advantages inherent in the scheme. For instance, there has been no mention of the kind of remuneration that the position incurs but it must be more generous than that of a governess, and accommodation would be included. You would live at Miss Nightingale’s headquarters, which would surely be more agreeable than being shut away in a governess’s forlorn attic.’

  She smiled at Sibella, who was looking stunned. ‘For now though, won’t you take a holiday from care? My brother and sister are so anxious that you should have a real rest and an opportunity to recover from your ordeal.’

  ‘You – and they – are too kind,’ Sibella answered in a whisper. ‘I should indeed like to stay here for a short time. I shall decline Dr Chant’s offer, with great relief.’ She finished her tea and nibbled absently on a piece of Cook’s celebrated shortbread, then she looked at Charlotte.

  ‘I should like to speak freely, if I may?’ At Charlotte’s nod, and assurance that any confidences would go no further, Sibella went on, ‘You must have noticed that although I am shocked at my sister’s untimely death, I am not stricken with grief. This must have made you wonder about us, about our relationship. I explained that we had not been intimate for many years and in fact we have met only a handful of times since – since our brother’s disgrace.

  ‘Verena was brought up to be as shallow and self-centred as her godmother who thought only of turning my little sister into a society belle and making a brilliant marriage, so, sad to say, I found her completely heartless. We met for the first time in years at her wedding and discovered that we had nothing in common. The invitation caught up with me when I was visiting London with one of my pupils and my employer was gracious enough to allow me to attend the celebrations.’

  She frowned at her hands. ‘Dr Chant and I did not take to each other on the occasion of our introduction, and our subsequent encounters, few as they have been, have confirmed us in our mutual dislike. I find him to be pompous and shallow, while he believed me to be waiting only for an opportunity to demand financial support from him, through my sister. I should like to make it clear to you, Charlotte, that I have never done so.’

  Charlotte nodded; she could understand now why she had been attracted to Sibella from the first. They were both stiff-necked and proud, determined to make their own way in the world. I wonder whether she would have used the same methods, Charlotte mused, picturing her perilous flight across India during the late Mutiny, when she had snatched at whatever means of survival that came to hand, including theft and deception. Sneaking a look at the other young woman’s firmly closed mouth and determined chin, as well as her steady blue eyes, Charlotte formed the opinion that Sibella was another of the same ilk, although her upbringing in a northern vicarage might possibly have been a hindrance when it came to theft and deception.

  ‘On the few occasions when I chanced to be in London,’ Sibella continued, ‘I took care to send word to my sister. We were all that was left of the family now, since Edward was known to have died in Australia, and I thought we should remain in touch. It never answered though. Verena was always busy about some society ball or dinner and I was never easy at such affairs and Dr Chant continued to view me with suspicion, which was most uncomfortable.’

  ‘What made you and your sister decide to visit Winchester for a holiday?’ Charlotte thought it was time to turn the conversation towards recent events. ‘I believe you said you had never been here before?’

  ‘No,’ came the low-voiced reply. ‘I arrived in London last month with my latest pupil, a very sickly child, on our way to take the waters at Tunbridge Wells, when sadly the child took a turn for the worse and died very suddenly. Mercifully, his parents were at his side, but although he had not been expected to live for many years, it was still distressing. My employers paid me generously and left town but I was soon ill myself, with a feverish complaint. I had already notified Verena of my whereabouts so when she discovered my predicament she kindly said that as soon as I was well enough to travel, she would whisk me away for a few days’ convalescence. She told me Winchester sprang to mind because some chance acquaintance of hers had mentioned a recent visit and recommended the excellent lodgings.’

  The low, pretty voice faltered as Sibella shivered. ‘My sister was actually very kind, sitting with me, holding my hand and tending to my wants, as well as paying generously for my medical care. What I did not at first appreciate was that I had been delirious for a night or so and that in that condition, I let slip a secret – a family secret.’

  She buried her face in her hands then carried on, ‘Verena made no mention of this until we were safely ensconced in the guest-house in Winchester and I was fully recovered, although still a little languid. Then one evening, a day or so before Mrs Richmond invited us to the christening, she laughed and told me what she had learned. She said that it was all very delicious and that she had never imagined the staid Armstrongs might harbour such secrets.’

  ‘Good God,’ Charlotte jumped up out of her chair. ‘What a bitch!’ At Sibella’s shocked gasp, Charlotte clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Sibella, but that’s what she was. Now….’ she looked at the little clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Heavens, I must dress for the tea party. You will excuse me, won’t you? Carry on telling me about your sister while I change. You can help me, if you please.’

  The last command was slightly muffled as she wriggled out of her dress, but after a startled glance, Sibella went on with her story.

  ‘There isn’t very much more to tell,’ she whispered. ‘Verena insisted that the – the family secret would remain just that, a secret and that she had no intention of telling anyone. What good would it do her, she demanded. It could only damage her own reputation, but she kept chuckling whenever she recalled it.’

  ‘Was she like that with other people, do you imagine?’ Charlotte was intrigued as a sudden notion had occurred to her. If Verena Chant had a liking for mysteries, had she chuckled over other people’s dark secrets? Chuckled, perhaps, once too loudly?

  ‘Oh no,’ Sibella dispelled the unspoken suggestion. ‘In public she was always circumspect, even in her flirtations.’ She looked up to see Charlotte’s speculative gaze. ‘Yes, she was a flirt, I’m afraid, but it meant nothing to her. She was cold, you see, but no, she wasn’t a gossip and I’m quite certain she would never have spoken so to anyone else. It was because of the family, you see, that was what amused her so much. I remember her saying once, “brought up in the odour of sanctity, as we were, and now look at the honour of the Armstrongs”. She had no such fond memories of our parents as I had, as I have still.’

  Charlotte emerged, slightly dishevelled, from the depths of the large walnut wardrobe and, with Sibella’s assistance, arrayed herself in yesterday’s elegant silk evening dress in her favourite dark emerald green. She and Lily had conferred together regarding the correct garments for a tea party to celebrate the birthday of an eleven year old boy, and had come to the conclusion that it would be far better to be over-dressed than otherwise. ‘For,’ had said Lily, her eyes wide with horror, ‘It would never do to annoy Lady Granville by being too informal. I’m sure she would regard it as an insult.’

  Charlotte could only agree, her brief acquaintance with the lady indicated that she would stand on ceremony and expect no less of her guests. Feeling foolish at dressing so sumptuously for a child’s birthday tea, she added a creamy lace fichu to her modestly cut bodice, and pinned it with the emerald brooch that was Elaine’s Christmas present. She slipped on her other present, the emerald bracelets and frowned at her reflection in the looking-glass. Lady Granville could not find cause to be slighted by this finery, she decided. After all, it had the double skirt and tiny puffed sleeves that Lily informed her were the very latest thing. And much I care for tha
t, she added with a scornful shrug.

  It struck her that the lofty stone pillars of Brambrook Abbey would prove chilly and she had little faith that the sortie de bal in cream cashmere, that Lily had insisted all the Richmond ladies must have, would keep her warm. Certainly it was an elegant evening cloak and at least it had a hood, but she put out her new shawl too, ready for when Lily should call her family to attention.

  As she brushed her hair and rapidly re-plaited it, Charlotte was frowning. Did Sibella’s disclosures about her sister have some bearing on the whole matter, she asked herself, but she felt quite certain she should tread warily. A false step would alarm Sibella and make her retreat, and that wouldn’t do, Charlotte reflected. If I am to lay aside my wild conjectures and feel comfortable again, I need to know the whole story.

  ‘You said your sister was cold? Did that apply to her relations with her husband?’ The doctor’s words, abruptly broken off, came back to Charlotte, ‘we were not hap….’ As she pinned a demure froth of lace on her hair, she waited intently for the reply.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ agreed Sibella. ‘I had very little opportunity, you must understand, to observe them together as husband and wife, but it seemed to me that she felt nothing for him. Or,’ she added, ‘that he felt a shred of affection for her either, though I think he was very jealous of her. He was certainly furious when he discovered she and I were in Winchester. He followed her down here and obtained an invitation to the christening too. Verena laughed and told me he liked to glare at her in disapproval.’

  She rose and smoothed down her skirt. ‘Thank you, Charlotte, for allowing me to talk to you so intimately. It is a lonely life, that of a governess, and I have had little opportunity for friendship.’

  ‘I have felt something very similar,’ admitted Charlotte, also rising. ‘But before you go to your room, might I ask you one more question? Thank you. It is this: your sister implied at the christening that she was with child, and it has generally been accepted that this was somehow the cause of her untimely death. Do you have anything further to say about that situation?’

  ‘How did you…’ Sibella’s colour rose and she looked startled but as Charlotte simply gave a noncommittal shrug, she frowned and chose her words carefully. ‘She did give that impression, I know, but I’m afraid it was purely a mischievous impulse to torment Dr Chant. She – it was determined not long after her marriage, I am afraid, that she would not be able to – to bear a child; some physical malformation, I believe. She professed to be relieved, and I truly believe that she was not distressed by the intelligence, but her husband clearly felt cheated.’

  ‘You mean he had married a beautiful young woman with a view to embellishing his status by the addition of a clutch of equally beautiful children?’ Charlotte raised an eyebrow. ‘I can well believe such a man as the doctor might feel he had made a poor bargain, particularly if there was no affection to bind them together, but what did he think, do you suppose, when she made that extraordinary statement at the party? Could he have wondered if, perhaps, that original diagnosis might have been wrong?’

  ‘I understood that there could be no question of that, but if he did indeed entertain any such unlikely suspicion,’ was Sibella’s dry answer, ‘he would be under no illusion that the child was his; my sister was quite frank with me on that subject. I don’t believe, however,’ she hesitated then shook her head, looking doubtful,‘I would not have thought she would actually betray him. Her flirtations were usually conducted with older men, retired rakes, that kind of gentleman, but I’m sure she allowed no liberties beyond a dinner here, or a theatre box there, with perhaps a discreet kiss. Oh yes,’ she turned back at the door of Charlotte’s room. ‘She had no scruples about accepting the occasional diamond bracelet, but I doubt there were any intimate moments. My sister was a cold woman.’

  She smiled faintly as she left the room. ‘Forgive me, Charlotte, I must take up no more of your time. I believe there is another hour until we leave for Brambrook Abbey, so I think I must go to my own room, to compose myself.’

  Once the door was safely closed Charlotte gave a soft whistle. Heavens above, I had previously seen no resemblance to her sister or anyone else, but that was surely the smile that young Oz is wont to give. What in the world can it mean? Is there some connection between the Armstrongs and the Granvilles?

  She sat down again in her easy chair and tried to assemble the facts and make sense of them. There had been that moment at the christening when she spotted an astonishing likeness between Oz Granville and Verena Chant; what am I to make of that, she wondered. But later I was told that Mrs Chant closely resembled her brother Edward Armstrong. Now Sibella also has a fleeting likeness to the boy. Can there be any significance in this, or is it nothing more than a singular coincidence?

  She shook her head, frowning as she considered the question. What am I to think she asked herself, two vertical lines forming on her brow. The idea had, she knew, been lying just under the surface of her thoughts, kept there by her refusal to give credence to the notion that would not go away. She sighed deeply and held up her hand in order to count off the troubling questions: Edward Armstrong had been summarily dispatched to Australia upon the discovery of his deceit and wrongdoing, actions which had deeply distressed his employer, Lord Granville. This had occurred some eleven or twelve years earlier according to Sibella Armstrong.

  Again Charlotte frowned, remembering with some trepidation, that today was Oz Granville’s eleventh birthday. I really am romancing now she scolded herself, only to wonder anew. Can it be possible that there is some connection that links Edward Armstrong’s disappearance from these shores with Lady Granville’s treasured only child? She tested the theory and far-fetched as it seemed found herself believing that there could be a glimmer of possibility. So what am I saying, she murmured aloud. Am I – she found herself faltering – am I thinking then that Lady Granville, suffering years in a barren marriage, was minded to take herself a handsome young lover?

  Charlotte was shocked because the whole idea seemed suddenly so plausible. A woman who had spent 20 years in a heart-breaking quest for a child might well have resorted to desperate measures. And what then? If this could possibly be true, she wondered, might not the story of Edward Armstrong’s disgrace, be merely that: a story? What would Lord Granville’s feelings have been? Delight and disbelief at the promise of the longed-for heir to his title and fortune? No doubt, but suppose the whole was revealed to him: the young lover, the success after so many empty years? Would his pride take over so that an heir by any means would be preferable to a devastating scandal?

  It made sense, of a sort, Charlotte felt. At that time Lord Granville had been a member of the government, albeit in a minor position. In such a public role it would have been mortifying to say the least, to deny the child and send his wife abroad to a shameful exile. How much simpler to banish instead the handsome young man who had cuckolded him, and to put it about that the young man had committed some nameless treachery. If that were indeed the case, his lordship would certainly have required some promise, probably in writing, of continued silence together with continued absence from England, in exchange for some handsome form of payment. She had encountered plenty of remittance men in Australia, after all, some of them living hand to mouth between their quarterly allowances.

  Charlotte jumped up and paced about the room, dashing a hand across her eyes. It looked possible, it could have happened that way; but even if that were the truth what possible bearing could it have had upon the sudden and untimely death of young Mrs Chant?

  Chapter 12

  PUZZLED AND DISTURBED, Charlotte paced the room again and finally sat down in her comfortable armchair, setting her mind to the question. But what is it to do with me, she asked herself with an anxious frown. A young woman dies too young, and too suddenly, a sad occurrence indeed, but young women die only too frequently, always too young, and often too suddenly. Why do I find this particular young woman’s death so distres
sing?

  Her fingers laced themselves together as her thoughts tumbled around in her head. Can it be simply because I had met her, however briefly? Charlotte shook her head; no, it was not only that, she was not one to leap to hasty conclusions. She was suddenly pierced by a memory of Elaine Knightley saying, with an affectionate smile:

  ‘If I did not know you to be an exceedingly sensible young woman, Char, and thus not in the least given to flights of fancy, I should think you to be planning to write a Gothick romance!’

  A sob rose in Charlotte’s throat and she dashed a hand across her eyes where tears were welling. How was Elaine this afternoon? The memory of Kit’s haggard face haunted her. For the first time in their acquaintance there had been no trace of humour, no twinkle, in his very blue eyes. Kit Knightley was breaking his heart and there was no comfort that she could offer him. She could only send up a constant stream of prayer that Elaine might soon fall gently into a pain-free sleep from which she would not wake.

  Her thoughts were too painful to bear, so Charlotte rose and made her way across the room, her steps dragging. A difference in the quality of the light made her pause and look out of the window. There had been a fresh fall of snow but all was quiet outside, and the pale winter sun was breaking through the clouds, adding a sparkle to the landscape. There was a tap at the door and the maid thrust her head into the room to announce that the carriages were at the door and the master and mistress were attempting to assemble their party ready for departure.

  Charlotte settled the hood of her evening cloak over her hair and picking up her shawl as insurance against the lordly chill of her hosts’ home, caught up her reticule and the tissue-wrapped parcel, and hastened downstairs.