by CE Murphy
“I think you are much recovered,” Mrs Penney said with satisfaction. “The remainder of our travels should be merrier.”
“Have I been so very despondent as to spoil your holiday, Aunt? I hope not; I would not ruin your pleasure for the world.”
“Not at all, my dear. It is only that when one travels with Miss Elsabeth Dover, one expects to laugh a great deal, and we have had only smiles from you these past weeks. Now: your uncle is quite set on journeying to the north, although I have insisted to him the weather will be better if we should turn south. What say you?”
“That you are right about the weather but that I have visited more of the south, and little of the lakelands at all,” Elsabeth replied promptly. “I should like to go north some little ways, and if the weather turns ferocious, I will tender all due apologies to you.”
“Your uncle will be delighted,” Mrs Penney replied with sufficient contentment that Elsabeth could not think she had chosen poorly. For three days more, they resided at the house in Cumbria, and if, when they resumed their travels, they proceeded at an even more stately pace, it was only because Elsabeth insisted time and again that they should pause that she might alight and inspect a distant hill on foot, or admire some grand manor nestled in the countryside.
It was this latterly habit which caused her uncle to one afternoon call out to the coachman, who obliged by turning down a road narrower than some. “A moment, my dear,” Mr Penney said when Elsabeth gave voice to her curiosity, and then some moments later, “Now turn, I think, and you shall be most delighted.”
Smiling with interest, Elsabeth did as she was bid, and released a laughing gasp as the carriage crested a small hill and the land dropped away toward a manicured lake that lay before a low garden of such fine keeping that not a leaf appeared out of place in its hedges and bursts of flowery colour. Beyond the garden lay a manor that could not, at a glance, have held fewer than one hundred and sixty rooms.
The carriage stopped and Elsa stood, the better to see the estate. Its facade was made in an extremely fine fashion of the sixteenth century, though the faintest change of colour in the roofing tiles told her that an older dwelling stood at its heart. It was all of lightly coloured ashlar sandstone, and sat comfortably in its surrounds as well as commanding them. “Good God,” Elsabeth said with warmth. “Have we stolen by some unknown palace of the Regent’s?”
“On the contrary,” Mr Penney said in obvious pleasure. “We ourselves are slightly acquainted with, and you are, I believe, well acquainted with, the gentleman whose holdings these are. This, my dear niece, is Streyfield.”
“Good God,” Elsabeth said a second time, with far less vigour, and, discovering her legs could not hold her, she sat and gazed—gaped, she dared say—at the house that could well have been hers. “That cannot be Streyfield. That cannot be...real. I have never seen...” She turned as if to look back at the manors they had gone by over the past several days; all of them, and Lady Beatrice’s manor besides, could have fit within Streyfield and gone unnoticed. As if drawn by a great weight, her gaze returned to Archer’s demesne, and finally she laughed, if highly and uncertainly. “Well. No wonder he is so inclined to pride. Had I awakened every morning of my life within those walls, I too might have become prideful.”
“It is, I believe, open to visitors,” Mr Penney announced with sufficient delight as to imply to Elsabeth that this had all been quite part of his plan. “We must go; we are sometimes in the area for my business, and yet I have never visited the grand manor itself. I should like very much to see Streyfield, and if the gentleman himself is home, I am certain he would be pleased to see you.”
“Oh, no, Uncle, surely we cannot. I could never wish to impose upon Mr Archer.”
“Nonsense; if he is not home, it will be no imposition at all, and if he is, I cannot see how he would fail to be pleased to renew your acquaintance. Drive on,” he instructed the coachman, and Elsabeth, unable to protest further without providing her reasons as to why, fell back into the cushions and could do no more than watch in ever-increasing awe as they approached the manor.
In the distance, it had been impressive; in nearness, it imposed, with windows rising higher than Oakden stood, and with a courtyard of steps that led eventually to a doorway broad enough to allow a carriage through. Those great doors stood open, and beside them, a trim older man of impeccable garb whose dress and manner indicated he was the butler of Streyfield Manor.
“Forgive us,” Mr Penney called genially as they approached. “We had heard that Streyfield was open to visitors, and should like to pay our respects to the gentleman of the house, if he is at home!”
“Mr Archer is not,” the butler replied with a bow, “but you are welcome to be shown the house. Mrs Wells will show you about.”
A housekeeper of later years and a kindly face appeared at his side to curtsey and smile. “Sir, Madame, Miss. Please, I should be pleased to give you a tour. Will you come this way?”
Mr Penney glanced to Elsabeth, who, assured that Mr Archer was not at home, felt a sudden excitement at the prospect of investigating Streyfield. She nodded, and with a smile, they were escorted into the grand manor.
(48)
There was nothing wanting at Streyfield; indeed, there could not be one room shown that did not then look beggared by its sister, save that none could be said to be beggarly at all. It was only that each was so well appointed that the last could not, upon reflection, be measured up to it, and yet returning to a previous room was to discover that it outshone those seen more lately. Mrs Wells spoke warmly of each room, remembering some momentary grace or laughter that brought a spark of life to that which might otherwise have been overwhelmingly austere, and made no objection to the guests pausing to gaze in wonder through windows or at the elegant cornicing of high ceilings.
To Elsabeth’s eye, so long accustomed to judging a land for its walking appeal, Streyfield’s view could not be more lovely. It was not overly kept, but neither was it wild: beyond the tasteful gardens lay tangles well worth exploring, and the hearty lake proved to be fed by a stream of some consequence; both were in view of the house, and bridle paths lay nestled between the bank and the land of each. Meadows were no more cleared than was suitable for hunting, and sat comfortably before the dark green of old woods; Mr Penney, observing, could say no more than “My word, my word.”
Mrs Penney chatted more easily with Mrs Wells, drawing from her more stories as the house unfolded before them; it was she whose breath caught when in a hall of portraits a youthful Captain Hartnell was seen, and Mrs Wells who said, “That would be David Hartnell, who was raised here with the young master. He’s run very wild, I’m afraid, but he were a handsome lad, and I hear that he wears the scarlet well. But let me show you Mr Archer, ma’am.”
This phrasing threw some alarm into Elsabeth’s heart, though it settled again swiftly enough as they were led to another portrait, this of Mr Archer and recently enough painted as well. Mrs Wells, with a fondness Elsabeth could never expect, said, “This is the young master, Mr Archer. Ah, I wish he was here for you to meet, madam. A kinder soul I have never known.”
Mrs Penney was not quite able to keep astonishment from her voice as she responded, “Mr Penney and I have met Mr Archer once, and I should say the likeness is striking. Elsabeth, you are better acquainted with him; do you not think it is like him?”
“Does the young lady know the master?” Mrs Wells asked in delight, and Elsabeth, gazing at the portrait, replied, “Perhaps less well than I thought; indeed, perhaps only a very little at all.”
Archer was not in repose in the portrait; she could not imagine him in repose. But neither was he so stiff and formal as she had known him; he stood with his hand gentle upon a horse’s nose, and though his gaze was turned to the viewer, it seemed his attention was still on the beast, for the hint of a smile curved his mouth and he appeared in all ways attuned to its needs and thoughts. In such a posture Elsabeth could easily see all those she
knew to be associated with him, within him: a little of Lady Beatrice’s nose, a hint of Miss Derrington’s gentility; even, she fancied, a touch of Hartnell’s ease, if not quite Webber’s disarming openness. Even so, he looked altogether approachable, and this, contrasted with her first memory of his black-clad shoulders turning away from her at a country dance, was nearly enough to make Elsabeth laugh. Or perhaps cry: she felt suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, and could not put a name to that which moved her most strongly.
“Is he not handsome?” Mrs Wells asked. “Is it not a fine likeness?”
“It is a very fine likeness. The artist has captured all that is ideal in him.”
“There’s little else to capture, Miss, if I may be so bold as to say so. I’ve been here at Streyfield since before the old master married, and the young master is very like his father. A finer man I’d never met, God rest his soul. Had I any complaints to make about the young master, they would be only that we do not see him enough; he is kept in London on business far too often, and we miss him as much as Miss Archer does.”
“What he needs is a wife,” Mrs Penney predicted cheerfully. “A wife should keep him at home, and a man as handsome as this cannot be wanting in finding one.”
“I think there is no woman who has of yet captured his eye. It is a difficulty for these very wealthy gentlemen, I think; I think they find it hard to know if they are wanted for their estates or their persons. He has spoken lately of a friend’s good fortune in finding a lady whose heart was steadier than expected, and I think that is what he most wishes for himself. You surely never heard me say so,” Mrs Wells added hastily, and laughing assurances met her concerns.
“Did his friend’s fortunes go awry?” Mrs Penney wondered then. “That is a sure way to know a woman’s heart, certainly, but how sad for them if their lives should be plagued with poverty when fortune had once been had!”
“Oh, mercy, no. They are recently wed and away on a tour of Europe now.” Mrs Wells replied cheerfully. “You must think me very above myself, but it’s all what I heard from Miss Persephone, to whom Mr Archer gives all the news. Miss Persephone couldn’t speak to the details, only said that his friend had once parted badly with the lady—upon, I fear, advice from Mr Archer himself!—and that, when Mr Webber came to his senses, the lady’s heart had not changed.”
Such an assortment of coughs and wheezes arose from Mrs Wells’ guests at this comment that she came alight with concern. “Can there be dust? Let me call for a maid; we will have water or lemonade. Mr Archer would scold me for being remiss, taking you on such an endless tour without refreshment!”
“No, no,” Elsabeth protested when it became clear the Penneys were rendered speechless. “No, forgive us, Mrs Wells. It is only that—it is only that you have told a tale quite familiar to my aunt and uncle and me, as it is my own sister, Rosamund, who has lately married Mr Webber!”
No sooner had she confessed this than she wished she had not, for poor Mrs Wells went ashen and pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, forgive me, Miss! I did not mean to gossip, surely! It is only that Mr Archer was so pleased for his friend’s fortune—!”
“No, no, not at all!” Elsabeth seized the dear woman’s free hand, clasping it in both of her own. “It is more delight than I can tell you to know that Mr Archer is glad for Mr and Mrs Webber, and surely, there could be almost no chance of finding oneself relating a tale to those whom it most closely affected! Please, think nothing more of it! We shall say no more ourselves!”
“But you...but you must then be a Miss Dover,” Mrs Wells said in slow realisation. “Would you be Miss Elsabeth Dover?”
“Good heavens, you cannot know my name?” Elsabeth cast a startled glance to her aunt and uncle, who looked no less stupefied than she felt. “I am, yes, Miss Elsabeth Dover, but I cannot imagine how you might be possessed of that intelligence!”
Mrs Wells, at once thoroughly embarrassed and wholly pleased, cried, “Oh, but we here have all heard so much of you, Miss Dover! You have done yourself a disservice; you claim to only know Mr Archer a little, but surely, from his tales, you must be the closest of friends! Oh, do come this way, Miss Dover; there is more that you must see.” She left with such haste that the three relations were obliged to scurry behind her or risk being lost in the labyrinthine manor, and such was their pace that the Penneys could do no more than widen their eyes in curiosity at Elsabeth rather than plague her with questions.
Elsa could do little more than widen her own eyes in return, and could not have done more had they had the leisure of sitting to talk. It was beyond imagination that Mr Archer could have spoken so highly of her, and within hearing—or to!—his staff, and yet she was otherwise entirely unknown in these parts; there could be no other way Mrs Wells might know her name. Surely, though, Mr Archer could have had very little favourable to say on her behalf since January at least, and it was more than half a year on from that month now. Mind aflutter, Elsabeth did not realise they were approaching the sound of a pianoforte until they were in the very room in which it was being played, upon which the music ceased and a tall, slender young woman of perhaps sixteen years rose from behind the keyboard to look curiously at the quartet who had descended upon her.
That this was Miss Archer could not be doubted: she had a look very like Lady Beatrice about her, though her hair was brown instead of black, and had an entirely different texture to it from her aunt’s, and she wore a gown far more conventional in colour than Lady Beatrice was inclined to. But she had every bit of that lady’s beauty, and indeed, by comparison, Mr Archer was the considerably less handsome of the siblings. Her gaze was light with interest, darting from the three unknowns to Mrs Wells and back again. “Mrs Wells?”
“Miss Archer,” Mrs Wells pronounced with an air of triumph, “Taylor will have told you there were visitors to the house, but I have discovered their identities and cannot resist introducing you. Miss Archer, this is Miss Elsabeth Dover! Miss Dover, may I present to you my mistress, Miss Persephone Archer.”
“Miss Dover!” Miss Archer extracted herself from behind the pianoforte and came forward with her hands extended in delight. “What a pleasure! I should never have thought to meet you, and yet here you are, all unasked-for! And who are these?”
“My aunt and uncle, Mr and Mrs Penney,” Elsabeth replied faintly. “Aunt Felicity, Uncle Charles, Miss Persephone Archer. Miss Archer, had we known anyone of the estate was home, we should certainly not have intruded....”
“And then I would never have met you, which would have been a terrible shame. Mrs Wells, would you be so good as to call for refreshment? It is warm,” Miss Archer said to Elsabeth with a certain enthusiasm, and then, as if recalling herself, echoed herself with a very different inflexion: “It is warm? Is it not? You must want tea or lemonade—lemonade!—and scones or—perhaps you have not yet taken lunch. Is it too early? Surely, it is not too late. Might we have lunch, Mrs Wells? And if it is too late for lunch, we will have something else, and then you will stay for supper. You must stay for supper. Won’t you stay for supper?”
“We could not impose,” Elsabeth began, but Miss Archer released her hands to spread her own wide, as if to encompass the entirety of Streyfield.
“You cannot possibly impose upon a single young lady who has all of this to command. Indeed, you and a party of forty others would be no imposition at all, but rather a little bit of glad sound in these lovely halls. Mr Penney, I implore you; surely you are the leader of this expedition and will insist that, because I have asked, you must stay for lunch. Unless it is not lunch, in which case you will stay for supper. Do you reside nearby? Surely, you must not stay at an inn when Streyfield is here and so longing for company! Mrs Wells! Oh, she is gone to get lunch. Taylor! He cannot hear me. Well, when Mrs Wells is returned, we will have her send a carriage to the inn for your belongings, will we not? Am I too bold in my demands? It is only that I am so glad to meet you, Miss Dover! I should never have expected the opportunity! How did you
come to Streyfield?”
“We have been on a tour of the lakelands,” Mrs Penney interjected gently, much to Elsabeth’s relief. Miss Archer reminded her of all the best parts of Leopoldina, and, casting her mind now to Captain Hartnell’s version of how the relationship with Miss Archer had begun, worried that perhaps there were some of the more distressing aspects of Dina within Miss Archer as well. “We had heard of Streyfield’s magnificence, of course, and, finding ourselves nearby, were eager to view it. Miss Dover is correct, of course; had we any notion that the family was at home, we should never have imposed.”
“It is only I who am at home,” Miss Archer reported mournfully. “Gerry is meant to return in a day or two, and he will be entirely vexed that he has missed you. Unless you can be persuaded to stay!” Her aspect reversed itself at once, lighting her face with a smile. “I shall endeavour to persuade you. Please, will you not come with me to the breakfast room? I know it is definitely not breakfast we shall be partaking of, but the room is so pleasant and with such a tremendous view that even in early afternoon, I am inclined to take my meals there. And the worst of the light has passed it now, so it is cosy, not hot, and I am sure you will find it much to your liking.” She led them away from her drawing room as she spoke, and in very little time introduced them to what was indeed a lovely small breakfast room with windows on three sides, that a vast stretch of Streyfield’s estate might be admired while breaking fast.