Donna Fletcher
Page 4
Billie sniffed the warm, spicy air appreciatively. She detected the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg, a favorite blend that brought back memories of her home. The nostalgic thought left her with a mixed sense of loss and welcome.
“Have you gone daft?” Matilda scolded her husband. “Bringing the lady here?”
Billie offered a smile with an explanation. “The kitchen is my favorite room in the house. It always smells so inviting. And your kitchen smells deliciously inviting.”
Matilda beamed, her round face blushing with the sincere compliment. She was equal in height to her husband, her figure being pleasantly round but not plump. Her gray hair was neatly fashioned in a knot at her nape. The color almost matched her starched gray dress that was brightened by a white collar and wide cuffs and a white bib apron. “It is an honor to have you here, m’lady.”
“I’m happy to be here.” Billie returned the sincere reception with honesty. She had worried about the difficulties she would face in setting down new roots in a foreign country. But to her relief it appeared kitchens were conducive to establishing friendships no matter the location. “Won’t you join me in some tea? I have tons of questions to ask you about the manor.”
Matilda shot her husband a questioning glance. Pembrooke shrugged and shook his head.
“You wish me to join you for your meal, m’lady?”
“Yes. With so much to learn about the manor and the area, I am anxious to start.” Billie scooted in along the bench, her back to the window so the sun’s warm rays could toast her.
Matilda took the tray from Pembrooke and carried it to the table after having added another cup.
Pembrooke left the room wanting no part of women’s gossiping tongues.
Billie enjoyed the hot cinnamon bread spread generously with honey butter while Matilda, still reserved in her manner, explained the difficulties and joys of running such a large home.
“Help is hard to keep,” Matilda said.
“Because of the ghost?” Billie asked, deciding it was time to learn more about the apparition that supposedly haunted her chamber last night.
Matilda paled and her mouth trembled slightly when she asked, “Ghost?”
“The ghost of Radborne Manor.” Billie seemed surprised by her response. She had to have been familiar with the ghost stories concerning the manor, so why the nervous tremors? “The villagers told me of him last night.”
“Rumors and rubbish,” Matilda snapped, though her voice still quivered.
“My sentiments exactly,” Billie agreed, though a slight tremor of uncertainty raced through her.
“This old manor has drafts and chills enough to send the shivers through a person. But no ghost haunts its halls.”
“Then why the stories?”
“Legends,” Matilda said, and added another scoop of sugar to her tea, stirring it gently along with her thoughts. “People love to spin tales and create legends, and if there ever was a man a legend could be made of, it was Lord Radborne.”
Was there no one in St. Clair who thought unkindly of Maximillian Radborne? It appeared the number of his virtues knew no bounds. He had been extraordinary, or so people recounted often enough. Billie kept her thoughts to herself and continued to listen.
Matilda surprised Billie when she stood and said, “Let me acquaint you with the main portion of the manor. You don’t want to be getting yourself lost.”
At that moment Billie learned two important facts about Matilda. She didn’t gossip and she could be trusted.
Matilda guided her through the various rooms on the first floor. Billie was whisked through the receiving parlor, the family parlor, the library and the study. Billie left each with a dismal shake of her head. Dark colors. Portraits of pinched-faced people. Heavily tasseled drapes.
The conservatory was next and it took Billie’s breath away. The glass room abounded with plants, some flowering and some rich in green foliage. Comfortable chairs and sofas with exotic jungle print cushions—certainly not Lord Radborne’s drab taste she thought—and several tables, which held a variety of books and plants, welcomed visitors. Billie knew her visits here would be frequent.
On the second floor Matilda introduced her to the master wing where Billie resided. Off the long corridor sat an embroidery parlor, a small family parlor, the wife’s quarters and of course the master’s chambers which she currently occupied.
“Now for the left wing,” Matilda said, and turned in the opposite direction.
“Wait,” Billie called out, her voice bouncing off the walls in a soft echo. She hurried up to Matilda. “We’ll tour the remainder of the house another time. I wish to speak with Mr. Hillard.”
“Very well, m’lady. Then I shall see to your unpacking while you are gone. George Beecham left your luggage here early this morning. I’ll make certain your things are attended to properly.”
Servants attending to chores she had normally handled herself would take some getting used to. And though she enjoyed some of the fuss her new lifestyle bestowed on her, she didn’t wish to relinquish all her familiar ways. Especially since her mother had ingrained the fact that idleness fostered laziness.
She thanked Matilda for her help, receiving a surprised look from the woman as she hurried off to her room.
Billie spent a few minutes gathering the necessary papers to present to Mr. Hillard. She slipped into her matching lilac spencer jacket and tucked on her scoop bonnet, securing the ties beneath her chin. Her pale gray gloves were added just before she left the room.
Pembrooke waited at the front door for her. “The coach is being brought around front for you, m’lady.”
“The day is too glorious to ride. I thought I would walk.”
Pembrooke shook his head like a patient parent advising a child. “That is not a good idea. The roads are thick with mud from yesterday’s downpour.”
Billie frowned in disappointment. She loved to walk and had done so often in Nantucket. There was always a neighbor or friend about with a smile or a bit of conversation to share. She had hoped to find the same friendly atmosphere in St. Clair. But Pembrooke was right. In her haste to make friends she had failed to consider the condition of the roads after last night’s storm.
“The coach it will be,” she announced and was rewarded with a satisfied smile from Pembrooke.
In minutes she was in the village, her ride having been far more pleasant and less bumpy than the previous night. Benny, a dear old man who was hired on occasion from the village, promised to return at three sharp for her.
Billie knocked at the door of the Percy Hillard’s stone cottage, prepared for what she was certain would be a confrontation.
o0o
After a long fifteen minutes of reading the documents Billie had presented to him, Percy Hillard proclaimed, “I don’t believe it. You’re Billie Latham?”
“You have the proof in your hands,” Billie snapped, irritated by his skepticism. She had communicated often through the post with this man. He had been professional and concise in his dealings, but then he had assumed her a man. Did he feel her inadequate of managing the manor and her affairs simply because she was a female? His sharply punctuated response irked her all the more.
“I still don’t believe it.”
“I am Billie Latham and I own Radborne Manor,” she persisted. “The documents are legal and binding. You processed them yourself. Need I say more?”
Percy Hillard mopped his perspiring brow with his white handkerchief. “Good Lord, Radborne would turn over in his grave if he knew.”
Billie didn’t care for the man’s poor conduct, or his attitude toward her gender in accepting her ownership of the manor, so her response was less than delicate. “From what I understand he’s not in it.”
Percy’s eyes almost popped out of his head and he found speech difficult. “You-you saw his-his ghost?”
Billie stood, a silent announcement that their meeting was nearly over. “A little detail you forgot to mention?”
Billie tugged her gloves back on. “I don’t believe in ghosts, Mr. Hillard.” She issued a short, silent prayer for her fib before proceeding. “But I do believe the documents I signed are in order. I now own Radborne Manor . . . ghost and all. I expect a full accounting of the estate in two days’ time. Since there is nothing else to discuss, I shall be on my way.”
She closed the door on the shaking man as he poured himself a liberal glass of brandy.
At the end of the crushed shell walkway Billie paused and released the exasperated sigh that had been bottled inside her.
The last few months had been difficult. She had lost her family, her home and her security. And just when she thought the situation hopeless, the letter from Percy Hillard had arrived and resurrected her courage with the promise of a stable future.
Radborne Manor was now her home, regardless of a less than joyful welcome and a so-called ghost with a spirited attitude.
With a spring in her step and determination in her heart, she set off to acquaint herself with the village.
Chapter Five
The village of St. Clair was alive with activity. Carts burdened with hay, produce and chopped wood meandered down the street, the horses as lazy in their pace as the drivers themselves. Cheerful greetings sounded often in the crisp air. Carts stopped alongside each other for drivers to exchange recent news. Children chased one another in jest, while dogs joined in the game, nipping at their heels and mothers chattered in groups, spreading the latest gossip.
St. Clair was many miles removed from Nantucket, but the village scene was a common one. Billie had hoped to find similarities and she hadn’t been disappointed. Mothers were mothers and children were children no matter where they lived.
She surveyed the remainder of the street, noting the Cox Crow Inn sat near the opposite end and taking care to remember an apothecary shop stood next to a copper shop. A seamstress shop and a tin shop resided across the street while private stone cottages mingled amongst them all.
Taking a deep breath, Billie smiled as the pungent scent of fresh-caught fish filled her nostrils. It was a familiar odor, and not surprising to detect, since fishing was the mainstay of this small coastal village, much like Nantucket. More and more a sense of coming home surrounded Billie’s new, yet strikingly similar, environment.
Billie’s wandering glance caught sight of Bessie near the end of the street. She was involved in a conversation with an older, distinguished woman and a man. Her interest piqued and anxious to establish friendships, Billie took herself off to join the trio.
Bessie smiled broadly at her approach. She bobbed her head. “Good day, m’lady. How was your first night at Radborne Manor?”
“Uneventful,” Billie said, aware that gossip spread rapidly in small villages and she, more than likely, was the main topic at the moment.
“How delightful,” the older woman remarked. “I purposely took a morning stroll hoping to meet St. Clair’s newest resident and here you are.”
Bessie politely made the introductions. “Billie Latham, may I present Mrs. Claudia Nickleton.”
“The town busybody, but then I have no other forms of entertainment to occupy my time, or interesting hobbies to keep me active. Anyway,” Claudia said with a wave of her hand, “busybodying suits me.”
Billie admired her forthrightness. There was nothing pretentious about her. Tall and slim, elegantly attired in a soft powder-blue day dress with matching cape and bonnet atop her white hair that curled softly around her narrow face, Claudia epitomized the perfect lady. Billie took an instant liking to her, taking special note of her eyes, the blue color being as sharp as her wit.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Nickleton.”
“Good heavens, dear, call me Claudia, or you will make me feel ancient. Not that I’m not, but I would much prefer to think of myself as ageless.”
Billie didn’t hide her smile. It spread generously across her face highlighting her gentle features to stunning.
“Good Lord, you are a beauty,” Claudia complimented and directed her next comment to the man who stood silently beside her. “Don’t you think she is a beauty, Vicar Bosworth?”
Billie had attempted to sneak a glimpse of the vicar while conversing with Claudia, but to no avail. He had remained quiet, his head bent and his shoulders hunched. His posture appeared to be permanently positioned as though in perpetual prayer.
Vicar Bosworth raised his head slowly, his spectacles sliding to the tip of his nose while he studied Billie intently for a brief moment. His response was a simple “Yes.”
Billie rarely blushed, yet she couldn’t prevent the heat that rushed to tinge her cheeks. The vicar was far from a handsome man; scholarly was a more accurate description. His dark hair was severely drawn back, accentuating a complexion so pale he appeared almost ghostly white. His height was hard to determine due to his stooped posture. He had a slight bulge to his midriff and on his chin off to the right sat a dark mole. His deep, soothing voice and simple, yet sincere response had struck a tender chord within her. He actually intrigued her. Why? She couldn’t quite understand.
“John, really,” Claudia scolded with a sly grin. “You are so articulate when you deliver Sunday service. A simple yes will not do—elaborate.”
The vicar, made nervous by Claudia’s demand, shifted his weight from one leg to another and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose only to have them slide down again. When he finally spoke, his voice was once again soothing, reaching out to comfort and support. “Welcome to St. Clair, Miss Latham.”
“Oh fuss and bother, John,” Claudia snapped with motherly scolding. “How do you ever expect to find yourself a wife if you don’t take advantage of opportunities?”
The vicar shook his head at Claudia and attempted a distraction by righting his glasses. The wire rims refused to comply.
Billie tactfully interfered, noting the vicar’s discomfort and wishing to spare him embarrassment. “I am pleased to meet you, Vicar Bosworth, and I am happy to be here in St. Clair.”
“Well, Bessie and I have errands to run,” Claudia said in a rush while giving Bessie a gentle shove. “You two just carry on with your lively conversation. I’ll be in touch soon for a visit to the manor. Ta-ta.” And with a flippant wave of her hand she was off.
“Claudia Nickleton is one of St. Clair’s more colorful residents,” the vicar said with a faint smile.
She noticed his smile was hesitant as if he were unsure, more of himself than of her. She favored his kindly manner and felt comfortably at ease around him. “I have met only a few of the villagers and found them most friendly and helpful.”
“Then you plan to remain in St. Clair?”
Billie thought his question odd, but given the gossip concerning the manor she supposed his query was reasonable. “Radborne Manor is my home now. I find it quite to my liking and have no intention of deserting it.” She thought she caught the slight tensing of his jaw and his tone took on a deeper quality when he spoke.
“You are a brave woman to travel so many miles alone and to such an uncertain future.”
“Uncertain?” she asked confused. Why would he feel her future uncertain? Did he, too, think so little of a woman’s ability to survive on her own?
He dropped his gaze to his scuffed boots, apparently embarrassed by his remark and the need to clarify it. “I only meant that—that without family and friends and in unfamiliar surroundings your future could—could prove lonely at times.”
Billie found his response thoughtful and considerate, like that of a trustworthy friend. She would enjoy getting to know him better. “Vicar Bosworth, you obviously need to learn more about me. I love adventure and challenge, and travel to distant lands excites me. I look forward to making friends and hopefully establishing a family here for myself.”
Again the vicar’s smile appeared hesitant as
did his response. “Please call me John and—”
“Then you must call me Billie,” she interjected then waited for him to proceed.
“Billie,” he said with a nod and added softly. “I would like to learn more about you.”
Pleased by his willingness toward the same notion, she extended an appropriate invitation. “I would like that, John. Perhaps you could join me for supper one evening?”
His hands were instantly at his nose, pushing his spectacles up only to have them slide down again. Billie realized it as a nervous gesture and she wondered if she had somehow offended him.
She sought to correct any error she had inadvertently made. “If evening is an inconvenient time for you perhaps we could take tea together one afternoon?”
“Supper or tea would be fine,” he said, his squinting eyes peering over the rims of his glasses.
Enjoying her chat, she decided to query the vicar concerning the alleged ghost of the manor. “Tell me, John, do you believe in this nonsense of a ghost at Radborne Manor?”
John folded his hands piously in front of him and rocked a bit on his heels. “I have been the vicar here but six months. I have learned that telling the story is a favorite pastime of many. The villagers seem to delight in their resident ghost. And from what I have been told of Maximillian Radborne, he was a formidable man.”
“I wonder though,” Billie said, her head turned away for a moment to glance at the manor in the near distance. “Was Lord Radborne the all-powerful and divinely handsome man everyone contends him to have been?”
“You have doubts about his legendary qualities?”
“I find that legends tend to be embellished upon, for sake of entertainment or just plain storytelling prose.”
“Then you doubt the ghost’s existence?”
“Do you believe it exists?” Billie challenged in return.
The vicar’s expression was firm and positive. “No. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I have my own doubts as to the existence of ghosts.” And doubts they were. She doubted if mere mortals could handle such daunting creatures.