The Secrets of Scorton Hall: An Historical Regency Romance Mystery

by Kate Carteret

  “She is still bed-bound I am afraid.” Giles said, feeling his insides tighten at the mention of his beloved sister. “She is stable, and her health has not declined any further, but there has been no great improvement either.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” Lord Newfield was already at the end of his caring repertoire.

  “Does the physician not know what ails her?” Constance continued the conversation and Giles wished she would not.

  “Not yet. But these are early days.” He smiled at Constance, trying for polite but knowing it was something rather more brittle.

  “What a shame she will not be well enough to attend the Earl of Watford’s last garden party before Autumn usurps Summer. The fresh air might have done her some good.” Constance persisted.

  “Indeed.” Giles’ one-word answer was designed to bring that strand of conversation to a close.

  And, as far as fresh air went, the source of poor Lucy’s malady had been a garden party at the very first sign of Spring some months before. At first, Giles had thought it simply a case of a young woman of fragile disposition being out for too long on a day that, whilst sunny, had not been particularly warm.

  But the months which followed soon put paid to Giles’ little theory.

  “You will be attending yourself though, Your Grace?” Constance said, her mind already a hundred miles away from Lucy Saville’s ailments and ever closer to her own ambitions in the world.

  “I imagine so.” Giles said as the door to the drawing room opened quietly and the maid, still red-faced, hurried into the room.

  The young woman set the teapot down and hovered uncomfortably for a moment, her hands visibly trembling as she tried to keep her arms steady at her sides. But they stood out against the apron and drew the Duke’s discreet attention.

  There was no need for this, but Constance Newfield had already moved on. She was too busy thinking about how best to shoe-horn the Duke of Westward into her sole company at the last garden party of the season to give any thought to her old complaints about the temperature of the tea.

  “Thank you.” Giles said in a deep voice, his mouth turning up just enough that the maid would realize he was smiling at her.

  “Yes, yes. That will be all.” The Baron wafted a hand at the maid as if he were absent-mindedly swatting away a bluebottle.

  “Papa has already answered Lord Watford’s invitation. We are to attend.” She smiled slowly, oblivious to the retreating maid or the untouched pot of scalding hot tea.

  “It promises to be a fine event if the weather holds.” Giles was almost aching from making such mundane conversation.

  He had been acquainted with the Newfields for only a matter of months and had only lately begun to show any closer attention to Constance. They had been in conversation a little here and there, but never long enough for either of them to yet be at their ease.

  That was why he had agreed to attend Newfield Hall twice now for afternoon tea. It was time to move things along a little and having to spend time making tedious conversation was just the price which must be paid.

  The Duke was almost thirty and time was slipping away. Everything was slipping away. At least if he married Constance Newfield, he would never love her. If she ever slipped away from him, he would recover, as long as she slipped away after providing his heir.

  “And then we will begin the run of winter events.” Lord Newfield said in a deep, loud voice which Giles always found jarring and pervasive. “Are you a sporting man, Your Grace?” He began but did not give Giles a chance to answer. “Yes, of course you are. A fine horseman, I have no doubt.”

  “I manage.” Giles gave a watered-down smile and shifted on the armchair which was everything to style and nothing to comfort.

  “Good, good.” Lord Newfield blustered on. “I host a very fine hunt in this part of Hertfordshire.” He was no stranger to blowing his own trumpet. “Very fine. Very well attended. I would be honored if you could join us.”

  “Of course.” Giles said, unable to think of anything worse than riding along at the side of the rotund, overbearing Baron.

  “And do you fish, Your Grace?”

  “Not very often.” Giles was careful to give his opinion of fishing in his tone.

  “Fishing is too quiet a sport.” Constance said, inserting herself into the conversation again. “I would not like to sit in the rain waiting for a fish to take a bite on the line.” She gave a tinkling laugh and her father smiled with pride.

  What an amusing little conversationalist the Baron thought his daughter was! Giles smiled too and realised that his jaw was aching. It was not smiling too much which had affected him, just smiling without the will to do so.

  Giles knew he would have to adjust his thinking; it was one thing to marry a woman he did not love, but quite another to marry one whose faults he was all too determined to see. Much better he not really give much thought to the woman at all. She was suitable and that was that.

  She was a clever climber whose feelings would not be left in tatters in the knowledge that her husband did not love her. She would do her duty, albeit he would never stand for her grand behavior towards his own staff, and she would make a Duchess one way or another.

  He just hoped that Lucy would soon recover. He did not know how long it would take, or even if a recovery was possible. And if it was not, he suspected that Constance Newfield would simply play her part and keep his secret for him once he chose to tell it to her. She would be unlikely to expose poor Lucy and her ailments to the world.

  But it was too early to put Constance Newfield to the test. He would wait until he was sure he could bear to be married to the woman before he gave her a single truthful detail.

  “I prefer other pastimes, Your Grace.” Constance went on when Giles had said nothing for some time. “I would always prefer a ball in the winter. It is much more civilized than fishing.”

  “And warmer.” Giles forced a smile and listened as Lord Newfield and his daughter laughed politely at the weak joke.

  By the time the afternoon was done, Giles felt exhausted. He could have walked ten miles up hill and not felt as drained as he did when he climbed up into his carriage and bid the Newfields farewell.

  It was true that Giles had never been a willing socializer. His life had been filled with more responsibility than most of his station ever encountered, much of it swirling with grief.

  But the long afternoon of making conversation he didn’t care for was grueling, as was staring at the insipid pale blue and white paintwork of the painfully fashionable drawing room at Newfield Hall.

  The décor and the very latest fabrics inside Newfield Hall seemed much like its occupants in that it all tried just a little too hard for it to ever really be comfortable. The Baron could, of course, afford to keep on top of such matters; he was a wealthy man.

  And his wealth was certainly worth adding to the Duchy coffers for future generations if nothing else. He would do as so many before him had done. He would marry well and pocket the profits and let happiness hang on the breeze just out of his reach.

  With each mile he put between himself and the Newfields, Giles began to feel his energy returning. He was anxious to get back to Lucy; he hated leaving her these days.

  With the sun sitting low in the sky, Giles squinted out across the rolling green countryside of Hertfordshire, the brightness forcing his face into an unintentional smile. He opened the window a little and felt the rush of cooler evening air. The Summer was most definitely on the wane but the chill in the air was worth the wonderful, soothing scent of grass and willow herb.

  When he finally returned to Westward Hall, Giles felt his tension draining away. He was home and he could check on her.

  “How has she been, Mrs Arklow?” He said as he strode through the great entrance hall, not bothering to remove his cloak or top hat.

  “Quiet, Your Grace.” The housekeeper replied sedately. “A little upset at first, but she soon calmed down.”

  “
Thank you.” He smiled at the aging housekeeper who had been a part of the Westward staff since before he was born.

  Still wearing his cloak and hat, he clipped noisily over the chequerboard tiles which stretched the length of the entrance hall. He passed marble busts on tall plinths, representations of ancestors he had long since not bothered to identify.

  “Your Grace,” Mrs Arklow said cautiously as she hastened after him. “Lady Lucy is asleep now. She has been sleeping peacefully this last hour.”

  He paused, his foot hovering over the first step of the straight, red carpet-covered stair case which led to the first story of Westward Hall. He turned back to his housekeeper, his eyebrows raised in question.

  “Perhaps I will just look in at her, I shan’t make a sound.” He had a habit of almost asking permission from Mrs Arklow, an overhang from a boyhood filled with loving chastisements from that fine woman.

  “I’m sure she will appreciate it, Your Grace.” She said with a warm smile. “But what of you? Shall I have something laid on for you, or are you satisfied with the afternoon tea you’ve had?”

  “Some bread and butter would be nice, Mrs Arklow. I will last then until dinner.”

  “Shall I send it up to your chamber, Your Grace?”

  “Thank you, Mrs Arklow.” He said and set off again, careful to go slowly and show Mrs Arklow just how quiet he could be.

  Giles crept along the corridor until her reached the first turn. He lay his face gently against the heavy oak door of his sister’s chamber, listening intently for any sound that she was awake.

  Hearing nothing, he turned the handle slowly and pushed the door gently, holding his breath as if the very sound of his breathing would be enough to wake her.

  But Lucy was sound asleep, laying on her back with her pale face appearing to be looking up at the plasterwork scrolls on the ceiling. He stepped in a little further, seeing now that her eyes were closed, the skin around them so dark against her creamy white skin.

  Her appetite had been less impressive than that of the most fragile bird of late and the weight loss was easy to see, more starkly when she lay as she did. What little flesh there was fell back, exposing the hollows of her cheeks and giving him the awful impression of a body laid out and ready for the graveyard.

  Giles shuddered and felt a prickling of tears which he dismissed with one blink. She was unwell, but it was not the sort of illness which carried one off to the grave. It was the illness of torment; sometimes quiet, sometime disturbed. But still, he would speak to Mrs Arklow and the maids about encouraging her to eat more.

  Lucy was so small, almost childlike. At sixteen years, she should have been blossoming into her very prime, her cheeks forever blushing and her head full of excitement for the life ahead of her.

  If only her life could have been that simple; the frivolous life of a young and privileged girl with nothing more important to worry about than which gown to wear to the next society ball. And in that moment, Giles would have given anything to have her be such a girl. Silly, even a little spoiled, but well. A quiet mind which had never known a moment’s grief.

  Lucy hadn’t moved a muscle since he opened the door and so he crossed the room silently and knelt at the side of her bed, his eyes fixed on her beautiful, frail face.

  “I am here, Lucy.” He said in an almost inaudible whisper. “And I will always be here.” He could feel emotion rising in his throat but could not risk waking her by trying to cough it down.

  “Whatever it takes to have you well again, my precious girl. Whatever it takes.” Finally, he reached out and gently touched the dark hair as it spilled over the white feather-filled pillows as a solitary and private tear gently tracked a course down his face.

  Chapter Three

  Getting out of Brockett House the next morning had been far easier than Anabelle had imagined.

  The monsters of the night time hours had made themselves known, twisting everything and making it all so much worse. In her head, she had imagined Leopold siting outside her chamber all night, ready and waiting for her to make a bid for freedom. But when she came out, he was not there.

  She made her way downstairs, passing Leopold himself at the door to the breakfast room.

  One look at his self-satisfied expression was enough for Anabelle to realize that Leopold already assumed himself to be the victor and that no further effort would be required on his part. As far as he was concerned, Anabelle was trapped in a prison so complete that she did not even need to be locked in.

  And as angry as his certainty made her, Anabelle knew that she should be grateful for it; it would work in her favor to go unnoticed for a while, to have him be so self-assured.

  He smirked at her and ostentatiously held the door open for her to enter the breakfast room. And since she realised that she would not have to tunnel her way out of the house that day, Anabelle decided to eat something before she set off for Forton.

  She passed through the door without thanking him and listened as his footsteps departed. So, she was to eat alone with her cousin’s wife.

  “Oh, Anabelle.” Fenella, who looked up from the breakfast table, greeted Anabelle with the usual disdain.

  “Good morning, Fenella.” Anabelle said with as much warmth as she could muster. “It is a fine day for the end of Summer, is it not?” She took her seat at the table.

  “I daresay.” Fenella, short, thin, with angular features which made her look a little masculine, shrugged.

  “I might go down to the bookseller in Forton.” Anabelle helped herself to bacon and tomatoes from the large serving bowls. “Is there anything I can get for you whilst I am out?” It wasn’t entirely like Anabelle to be so openly friendly towards Fenella, a woman she had not trusted from the beginning, but she wanted to set up her reasons for being away from Brockett House that day.

  “No, I do not think so.” Fenella said and turned her attention to her teacup choosing, as always, not to thank Anabelle for her consideration.

  “Very well.” Anabelle gave a short and brittle smile before falling to silence and eating as much as she could.

  For some reason, it felt like her last meal. She knew that it would take more than a day to find herself employed in another house altogether, but still she thought it wise to feed herself up now. She didn’t know what was coming, after all.

  “I believe you are to visit your sister soon, Fenella.” Anabelle tried again.

  “Yes, I am going to the Midlands at the beginning of next week.” Fenella sounded exasperated with the conversation already.

  “Well, I do hope you have a wonderful time.” Anabelle left it there; she had all the information she needed.

  Enough information that she could no longer continue to eat and the food she had already eaten was churning uncomfortably in her stomach.

  Anabelle had exactly six days to be out of that house. Six days to secure a position and begin her new life. Even without experience of such things, Anabelle knew that she would never manage it. She knew that the world did not move so quickly, not even to keep her safe.

  She had a little money tucked away in her velvet wristlet in her chamber, but certainly not enough to secure herself temporary lodgings at a coaching inn or somewhere similar. Perhaps she would be left on the streets, just as Leopold had said she would be.

  “What is the matter with you now? One moment you are all conversation and the next you look as if the world is coming to an end.” Fenella said with no care at all. “Really, it is very trying just keeping up with your moods.”

  “I am still grieving for my father, Fenella. He has only been gone these last few months.” Anabelle said and felt the familiar antagonism; neither Leopold nor Fenella had shown a moment’s kindness for the loss Anabelle had suffered.

  They truly deserved one another.

  “I see.” Fenella went on with a long-drawn-out sigh which spoke volumes about her boredom.

  “Well, if you will excuse me, I am destined for Forton, Fenella.” Anabelle
rose without finishing her food and walked from the room, not looking back once.

  The office of the Ridley-Smythe employment registry was run by the man himself. Drew Ridley-Smythe was an obsequious man of early middle age with less hair than he ought to have had and an almost permanent squint, even with spectacles.

  He wore a well-made tailcoat in austere dark grey, although the elbows of the garment had been worn to a shine. Anabelle supposed he leaned his elbows on his aging oak desk as he worked.

  “And have you worked as a governess before, Miss Brock?” He said in response to her declaration that she was seeking work.

  “No, Mr Ridley-Smythe, I have not worked before.” She said, taking the seat opposite him when he waved her into it.

  “Ah.” He settled down behind the desk and peered at her over the silver rimmed spectacles.

  “Ah?” Anabelle leaned forward and held his squint-eyed gaze. “That ah of yours makes it sound like a problem.”

  “Not a problem, exactly. I just do not think we have anything suitable.”

  Anabelle felt all hope draining away as she looked around the miserable little office. The walls were paneled in the style of a larger, grander building. But since the office was so small, the oak paneling seemed to make it darker and smaller, oppressively claustrophobic.

  Mr Ridley-Smythe’s desk was so littered with papers that she wondered where he found space to rest his shiny elbows.

  “You seem to be working very hard, Mr Ridley-Smythe. So many papers, Sir.” Anabelle felt utterly despondent but knew she could not yet give in. “Is there not one single open position for a governess anywhere in Hertfordshire? Even further afield, I do not mind where I go.”

  “I have one or two positions, but I have other young ladies on my books who already have the requisite experience.”

  “I am extraordinarily well-educated, Mr Ridley-Smythe. My father saw to it that my education was very through indeed. I would be able to teach boys and girls alike. I was tutored in mathematics and a little science as well as grammar and French. And botany too, I am very well acquainted with the subject.”