The Secrets of Scorton Hall: An Historical Regency Romance Mystery

by Kate Carteret

  “I do not doubt that you are well-educated, Miss Brock. I do not doubt it at all.” He removed the little spectacles and rubbed at the bridge of his nose where they had pinched the pale skin into redness. “But I run a business and I am bound to put my most experienced people into the positions I have. It is the only way to keep my clients coming back to me for all their staffing requirements. It is nothing more than good business sense.”

  “Is there another registry in these parts?” Anabelle said as she fought to keep her fears at bay.

  This was not going as well as she had hoped. Anabelle had never imagined that she would be turned away. After all, an employment registry was just the place for young ladies of good breeding to find such positions. If this did not work for her, the next week and Fenella’s departure for the Midlands loomed large.

  “No. There is one in Buckinghamshire, I believe, but it is on the far side and will take you a little while to get to.” He seemed genuinely concerned; so much so that she could not understand why it was he did not simply help her.

  “Then there is nothing for me.” Anabelle said and slowly rose to her feet.

  The noise of the chair as it scraped across the wooden floorboards seemed much louder than it ought to. It was as if she needed to remember this moment of abject failure.

  “Wait, Miss Brock.” He said gently and nodded her back down into her seat. “Perhaps I do have something that would suit you.”

  Anabelle held her breath. It wouldn’t do any good to get her hopes up, but even if he offered her a position in service, did she really have any option but to accept it? With a heavy heart, she looked at Mr Ridley-Smythe and nodded slowly.

  “Oh?” She said.

  “It is a somewhat unusual position, Miss Brock.”

  “You may as well tell me about it, Sir.”

  “It is to be a paid companion to a young woman of sixteen years. A live-in paid companion.” He said slowly.

  “That sounds like a very appropriate position.” Anabelle said and was about to allow herself a moment’s optimism when she saw a doubtful look cross his face.

  “As I said before, it is a somewhat unusual position.”

  “Unusual in what way?”

  “The young lady in question is unwell. Very unwell.”

  “Oh dear, that sounds very sad for one so young. What ails her?”

  “It is not a physical malady of any kind, rather it is what I believe is called a mental infirmity.” He was studying her closely for her reaction and Anabelle was careful not to give one, despite the disquiet which filled her suddenly.

  “What form does it take?” Anabelle asked levelly; she was not yet ready to walk away.

  “I am afraid that this is as much information as I am permitted to give you without the signing of an agreement.”

  “An agreement?”

  “To remain silent.” Mr Ridley-Smythe leaned his elbows on top of the papers on his desk as if trying to impress the importance of it all with his proximity. “You see, my client demands absolute discretion on the matter. Absolute secrecy.”

  “Who is your client?”

  “That is a large part of the secrecy.” He shrugged. “I cannot tell you the name of my client. In fact, I cannot tell you his name until you meet him yourself. And even then, you would be required to sign a legally binding document to make a promise of your discretion before you even get that far.”

  “And the young woman in question is a relative?” Anabelle was talking in a whisper quite subconsciously.

  “Yes. But I can tell you no more.” He leaned back in his seat now and pushed the spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose and regarded her levelly. “It is an unusual case but the need for secrecy is a very real one.”

  “I see.” Anabelle had the distinct impression that she would have to make a fast decision.

  “If you agree to the position, I will take you out to meet the client tomorrow. He is keen for someone to begin straight away. You would be expected to sign another document when you arrive and then you would start your employment immediately.”

  “I do not even have the opportunity to say no?” Anabelle felt fear creep over her.

  “Well, yes. But only after you have signed further documentation in the presence of the client. The client will not be swayed on that point.”

  “I see.” Anabelle said again, buying herself a little time to think.

  Was it such a terrible prospect? Especially if she could refuse the post in the end. It was not as if she would be a prisoner, she would be free to leave.

  But she would be free to leave in the same way she was free now to leave Brockett House. Free, but to go where?

  “If you are agreeable, I could make the necessary arrangements to take you out there tomorrow in a barouche.” There was something in his eyes which spoke of relief.

  He perhaps thought that he had finally found a young woman desperate enough to fill a position that had likely proved unpopular until this point. She even wondered if Mr Ridley-Smythe had spoken the absolute truth about the lack of other positions and the idea that she needed experience to fill one of them.

  But she could not give voice to her suspicions. This was the only registry in the county that she knew of and she was certain she did not have enough money to make her way to Buckinghamshire, especially when there was no guarantee of a position when she got there.

  “And if I agree to go with you tomorrow, Sir, I would be expected to begin there and then?”

  “Would that be a problem, Miss Brock?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “And the position comes with free living and one hundred pounds a year.” He smiled as if he had held back the only piece of good news until the end.

  “One hundred pounds a year?” Anabelle said incredulously. “To be no more than a companion?” Anabelle had been expecting nothing more than twenty or thirty pounds a year for a governess position.

  One hundred pounds a year would certainly be very welcome. Especially if she could ever lay claim to her own sixty pounds a year again. She would have more money than she had ever expected and, whilst it was not a princely sum, it would certainly give her opportunities to grow a little nest-egg which would maybe serve her well one day.

  But there was the matter of the job to consider. As far as Anabelle could fathom, mental frailty could mean anything. A young woman of sixteen still might be larger than her, stronger than her, and really very disturbed. But then, if she was as disturbed as all that, surely the secret would not have been kept for any length of time. She would likely be in an asylum, even The Bedlam, if her symptoms were so dreadful.

  Nothing was for certain. With so few details from Mr Ridley-Smythe, how could she make a decision based on anything other than hope? Hope that the man sitting opposite her was not sending her cynically into misery. Hope that this, seemingly her only hope, would not see her fixed in a situation equal to or worse than she had at Brockett House.

  But Anabelle had known that even a position as a governess would not necessarily be without its problems. And, as far as she could see, all she could do was take her courage in both hands and deal with future problems in the future. They certainly couldn’t be solved before they occurred.

  “The client feels the renumeration to be further insurance that discretion will be assured.” Mr Ridley-Smythe had clearly left her to ruminate for as long as he would allow.

  “I will take the position.” Anabelle said, feeling suddenly hot and a little nauseous.

  “Then it is settled. Perhaps you should pack everything you intend to take with you tomorrow? It would be simpler, would it not?”

  “Yes.” Anabelle said a little vaguely as if she were in a dream.

  “Perhaps we should have the first of the papers signed. I cannot take you there without.” He began to sort through the jumble of papers on his desk.

  “Yes.” She said again.

  So, this was it. Whatever she thought of the position tomorrow, she kn
ew she would have to take it. Once she had left her cousin’s house, there would be no going back. And she was certain that if she turned the offer down when she got there, as Mr Ridley-Smythe told her she was at liberty to do, the man would never offer her anything else on his books.

  It was this or nothing.

  Chapter Four

  “I did not know that you had someone coming today about the position, Your Grace.” Mrs Arklow said in a whisper when she personally took a fresh pot of tea to the Duke in the breakfast room. “Is there anything I can do? Prepare Lucy, perhaps?”

  “No, I will interview the lady today and ask you to get her settled. I will keep her back from Lucy until tomorrow. That will give Lucy time to digest the information.” He paused dolefully. “If she understands the information in the first place. I can never tell.”

  “I think she does, Your Grace. And there is no harm in explaining things to her even if she doesn’t. That is the way to look at things. Just a little bit at a time.”

  “You are my rock, Mrs Arklow. Really, all these years.” He looked up at her and felt the taut strings of emotion almost at breaking point in his throat.

  “Now, don’t you go getting maudlin, Your Grace. You’ve a busy day ahead of you what with interviewing young ladies I knew nothing about.” Her chastisement was, at its very heart, a kindness and he knew it.

  Mrs Arklow knew him as well as she would have known a son and she could sense his emotions almost in the same moment he could.

  To all intents and purposes, she had been something of a mother to them. He had been only thirteen years old when his beloved mother had passed away giving birth to the girls. His sisters had always looked to Mrs Arklow before their nurse, their governess, and even their own father at times, but so had he.

  As much as he had held up his chin and behaved as a man when his young heart was torn out by grief, Mrs Arklow had always known. She had soothed him quietly, discreetly, when his own father, bound by the conventions of era and gender, could not. She had saved him when he thought his grief would finish him.

  “Mrs Arklow, my dear woman,” He began in a mischievous tone that seemed to make them both feel better. “Firstly, it is only one young lady, not a gaggle of them. And secondly, I had not known myself until this morning. Ridley-Smythe from the registry sent a messenger over this morning to say he has finally found a young woman he thinks suitable for the post. Had I been in receipt of the information myself, you would have been the first to hear it. In fact, you were the first to hear it.” He smiled up at her.

  “Very well, Your Grace.” She fussed a little as she turned his cup in the saucer so that the handle was facing the right way before pouring him some tea fresh from the pot. “And Mr Ridley-Smith is certain he has found just the right sort of young woman?” She went on and Giles stifled a laugh.

  Ever since Ridley-Smythe had first graced his study at Wentworth Hall, Mrs Arklow had taken a dislike to the obsequious man and always made a point of referring to him as Smith and not Smythe. When Giles had asked her why she was so intent upon mispronouncing his surname, she declared that it was likely always Smith and that the man was giving himself airs.

  “You still do not care for him?” Giles looked up from his tea cup. She did not say a word, she merely shook her head and looked so disdainful that Giles laughed. “I am not sure he has necessarily found the right young woman, to answer your question, Mrs Arklow.”

  “Your Grace?” She looked at him quizzically.

  “I suspect she is the only one thus far who has even agreed to meet Lucy. I daresay the others have refused immediately thinking that they could not manage a mad woman.”

  “You must not upset yourself with thoughts like that, Your Grace. You know very well that Lady Lucy is not mad. She is distressed. Greatly distressed, but she is not mad.” She laid a hand on his shoulder for the briefest moment. “And who knows? Perhaps some new company will do her a little good. With only the two of us and Muriel attending to her she must be a little tired of the same old company. Perhaps a younger woman, someone nearer her age than mine, will go a long way to helping her mend. You must have hope, Your Grace.”

  “Mrs Arklow, whatever would I do without you?” He smiled warmly at the woman who had stood in as the Saville children’s mother for sixteen years and counting.

  “I’ve no idea how you’d manage, Your Grace.” She said with her customary huff. “I don’t think you’d get much comfort from Mr Standish.” Whenever she was being irreverent, which in truth was not often, Mrs Arklow always lowered her voice and looked all about her for any sign of a witness.

  “No more I would!” Giles said and laughed heartily at the thought of his butler, the austere and entirely proper Mr Standish, attempting comfort of any kind. “Now I do feel better, Mrs Arklow. I thank you for your kindness.”

  “I shall leave you to your breakfast.” She said with a smile, always awkward in the face of compliments that she still had no real idea how to accept. “You will need a full stomach for the morning ahead, Your Grace, so eat well.”

  “I shall.” He looked up into the lined face.

  Mrs Arklow was getting close to sixty years now, with a robust figure, dark silvery hair which was more the color of lead than the snowy hair of other ladies her age. She wore a long-sleeved gown in the darkest blue with a higher than usual neckline and a minimal frill of crisp white lace around the collar. She rarely wore an apron over her gown, that was for the maids. Mrs Arklow managed all and did not often undertake the household works anymore.

  Which was not to say that she never did, for she was not too proud to help the maids if the house was being prepared for an event. And he knew well how she had prepared little meals for Lucy with her own hands and at all hours of the day and night.

  Mrs Arklow hurried away leaving Giles to eat his breakfast. But he was forcing down the eggs, bread, and kippers because his appetite was nowhere to be seen.

  He felt strangely nervous of meeting this young woman and that was something which had never happened to him before. He was the Duke of Westward and had been since he was just eighteen years of age; he most certainly did not feel ill at ease in anybody’s company.

  Of course, it was not the young woman herself, but rather what she represented. He was about to tell his secret to another and he felt as if he was falling backward from a cliff edge, sailing through the air with nothing to grab on to and no idea when he would finally strike the ground.

  This was exactly what he’d felt when he had first approached Ridley-Smythe with his requirements. And since Ridley-Smythe had proved trustworthy, all he could do was hope that the young woman was the same.

  And if she were not, he would make her suffer for it. He would make her wish she had never set eyes on Westward Hall.

  It was a great relief for Anabelle to climb up into the barouche outside the employment registry in Forton. She had been awake all night, so fearful that she would oversleep and not leave at the appointed hour.

  And that hour had been four o’clock in the morning. She had packed two large cloth bags with everything she could carry. These were the essentials; gowns, shawl, boots, nightgowns. There had been no chance of packing her wooden trunk, for how would she have carried it? Such preparations were all very proper, but entirely impractical for one taking flight before the rest of the household was awake.

  To creep through the house had shredded her nerves dreadfully, but her fear had kept her both careful and alert. Anabelle had never realised until the moments of her departure just how many sounds a house made at night. There were creaks and groans, draughts which came as almost-human sighs, and endless ticking from so many clocks.

  The house had felt like a living thing to her and, as her mind tended towards the fanciful in the face of her fears, she wondered what that living, breathing house thought of its appalling occupants.

  And the outside world had been no better. As Anabelle had crept through the grounds in the silvery moonlight, she heard ho
ots, whistles, rustling, little cries of prey finally caught by their tormentor. And in hearing it all, she felt herself to be watched.

  Creeping through the woodland on the edge of her cousin’s small estate, she imagined that all the wildlife watched her make her escape; a woodland full of narrowed yellow eyes following her every step.

  By the time she reached the road, she felt a little better. But it had still been dreadfully lonely out there and she both feared and longed for the sound of hooves and carriage wheels on the road.

  She made it down into Forton on foot and carrying her possessions in little more than an hour. She was not set to meet Mr Ridley-Smythe until eight o’clock and the three hours she spent moving from place to place so as not to draw suspicion from the few people up and about in town had exhausted her further still.

  When she climbed into the barouche, she was not only relieved but inordinately grateful for somewhere warm and comfortable to sit.

  “I see you have packed as I suggested.” Mr Ridley-Smythe seemed pleased.

  “Yes. I shall not be returning to my former abode.” Her fatigue was making her a little too forthcoming, but what did it matter now?

  What did it matter if Mr Ridley-Smythe thought he had her like a fish wriggling and thrashing on the end of his line? For that was the truth and there was nothing she could do about it. Why expend energy playing games of any kind?

  “I see.” He said and made a show of responding cautiously.

  “How far are we to go?” She said and held his squinty gaze with steadiness. “Really, what is there to keep secret now about the location, Mr Ridley-Smythe? We are on our way there and I shall see it soon enough.” She said with sarcasm when he did not immediately respond.

  “It is on the northernmost part of Hertfordshire, bordering Bedfordshire and Cambridgeshire rather than Buckinghamshire. We have some little distance to cover.” He said as if conceding.

  “Thank you.” Anabelle said and turned to look out of the barouche window.