The Duke's Agent

by Rebecca Jenkins

  ‘I only ask because,’ she began slowly, ‘I had a notion they might be related. They have a similar ironic glance they give one when something in the company amuses them. And I fancy there is a resemblance about the lower portion of the face – some look about the mouth.’ Miss Lonsdale seemed to catch herself and ended with an airy question. ‘Is Sir Thomas an intimate friend of the Duke’s, Lady Catherine?’

  ‘Intimate enough to be discreet,’ responded the old reprobate.

  In any normal circumstances Jarrett could exonerate himself of the sin of gossip. Friends and family were in the habit of teasing him for his indifference to the minutiae of acquaintances’ emotions and opinions of one another. And yet, although every social instinct told him to slip away, Raif Jarrett lingered behind his bush.

  ‘Do you not find Mr Jarrett a fine artist, ma’am?’ asked Miss Lonsdale. ‘That portrait he took of Sally Grundy was very like. Of course, she was a strikingly beautiful girl. It is only natural that a man would notice her.’

  ‘And what concern is it to you if Mr Jarrett noticed her, girl?’

  Walcheren chose this particular moment to protest at having to stand so long. He tossed his head against the stiff bush with a deafening snort, and nudged his master impatiently. Rudely pushed from concealment, Jarrett was forced out into the garden to face its startled occupants.

  ‘Lady Catherine – I beg your pardon. It was not my intention to intrude. I was passing and – Sir Thomas – I wondered if Sir Thomas had returned? Your servant, ma’am. Miss Lonsdale.’

  Miss Lonsdale stood frozen, her left arm stretched out to rest on Lady Catherine’s pianoforte.

  ‘Why, Mr Jarrett.’ The young woman spoke as if she were quite accustomed to visitors leaping out unannounced from behind bushes. ‘I have a message for you…’ All at once, a rosy flush suffused Henrietta’s skin and she looked away in confusion. The old lady rose from her stool, her face composed into a polite mask that Jarrett found several degrees more unsettling than her habitual look of mischief. Threading her arm through Jarrett’s she hurried him to a little bench.

  ‘Come in, come in, Mr Jarrett. You will drink tea with us. Fancy! Take his horse and fetch us some tea.’

  The bewildered Mr Jarrett noticed the maid who had been sitting behind her mistress. Fancy had a distinctive face that appeared to have been moulded out of uncooked dough. Two dull button eyes looked him up and down. Returning the compliment he stared back. Lady Catherine’s maid was a short woman with a deep bosom that preceded her like the prow of a ship. The weight of carrying this ample endowment gave her a ram-rod bearing, as if nature’s humour had been to contrast the curve of the mistress’s back with excessive straightness in the servant’s. Fancy began to take Walcheren’s reins from him.

  ‘Oh, no, Lady Catherine, I cannot stay! As you see,’ he pointed out reasonably, ‘I have ridden some way today and my horse needs attention. I do not mean to disturb you.’

  Reason, however, was as nothing to Lady Catherine.

  ‘Nonsense. Take the animal to Finlay in the stables, Fancy; tell him to have a care of the beast or he’ll answer to me. Hurry, girl. We’re thirsty. Tea, now!’

  Jarrett seldom felt so powerless as in exclusively female company. It was too absurd to begin tussling with a middleaged maid for possession of the reins, so he let them go. He looked after the woman as she led the big horse away, half hoping that Walcheren would not take kindly to so unconventional a groom. Indeed, a few paces across the lawn, the tall bay stopped and took a hard side-glance at the diminutive figure beside him. Fancy’s pugnacious face tilted up, she mouthed some short simple words and the pair resumed their progress. Fancy, it seemed, was to be intimidated by neither man nor beast.

  Lady Catherine settled herself on the bench, arranging Jarrett between her and a somewhat reticent Henrietta.

  ‘What news, Mr Jarrett, what news?’ she demanded.

  ‘Well, ma’am, I have spoken to Miss Grundy’s play-actor friend and I judge him to be out of the running.’

  ‘That is no way to tell a tale, Mr Jarrett. Begin at the beginning. How did this Lady Yarbrook receive you?’

  Reconciling himself to his predicament, Jarrett embarked on the tale of Lady Yarbrook’s promenade performance and the fashion in which he was press-ganged into her rehearsal. Lady Catherine was particularly tickled by the image of Lady Yarbrook bowling along in her little wicker carriage declaiming the improbable part of a virtuous young wife, and she made him repeat his story until Fancy returned with a procession of footmen bearing tea and a tea table.

  The sunset was well established. The amber light deepened and became suffused with violet. The box hedges framing the garden seemed to form a bowl in which the rosy light reflected the decadent glory of the setting sun.

  ‘Will you pour, my dear? You know my wrists. Weak wrists, Mr Jarrett,’ Lady Catherine explained. ‘Have a need for a good healthy young companion with strong wrists or I’d never get me tea!’ She threw her head to one side, as others might throw their heads back, and cackled at her own humour. ‘We have not been idle here, Mr Jarrett.’ Her bright eyes twinkled. ‘No, no. We also have news, do we not, Miss Henrietta?’

  After her first moment of discomfiture, Henrietta formed an oasis of serenity in the midst of this extraordinary scene. Her own manner could not be faulted, yet at the same time she managed to treat her companion’s behaviour as if it were entirely unremarkable.

  ‘My aunt’s cook, Mrs Grundy, would very much like to speak with you, Mr Jarrett,’ Miss Lonsdale explained. ‘She has had a visit from Mrs Munday, the woman in whose house Sally Grundy lodged, that has distressed her. I do not know what passed between them but she has been most insistent that she must speak with you.’

  ‘Would it be convenient for me to call on Mrs Grundy tomorrow, perhaps?’

  ‘Nonsense. You’re a man of action, Mr Jarrett. Grasp the opportunity and escort Miss Lonsdale home tonight.’ Lady Catherine did not wait for anyone else’s opinion. ‘A gentleman escort to see you home,’ she informed Henrietta. ‘Your aunt would approve.’

  ‘I assume, Lady Catherine, that Sir Thomas has not yet returned?’ Jarrett asked, hoping to divert his hostess’s attention. Miss Lonsdale hardly seemed to relish the prospect of his escort, while his own mind was increasingly on his forthcoming meeting with his informant. He did not want to be late.

  ‘No. We expect him in the early hours. Zachary Ison sent word to him about this petty session of his.’

  ‘Sir Thomas’s business must have been pressing. I imagine it troubles him to be absent when such affairs are afoot in the parish. The magistrates will be regretting the lack of his counsel.’

  Lady Catherine snorted. ‘Thomas! Poor Thomas has a weakness, Mr Jarrett.’

  ‘Not constitutional, I hope, ma’am?’

  ‘Constitutional! You could say so – to his pocket! For all Thomas likes to fancy his health bad, he’s as strong as a mule. He’ll outlive us all.’ The wizened apple face tilted towards him with sly wisdom. ‘Two things you should mark about Thomas, Mr Jarrett. One, Thomas don’t like to trouble himself. And two, Thomas’s revenues are tied up in mines; lead mines, Mr Jarrett.’ The old lady paused for effect. Mischief buzzed, a palpable aura about her. ‘Don’t know what I’m talking about, eh? Think the old woman’s babbling?’ She pecked her pointed head at him.

  ‘Lady Catherine, how should I ever dare to suggest such a thing?’ he asked in a deliberately satirical fashion. Even allowing for her physical misfortunes, Lady Catherine’s behaviour was deplorable. For a moment he watched her debate whether or not to fling into one of her sulks. He judged she enjoyed the game too much to leave it unfinished.

  ‘There is money in mines, Mr Frederick Clever Jarrett. Money; so long as the men go down the workings. In these parts it is our Mr Raistrick who sees that they do – or don’t.’ The old lady settled her hands over her rounded stomach. Her posture with her hump gave her the look of a leering turtle raised up on its hind l
egs.

  ‘Can the mine-owners not find another agent, Lady Catherine?’

  ‘Open your eyes, Mr Frederick Raif Jarrett. There is no other agent in this district. If His Grace the Booby has held on to any interest in mines, Mr Raistrick will be his agent, too. He is a cunning fox,’ she pronounced, as if she liked Raistrick rather better for it.

  ‘He is a brute, Lady Catherine,’ exclaimed Henrietta unexpectedly.

  Lady Catherine flicked her a cynical glance, softened with a sort of affection.

  ‘Don’t let your nicety cloud your judgement, girl. Brute he may be, but he is mighty clever and determined.’

  ‘I see now how a plain provincial lawyer might find his way on to the bench,’ commented Jarrett.

  ‘Not necessarily a quick-witted boy, but he comes round in the end.’ Losing interest in her topic, Lady Catherine began to shift restlessly. ‘I shall tell Thomas you will meet him at tomorrow’s petty session,’ she ended petulantly.

  Light gave up the struggle and shadows overran the ground. The garden grew cold under a flushed carmine sky. Fancy appeared with a large shawl and began to envelop her mistress in it.

  ‘I’ve had Miss Henrietta’s carriage brought round, my lady.’ The maid exchanged a brief glance with Miss Lonsdale. ‘Mr Finlay says that, since he has given the gentleman’s horse a good rub-down and made him comfortable, he might like to leave him in the stables for tonight. I’ve taken the liberty of having one of Sir Thomas’s saddle mounts readied for the gentleman.’

  ‘She’s right. A gentleman always has a care of his horseflesh, my father used to say. He was a fool but a good horseman. You take the horse, Mr Frederick Raif Jarrett. Finlay can ride yours over to you tomorrow when it is rested.’

  ‘My horse and I are most grateful for your hospitality, Lady Catherine.’

  ‘Fiddle-faddle! Be off, the pair of you. It’s growing dark and I’m chilled.’

  *

  Jarrett was calculating how long he had to allow to reach Woolbridge in time for his meeting. He had hoped for the leisure to locate Duffin, thinking that the poacher’s local knowledge and brawny frame might be of assistance to him in his next encounter with the miner. As he escorted Miss Lonsdale to her carriage he considered how he might extract himself from his present duty without causing offence.

  Henrietta watched the agent’s abstracted face. Miss Lonsdale had a secret. She knew that the propriety she assumed in society was a sham; a deceit by which she disguised the shameless, inquisitive person she really was. Henrietta Lonsdale took an infinite interest in people – people of all sorts and degrees. She took pleasure in observing them, learning about their lives, speculating as to their secrets. Her private sense of exile from the person she ought to be was the basis of the affection she held for Lady Catherine. The spirited old woman embodied in her extraordinary exterior the dilemma that Henrietta herself wrestled with inside. Miss Lonsdale examined the tanned features of the man beside her. He looked tired and drawn. She considered how much he was likely to have seen of their performance in the rose garden. In a half-amused way she wondered whether she had shocked him. A sudden sense of freedom bubbled up inside her. She did not regret that it was he who had glimpsed the nature she hid from the general world.

  As he was about to hand her into her carriage she turned to him.

  ‘You have spent so much time on horseback today, Mr Jarrett, would you care to ride the short distance to Longacres with me?’

  His plans of evasion crumbled before her open-faced enquiry. So long as he did not linger he would still have time to make the churchyard before midnight. He cast a quick look at the coachman. Evidently a family servant. Surely he would be chaperon enough for country ways. He bowed acceptance of her invitation and saw the saddle horse tethered securely behind the carriage before climbing after her into the cramped interior. They sat side by side. There was little space between them and Jarrett had to clasp the window strap to hold himself at a proper distance. Miss Lonsdale noticed the stiff way her escort pulled one leg into the carriage after the other and the almost imperceptible unease with which he settled into his seat.

  ‘Is your leg troubling you?’ she enquired kindly. ‘You have been ill, I think.’

  Jarrett found her unpredictable character unsettling. Despite her maidenly status Miss Lonsdale habitually carried herself with the composure of an established matron. He was at a loss how to behave towards her.

  ‘I am a soldier, ma’am – serving with the 16th Light Dragoons in Portugal,’ he explained. ‘I sustained a wound in February that sent me home on leave, but I am recovered. As for this,’ he cast a light-hearted look at his leg, ‘it is merely bruised and I playing for sympathy.’

  He found himself talking to her of his impressions of Portugal and Spain – the landscape, the people, the customs. Her dove-grey irises were flecked with charcoal. They radiated intelligence, blended with a sympathetic interest that solicited confessions.

  Henrietta understood why Lady Yarbrook was so taken with Mr Jarrett’s reading. His voice was charming of itself; deep with just a touch of a husky catch to it. It had a tone that seemed to reverberate inside her. He was telling her of some friends he had made in Spain. A married couple, charming hosts on whose country estate he had idled one summer.

  ‘Their property lay in the path of the enemy’s advance last autumn. Some weeks into that campaign I was in the district and passed by to see what the French had left.’ There was a stillness within the carriage. The sounds of the wheels on the road seemed to belong to a separate world. ‘It was a dark winter night. I had been scouting in the hills for some days. I had hopes my friends had been absent when the soldiers came. The French are not well-behaved visitors. Through a window, by candlelight, I looked in on a scene of great wreck and destruction. My friends sat on a sabre-torn sofa sharing a meagre picnic laid out on a handkerchief between them. They looked at each other with such clarity…’ Jarrett paused, suddenly seeming to recollect his companion’s presence. ‘They sprang up to welcome me: Come in, friend! Share our good fortune!’ He threw up a hand in a Latin gesture.

  ‘Good fortune!’ Henrietta exclaimed. ‘What did they mean, Mr Jarrett?’

  There was a look in his eyes, as if he had grasped the edge of a distant truth. ‘They were both well and unharmed, Miss Lonsdale. The enemy had been unable to destroy what they valued most.’

  ‘And will you return to Portugal, Mr Jarrett?’

  ‘I must travel to London to see the army’s medical men in a week or so. Once I am pronounced fit …’

  ‘But you do not wish to go back?’

  The seamless way she picked up on something he hardly knew himself astonished him. ‘I have spent the last ten years of my life a soldier, Miss Lonsdale. Yet lately I have begun to wonder if I might not try another kind of life.’

  ‘Perhaps you should become a painter of portraits,’ she said lightly. She looked away to the country outside the window for a moment. ‘That likeness of Sally Grundy was remarkable. Have you painted portraits?’

  ‘Occasionally, but I prefer landscapes – and the army prefers my topography and maps.’ As he smiled at her he noticed she was looking at the hand with which he held on to the strap by his head. The bracelet of hair he wore about his wrist was in plain sight. He took his hand down hurriedly.

  ‘Have you been recently bereaved, Mr Jarrett?’ she asked quietly.

  This was the last thing he wanted to discuss.

  ‘No, ma’am.’ He heard the roughness of his tone and cursed his own clumsiness.

  Miss Lonsdale privately scolded herself. She had no right to pry and now she had offended him. It was as she suspected. The strange bracelet was a token from an absent love. Mr Jarrett was contemplating selling out so that he might settle down with some flaxen-headed maiden. He had no doubt been pledged to her for years.

  The atmosphere in the little vehicle was close, despite the leather flaps being tied back from the windows. He smiled awkwardly at his c
ompanion, racking his brains for some way to bridge the silence.

  ‘It is very kind of you to come to speak to Mrs Grundy, Mr Jarrett,’ the lady remarked politely.

  The gentleman murmured something about it being nothing.

  ‘Mrs Grundy is most unhappy,’ Henrietta ventured at last. The remaining ride to Longacres was not so short as to be conveniently passed in total silence. ‘There are some dreadful rumours being spread that Sal took her own life, Mr Jarrett. My cook is a religious woman and the thought that there might be objection to her niece being buried in sanctified ground is almost more than she can bear.’ Miss Lonsdale’s elegant features took on a determined set. ‘I will do everything in my power to prevent such a terrible thing. The Reverend Prattman must not pay heed to such malicious gossip.’

  He could feel the warmth of her indignation beside him. He regretted the sense of intimacy that had just evaporated. She was a woman of passionate concern. A man might consider himself fortunate to be an object of such warmth. He began to mouth some soothing remark but she interrupted him almost before he had spoken.

  ‘Just this morning poor Mrs Grundy found dishes of salt placed about the body!’

  ‘Salt, Miss Lonsdale?’

  ‘The ordinary folk hereabouts believe it stops unquiet spirits from walking. I suspect it is the work of Betsy, the scullery maid – she is a simple, deluded child – but someone will have put the notion into her head. I’d give money to know the mischief-maker.’

  ‘But who would give this story of suicide any credence, Miss Lonsdale? The evidence at the inquiry was all against it.’

  ‘Country gossips hardly care for evidence, Mr Jarrett. It concerns me. Why should people be conspiring to make poor Mrs Grundy yet more wretched still? Hardly a handful of people have come to pay their respects and Mrs Grundy is generally known to be a good, honest woman. Is the death of her only family not tragedy enough?’

  ‘I shall do my best to find out, Miss Lonsdale. Have you no suspicion as to the source of these rumours?’