‘He is a widower with a twenty-year-old son and two younger daughters already wed. He rarely comes to the Bunhill Row residence.’
‘Why is that, do you think?’
‘It’s not his only home. He has a house in the city and another country seat at Great Gains, which he obviously prefers to Bunhill Row.’
‘I’ve looked through the gates. Everything is in perfect order. It must be a considerable expense to keep up a property never used.’
John smiled. ‘From what I hear it wouldn’t matter to him. He’s a wealthy man whose father began supplying accoutrements to the army from the building that is now the Royal Oak, which explains its cheek-by-jowl position to the house. It was a family business but James Esdaile himself founded and is head of the Bank of Esdaile, Hammet and Company in Lombard Street.’
Hester sat back in her chair and tapped her cheek thoughtfully with a forefinger. ‘Such a grand house must have a herb garden somewhere in its grounds and mine is not going to be properly established until next year. Do you think there would be any objection to my taking what I needed if I speak to the Esdaile gardener?’
‘I should suppose none at all.’
‘Then I’ll seek out the fellow tomorrow.’
He was not difficult to find, for he lived in a cottage along a lane that branched off Bunhill Row. Thomas Cole was a thin-faced man in his early thirties with the ruddy complexion of those whose living keeps them outdoors. His wife, who had a toddler at her skirts and a baby in her arms, proved to be the cleaner at the Esdaile mansion.
‘Tom does the outside and I does in,’ she informed Hester cheerfully. ‘You take whatever ’erbs you want. We’ve a patch of our own ’ere and so those at the big ’ouse never gets picked.’
‘I shall appreciate having them.’ Hester put some money on the table as a sign of appreciation. Mrs Coles promptly scooped it up and popped it into her apron pocket. She was undoubtedly the dominant partner.
‘Do you want a gardener at your ’ouse, Mrs Bateman? The garden there looks a real jungle.’
That was the other reason why Hester had called. ‘I was about to ask your husband if he would like to take it on.’ She turned deliberately to him. ‘Would you?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll start whenever you like.’ He looked pleased at getting some voice in his own affairs. It was short-lived. His wife elbowed him out of the way.
‘’E’ll chop wood and put up shelves or anything else you want done. ’E’s real ’andy.’
Hester was glad to get away from the cottage. She thought Tom a pleasant, quiet man, who would be an asset to have around the place, and she pitied him for his loud-talking wife.
Over a month passed before she had a chance to get to the Esdaile herb garden, because the hold-up in work due to the move meant that John was in urgent need of her at the bench. Fortunately Abigail, while still keeping the children in her charge, eased her mistress’s domestic yoke by taking on the training and supervision of two local girls whom Hester had engaged as house-servants to replace those employed at Nixon Square who had not wanted to leave the city.
It was a warm, sunny day when Hester, a basket on her arm, eventually pushed open one of the tall ornamental double gates that led to the Esdaile mansion. She had notified Tom the day before of her coming and he had left them unpadlocked for her. The lawns on either side of the short gravelled drive were like velvet, not a wayward daisy to be seen, proof in plenty that Tom was both a watchful gardener and a conscientious man. She paused to look up at the house, which was built substantially in rosy brick with moulded stone architraves to the tall windows that were shuttered from within. The entrance, which owed the shine of its brass door furniture to Mrs Cole’s polishing, was sheltered by an elegant porch supported by Doric columns, three steps leading down from it to the gravelled drive where she stood. It looked a good family house, one that should have been alive with the movement and vitality it must have known in the past. The shutters gave it a sad, lifeless look, and there was a tomblike stillness to it in contrast to the bustle of the tavern fettered to its north end.
A path led from the drive and she followed it past the south end of the house to meet a vista of more lawns, shady trees and colourful flowerbeds. It was like entering another world, no sound reaching here from the tavern yard or the wheels along the lane. Only the birds broke the stillness, giving full throat to the glorious day. The fragrance of roses and honeysuckle hung in the air. She made her way to a stone seat and sat for a while savouring the beauty and peace of her surroundings. Curiously, she had the sensation of time being suspended in this place and she smiled at the illusion, for many matters awaited her attention at home where the hands of many clocks would be whirling on. With effort, she bestirred herself and after a little exploration found the path behind a box hedge that would have allowed servants to pass between the kitchen garden and their own regions without being seen by anyone at leisure in the grounds.
The muted scent of the herbs reached her before she saw them and then suddenly they were there in orderly profusion, the variation of colours giving the look of a patchwork quilt to the section of the kitchen garden they occupied. She was not surprised that another hedge made this a private place, because often the lady of the house would let nobody else have access to her herbs, dealing them out herself when they were needed for cooking, and making her own selection without witness for her distillations if she were a true herbalist.
Hester threaded her way slowly and carefully through the herbs, stooping or kneeling to gather what she required, snipping carefully with scissors and laying her harvest into the basket set down beside her. She marvelled at the lush growth of each herb. Butterflies fluttered about her and bees came and went. Nothing gave warning when suddenly the peace was shattered.
‘Who the devil are you?’
Startled, she looked up with a gasp and sat back on her heels. A large man, tall and broad, had bellowed at her in a blend of fury and astonishment, a resonance to his deep voice that could have belonged to a baritone in opera. Aged about forty, with a determined set to his head and shoulders, he had an astute, powerful face, large-nosed and strong-jawed, with greenish eyes that glinted at her between narrowed, hooded lids. Guessing his identity from the little she had heard about him, she rose to her feet with her dignity unimpaired, highly conscious of being pinpointed as a trespasser — she was a mature, law-abiding woman of thirty-nine years. The additional adage of being a wife and mother did not come to her then for a reason she was only to comprehend later.
‘You must be James Esdaile,’ she said evenly, dispensing with prefixes. ‘I’m Hester Bateman, new to the neighbourhood from the city. I never expected to see you, much less meet you, in such angry circumstances. I’ll leave at once.’ She picked up her basket and turned to cross to the verge on the opposite side of the herbal patch, away from him.
‘How near a neighbour are you?’ His tone had eased. ‘Surely not at the tavern?’
She paused to glance in his direction. With the anger gone from his face he was still a dramatic-looking man and his settled features now gave the impression of one who would be prepared to reason and consider whatever was brought before him. There were even creases at the corners of his eyes that could only have come from laughter in happier moments, and for the first time she noticed that his lips had a sensual fleshiness indicating a fondness for the pleasures of life. But the situation had taken a turn-about. She was the hostile one now.
‘No, I am not from the tavern. My husband has removed his goldsmithing workshop from the city to Number 107, Bunhill Row, and the reason I am here is that I’m still without a cultivated garden and was in need of some herbs.’ She tilted the basket to turn out what she had picked on to a small compost heap. Nothing would make her keep anything to which she was not welcome.
‘Wait! Don’t do that!’ He came hurrying around the edge of the herbal patch to reach her where she, halted by his concerned shout, stood uncertainly with the basket
at an angle. He grabbed it from her to hold it away protectively. ‘I don’t begrudge you the herbs. My outburst had nothing to do with that. The truth is you gave me a great shock — no fault of yours. My late wife used to tend this place. Coming across you so unexpectedly touched a raw nerve of grief that I thought had been eased by time. I beg you to pardon my abruptness and my rough speech.’
Pity moved her. She could understand what it must have meant for him suddenly to discover her there and her aggravation with him melted away. ‘I accept your apology and I’m not offended. Your gardener told me there would be no objection, but I realize I should have obtained written permission from you before coming here.’
‘Not at all. What are neighbours for if not to oblige one another? Have you gathered all you want? Come and take what you need whenever you wish. If there are cuttings or seeds that you require for your own garden when it is ready for them, I should be pleased for you to transplant from mine.’
‘You are most kind.’ She was conscious of how he was assessing the woman she was, something close to a twinkle having come into his eyes as if he were extraordinarily satisfied with the outcome of their encounter. He was without doubt an intensely physical man and in the hushed and scented solitude his maleness assailed her senses disturbingly. ‘I must go. I’ll not interrupt any longer this rare visit you’ve made to your property here. I’m sure you have company waiting for you.’
‘There’s nobody with me.’ He fell into step at her side to escort her at a strolling pace back through the flower-beds and across the lawn towards the path at the side of the mansion. ‘I came along to cast an eye over my property and decided to do a round of the grounds first. Everything out here appears to be in perfect order. Now I shall take a look indoors and hope to find all is well there.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ She was unable to hold back what had been in her thoughts since she had first seen the mansion and heard it was unoccupied. ‘It seems a great shame to me that there’s no life in that beautiful place.’
‘You like the look of the house, do you?’
She nodded, surveying it sweepingly as they approached. The back was as full of fine windows as the front and a flagged terrace was enclosed by a stone balustrade with the enhancement of potted urns from which green plants cascaded their foliage. ‘I don’t know how you can stay away from it.’
‘Maybe I won’t for much longer.’
Some undertone in his voice held a meaning she chose not to think about, but it rippled within her like fingertips drawn across a harp. She spoke coolly as a defence. ‘Indeed? I heard that you have a country residence at Great Gains that you prefer to this one.’
‘Only because the city had encroached more upon this area and as a result the hunting as well as the shooting is better now at Great Gains.’ He threw her a sideways glance as they passed the south end of the house to enter the drive. ‘However, last week I made a marriage gift of the place to my son and his bride. So I’ll not be going there again except by invitation.’
She thought it a generous gift, not so much from a monetary value since he was reputedly a very rich man, but because there had been an element of self-sacrifice involved, surely unspoken and therefore not known by the recipient. ‘Your son is young to wed,’ she commented.
‘Following in the Esdaile tradition. I was only eighteen and my wife a year younger.’
She refrained from saying that with John and herself it had been almost the same. ‘I believe I can guess why you’ve come to Bunhill Row today.’
‘Oh? What is your guess?’
‘You’re going to open up the house again,’ she ventured.
‘I have it in mind.’
‘That’s excellent news!’ A little laugh of sheer pleasure at the mansion’s forthcoming release from isolation rose up in her.
‘I’m delighted that it pleases you.’ He was intrigued that it should matter to her. While speaking they had reached the steps of the porch and by coming to a halt himself he brought her automatically to a standstill when she might have expected him to see her right to the gates. She held out her hand to receive her basket of herbs, which he still held, and they exchanged a long smile indicative of friendship.
‘My feeling is that you have known happy times in this house and you will again,’ she said sincerely.
He kept the basket at his side, leaving her hand still extended. ‘Why not come and see indoors for yourself?’ Then, in case she should imagine he had any ulterior motive, he continued: ‘I happen to be considering remarriage. I should appreciate a feminine opinion as to any changes or alterations that should be made to suit a second wife before I bring her here.’
She did not hesitate and inclined her head. It was a reasonable request and she was curious to see if the interior of the mansion lived up to the promise of its handsome exterior. ‘I’ll willingly give you any advice I can.’
‘That’s most amiable of you.’ He took a key from his pocket. She followed him up the steps as he unlocked the door and flung it wide for her.
On the threshold she paused, looking over her shoulder at him. ‘How long is it since you lost your wife?’
‘Ten years. It is a tedious length of time to be on one’s own, although it seemed no more than ten minutes when I came upon you in the herb garden.’
She was full of compassion. ‘Am I like her personally at all?’ she enquired with interest.
His eyes hardened on her in a disconcerting stare. ‘She had the same free spirit in her that I see in you.’
It was as if he had probed deep into her. She felt thrown by it. If she had not already stepped inside the house she would have drawn back. But it was too late, even though he left the door open behind them to give light. She saw they were in an entrance hall of some grandeur with a gracefully balustered staircase sweeping up to a gallery above. He put her basket down on a chair as he crossed to some double doors and opened them to disappear into what she supposed to be a drawing-room. She followed him into it. Everything was shrouded in dust-sheets. As he opened the interior shutters of the first window and folded them back on either side, flooding the long room with light, tapestry panels leaped into shades of emerald, cobalt, crimson and gold. A ceiling-high chimney-piece was carved handsomely with what she guessed to be the family crest of a demi-lion rampant holding a mullet in its claws. On impulse, she darted forward and opened another of the windows herself, something she had wanted to do since she had first seen the blank, unseeing expanse of glass. James, who moved on to the one beyond her, laughed approval. They criss-crossed each other in turn until all eight windows had been unshuttered. Then they stood at a distance from each other in shared amusement. Not taking his eyes from her, he took hold of a dust-sheet covering a sofa and ripped it away, revealing its rich brocade.
‘Pray be seated, ma’am.’
She swept across to it and looked about as she settled herself. ‘This room is large enough to hold a ball in.’
He sat down in a wing-chair opposite her, not bothering to remove the dust-sheet first. ‘Many have been held here in the past, both in my time and that of my father before me. Our family name was originally D’Estailes and it became anglicized when my Protestant grandfather fled from France to escape persecution after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.’
‘Was he a military accoutrer in France?’
The corner of his mouth lifted wryly. ‘Far from it. The Comtes D’Estailes enjoyed a leisurely life on extensive estates for many generations. All of them were confiscated and it was my father who had a commercial frame of mind and recouped our fortunes here. I’m proud to have followed in his footsteps and made my own contribution to the financial life of London.’
She glanced again at the carved crest, which was linked to a French title no longer used and a heritage that went deep into the soil of France. Her gaze returned to him. He did not look particularly French except romantically across the eyes, for he had a dangerous way of looking at her and probably at any w
oman attractive to him — that made her feel beautiful and intensely desirable and quite unique. It was impossible to remain immune to it and it was flattery of the most perilous kind. Firmly she brought her thoughts back to the purpose for which she had entered the house.
‘From what you have said, I assume that much of the furniture dates from your father’s time in residence here?’
‘Some of the rooms are virtually unchanged, although my late wife did quite a lot of refurnishing, including the brocade sofas and chairs as well as the tapestries in this salon.’
‘Then I should advise you to remove anything that was personal to her. Give the items to your son or your daughters who will treasure them. From what I know of remarriages, a second wife often finds it extremely hard to live with the first wife’s possessions. It is as if she cannot make her own mark on the house or her husband’s life with reminders of her predecessor on all sides.’
He seemed less than pleased by her advice, his arched black brows drawing together. He had looked for no more than suggestions about the changing of faded drapes or the restuffing of upholstery. Yet he saw the common sense of what she had said and on a sigh of acceptance he gave a shrug of resignation.
‘You are right, of course. I shall do what you say. Any marriage involves a difficult enough adjustment without inviting disharmony. As it happens, the lady I’m to wed has the gentle name of Mary and none of the characteristics expected of it.’ His grin spread slowly and widely across his face. ‘Your wise counsel is most timely and I thank you for it.’
The Silver Touch Page 18