by Joan Smith
She then proceeded to tell Jane the same thing, not revealing the identity of the mysterious inheritor, and moving rather vaguely over the phrase “providing certain conditions are met.”
“What conditions?” Jane asked.
“Wills are written in legal mumbo jumbo with a hundred heretofores and whereases. One hardly knows what it all means. You know what lawyers are.”
The talk left her hungry, and she called for some bread and butter to tide her over until luncheon. While she devoured two slices of bread, she continued gossiping.
“Fenwick could be of some use to us, if we could ingratiate him. I believe I shall invite him to dinner.”
Jane was happy to hear it. She didn’t trust Fenwick an inch, but she was exhilarated at the prospect of seeing him again. He had come down off his high horse, just before he left. She wondered how he would behave on their next meeting.
“You can hardly invite Fenwick and not the others,” she said. “It would look so very odd.”
“I shall invite them all, including Lady Sykes—and pray that she doesn’t come, but goes back to London, the pest.”
The only other thing of interest that occurred at Wildercliffe that day was the discovery of a black pearl cravat pin on the table near where Swann had been sitting. This confirmed that he had no interest whatsoever in a memento from Pargeter. In the afternoon Fay had a nap and Jane went for a long walk about the estate. It offered enough interest that she scarcely gave a thought to Miss Prism’s Academy, except to pity her friend Harriet Stowe and the other schoolmistresses who were still there, slaving their lives away.
It seemed lonesomeness was not going to be as much of a problem as she had feared. Already they had had two gentlemen calling. She was going out with Mr. Swann on the morrow, and now there was talk of a dinner party. She turned her mind to the vexing problem of what she could wear to impress the toplofty Lord Fenwick.
* * * *
At Swann Hall, Lady Sykes was waiting on nettles to hear an account of the visit. “Well, what did you learn?” she demanded of Fenwick.
“We were looking for mares’ nests,” he scoffed. “There is nothing amiss with Lady Pargeter. I stopped to visit Lord Malton on the way home. He verified what Lady Pargeter told me. In fact, he was one of the witnesses at the wedding.”
Fenwick explained how the wedding had come about. When this did not appease Lady Sykes, he mentioned the peculiar terms of the will.
“Rubbish!” the dame declared. “Whoever heard of a will not being read in full for a year? It is easy for her to say the estate will revert to Nigel.”
“That is not what she said. It will not revert to Nigel, but to someone in Pargeter’s family.”
“Who else could it be? Much good it will do poor Nigel. The housekeeper is in her early forties. She might last half a century, racking up the income all the while. She will have a veritable fortune to leave to her niece. If Nigel dies young like his papa, he will never see a sou of his money.”
“I would not encourage Nigel to believe the estate will ever be his,” Fenwick said, and was completely ignored.
“It is a hum to calm our ruffled feathers,” Phoebe declared. “She is breaking the news by degrees. In a year we will learn the whole has been left to the housekeeper with no strings attached.”
“There is nothing you can do about it,” Fenwick said. “She was legally married to Pargeter. The estate was not entailed. He was not mad, for Malton visited him the day he died, and Pargeter had a business discussion with his bailiff later that same day. The will is legal. Accept it, Phoebe, and make the best of it. You are only throwing good money after bad by proceeding with Belton.”
Lady Sykes had a keen aversion to wasting any kind of money, good or bad. She was eventually talked into believing she might not succeed in unseating the housekeeper, and began to consider ways and means of making the best of it. Some sort of alliance by marriage with the housekeeper was one possibility, before Lord Malton beat them to it. It would give Phoebe access to Wildercliffe for visits and whatever she could pick up, and put the income in the hands of the husband. The husband must, therefore, be someone she could bear-lead. She looked at Horace, who sat nursing a glass of wine. No decent lady would so much as look at him, but the housekeeper seemed fond of marriage, and would not be fussy.
She turned to her brother. “You must make a bid for the housekeeper, Horace,” she announced.
“A pretty woman, Fay Rampling,” Horace said, with a wobbly smile. “I always had a fancy for her, to tell the truth. And old Pargeter had a wonderful cellar.”
“There you are, then. Run a comb through your hair, put on a clean shirt, and go calling on her. She will have you, see if she don’t. She is so fond of marriage.”
“P’raps I will,” Horace said, and picked up his glass.
“What was the niece like?” was Lady Sykes’s next question. “I never heard of a Miss Lonsdale.”
Swann considered Miss Lonsdale his department and replied, “Pretty. Funny.”
Lady Sykes leapt on this crumb. “Pretty strange, was she?”
“Eh? No, damme. Pretty and strange—I mean funny—amusing.”
“How old?”
“Youngish.”
“About twenty-one,” Fenwick added.
“She will freeze Horace out and have the lot to herself,” Phoebe declared.
“Damme, Lady Pargeter can’t marry her niece,” Swann said angrily.
“Idiot! She can keep Rampling from marrying Horace. Is she well spoken?”
“Of course she is. She was a schoolmistress. Very genteel.”
“Penniless, in other words. There is nothing so genteel as genteel poverty. A bundle of smirks and smiles, I wager.”
“Not in the least. She’s a lively gel, a real spark.”
Lady Sykes frowned, deep in scheming, and turned her attention to a more credible witness. “What was your opinion, Fenwick?” She immediately noticed his hesitation in answering. “Something off there, was there?”
“She seemed reluctant to discuss her origins, and her recent past,” he admitted, and told Phoebe what Jane had told him.
“Miss Prism’s is unexceptionable,” Phoebe declared. “Perhaps I should send for Nigel to divert Miss Lonsdale.”
Fenwick swallowed a grin. “He will require a clever wife,” he said mischievously.
“Nonsense, what he requires is a rich wife. I didn’t mean that he should offer for the schoolteacher, but only divert her attention while Horace marries the housekeeper. Mind you, I don’t trust this waiting a year to finish reading the will. It may very well be that the estate is entailed upon the schoolteacher.”
“You missed your calling, Phoebe,” Fenwick said with a satirical smile. “You should have been a general. Wellington could use you in the Peninsula.”
Phoebe sat like a statue, staring with narrowed eyes at her fingers, which were curled into fists. “That’s it!” she exclaimed, jumping up. “Miss Lonsdale is to be the heir. What a fool I was not to see it sooner.”
“Lady Pargeter said the estate was to revert to the Pargeter family,” Fenwick reminded her. “Malton confirmed it, though he was reluctant to do so.”
“Of course he confirmed it. Are you all blind?” Phoebe asked, looking around the room. “Miss Lonsdale is Pargeter’s daughter. It’s plain as the nose on your face. She is his bastard daughter. You’re too young to recall, Fenwick, but Pargeter was running around with a Miss Emily somebody from Bath twenty-odd years ago. Now, what was her last name? I don’t think it was Lonsdale, but that is no matter. Bath, you see, where the schoolteacher comes from. He used to visit Bath regularly for two years. Lizzie knew full well he had a chère amie, but she didn’t make a fuss. She never cared overly much for that sort of thing. She was a real lady.
“Pargeter has kept the girl under wraps all the while, hoping to have a son, but as he did not, he has decided to leave the lot to his bastard daughter. He married Rampling, pretending the girl is h
er niece, to have an excuse to bring her to Wildercliffe, and to cover her illegitimacy. That is why the chit is reluctant to discuss her origins.”
Swann said, “Eh?” and demanded a few repetitions of the story. As it had already occurred to Fenwick, he had only a few objections.
“Miss Lonsdale doesn’t look like the Pargeters,” he said.
“She must take after her mama. You may be sure Miss Emily—what was her name?—she must have had something in the way of looks to attract Pargeter.”
“Why would Pargeter have made his daughter work for her living? Miss Lonsdale was a schoolmistress,” Fenwick said.
“If she was a schoolmistress, then she was educated, raised as a lady, in other words. Pargeter was playing it cagy, waiting to see if he had a son. He wanted the schoolteacher to be able to step into a lady’s role if things fell out as they did, but to be prepared to look after herself if necessary.”
“Skint!” Swann said angrily. “With all his blunt, he ought to have done more for Miss Lonsdale.”
Lady Sykes rose from her favorite seat by the grate. “I shall send for Nigel at once. The schoolteacher is worth a mint. Fifty thousand, plus Wildercliffe and all its income! To say nothing of the jewelry.”
“But Lady Pargeter has the estate and income until she dies,” Horace mentioned.
“Yes, she has,” Fenwick said firmly.
Phoebe stopped at the door and turned around. “I don’t think Nigel would like that.”
“You are leaping to conclusions, as usual, Phoebe,” Fenwick said. “I believe Miss Lonsdale is Lady Pargeter’s niece, as they claim. They have some similar look around the eyes.”
“Then the schoolteacher must be a nasty-looking piece, but she might still be Pargeter’s daughter. He was no Adonis, if you recall.”
“Actually, Miss Lonsdale is quite pretty,” Fenwick said musingly.
“Whatever she looks like, there must be some good reason Rampling hired her,” Phoebe said, and went to her room to brood over the matter, and how she should proceed.
She must by all means avoid Nigel offering for the schoolteacher if she was not to inherit Wildercliffe. Overall, the safest course was to have Horace marry the housekeeper, for Rampling had undisputed claim to the estate and its income until she died. If, when the year was up, the will stated that Wildercliffe was entailed on Miss Lonsdale, then Nigel could marry her. In the meanwhile, she was not likely to meet any interesting gentlemen living here in the country. And she could hardly parade herself about London when the family was in mourning.
Phoebe was aware that her path was by no means clear. There was Malton, a widower, who knew exactly how the land lay, and might marry Rampling. He already had an estate and more blunt than he knew what to do with, however. He did not call on the housekeeper, so that was under control for the present.
Her pride did battle with her greed, and before she left her room, she had decided to make the supreme sacrifice. She would give the housekeeper the satisfaction of a call on the morrow.
Chapter Six
The morning brought heavy skies and rain; not a brisk shower that might work itself out in a hurry, but a slow, desultory drizzle of the sort that continues for hours. Jane was not surprised to receive a note from Swann requesting a postponement of their outing to see the swans. What did surprise both Jane and her aunt was a tap at the door at about eleven, as the ladies sat in the Blue Saloon reading the journals. Lady Pargeter called Broome.
“If that is Belton, I’m not at home,” she said.
It was not Lady Sykes’s lawyer who soon entered the room, but Lady Sykes herself, draped in crape, and buttressed on one side by her brother, Horace, on the other by Swann, with Fenwick bringing up the rear. Lady Sykes had decided to be gracious, but to see that housekeeper reclining on a chaise longue in Nigel’s house, wearing Lizzie’s pearls and an enviably rich gown of black lutestring, was too much for her. It was all she could do to restrain herself from darting forward and snatching the pearls from the creature’s throat.
“Lady Pargeter,” she said in icy accents, and walked into the room, while her sharp eyes took an inventory of its fabulous appointments. Those Van Dycks alone were worth a fortune!
Lady Pargeter did not stir from her chaise longue, but only held out her hand as if, Phoebe said later, she were the pope granting an audience.
Phoebe ignored the hand. “You don’t mind if we have a seat, milady?” she said, and sat on the chair farthest from her foe, while still within shouting distance of her.
“Help yourself, Lady Sykes,” Lady Pargeter replied icily. “At your age, you would not want to be left standing for long. You’re looking a little peaky.”
That soon in the visit swords were crossed, but each lady had her own agenda, and tried to keep the damage to a minimum.
“Very true,” Lady Sykes riposted, “at our age, we like to sit down.” Lady Pargeter was the better part of a decade younger than her caller.
“Could I give you a glass of wine, Lady Sykes?”
“Wine, at this hour of the morning! Oh, I am not such a toper as that, milady,” she replied, her eyes glancing off the decanter by Lady Pargeter’s elbow. “But if you ask Broome for a cup of tea, I would be happy to accept it. Broome knows how I like it,” she added, to bolster her claim to the place.
“Yes, he has an excellent memory,” Lady Pargeter said. “When were you last here, Lady Sykes? Around the turn of the century, it must have been, for you have not called since I have been living here.”
“It is possible I called and was not presented to the servants,” Lady Sykes retorted.
“Nor to Lizzie, I assume, for I was her constant companion for a decade.”
“How nice for you. And from there you became housekeeper—before becoming Lady Pargeter, I mean.”
“My position was more that of chatelaine.”
“Trust the French to have a word for it!”
Jane was on nettles, fearing the guest and hostess would soon come to blows. It was especially troublesome as these callers were their closest neighbors. She wished she could do something to cool the heated conversation. She cast a hopeful glance at Swann. He was brushing dust off his trousers and didn’t see her. Her eyes turned to Fenwick. He appeared to be enjoying the exchange of insults, to judge by the unsteadiness of his lips. When she caught his eye, he winked.
He did come to the rescue, but in a manner that Jane feared would pitch her from the frying pan into the fire.
“You have not met Miss Lonsdale, Phoebe,” he said, during a break in the insults. Jane cast one angry glare on him before rising.
She curtsied to Lady Sykes and said, “I am happy to meet you, ma’am.”
She was amazed to receive a gloating smile in return. Lady Sykes indicated the chair beside her and said, “Do sit over here where we can become acquainted, my dear. I have been hearing so much about you.”
“Really?” Jane asked in surprise. She darted a questioning look at Fenwick, then sat beside Lady Sykes.
“So you are a schoolmistress,” Phoebe said, examining the girl for any resemblance to Pargeter. She soon thought she discerned a certain something in the conformation of the face bones. Whether she was Pargeter’s bastard or not, it was clear Miss Emily—what was the woman’s name?—had convinced Pargeter she was, and the chit would end up mistress of Wildercliffe.
“Yes, ma’am, I was teaching in Bath until a few days ago, when Aunt Fay invited me to stay with her.”
“At Miss Prism’s, I understand.” Jane nodded. “A very select school. You must have had someone very important to vouch for you, to secure a post there.”
“The dean of Bath Abbey gave me a character. He knew my papa.”
“Ah!”
“Papa was a vicar at Radstock, near Bath,” Jane added, as her questioner seemed so curious.
“And is your papa still alive?”
“No, he was ill—dying really—when he spoke to the dean about finding me a position.”
“She teaches French and Italian, but I taught only English. I don’t speak Italian, and my French, I fear, is not good enough to teach.”
“Such modesty!” Phoebe said, smiling in approval. “Was your mama also from Radstock?”
“Mama was from Bath.”
Lady Sykes said, “Ah!” but she said it in a way that suggested Aha! A smile of satisfaction twitched at her pursed lips. “Was her Christian name, by any chance, Emily? The reason I ask—”
“No, ma’am. It was Patricia. Patricia Rampling. I am Fay—Lady Pargeter’s—niece on my mama’s side, you see.”
Jane found it odd that her origins should be of such interest to Lady Sykes, but as it kept her from pestering Fay, she was content to answer questions. She noticed that Fenwick was listening quite as eagerly as her questioner. She had nothing to hide, as the inquisition didn’t touch on her reason for leaving Miss Prism’s Academy. Nor did Lady Sykes have much more to ask. She now had names, dates, and locations. Belton would look into it, and see if Miss Jane Lonsdale was not adopted. Phoebe’s success put her in good humor. When the tea tray arrived, she released Jane.
“Come here and sit beside me, Swann,” she ordered. “Let Horace entertain Lady Pargeter.”
Horace was not loath to slide onto the chair so close to the wine decanter.
“None of that milksop for me,” he said, declining tea and reaching for the wine. “We have missed you, Miss— Dear me, I keep forgetting you are a fine lady now. How do you like it?”
“I like it fine, Mr. Gurney,” Lady Pargeter replied. As he was being friendly, she said, “What possessed your sister to call, after all this time?”
“We felt it was time to make it up.”
“She seems mighty interested in my niece.”
“Has her eye on Miss Lonsdale for Nigel, I believe.”
This was the best joke Lady Pargeter had heard in some time. Phoebe would no more let Nigel marry a penniless vicar’s daughter than she’d let him join the army. “And you have your eye on me, no doubt,” she said, with a burst of laughter. She was amazed to see a guilty flush suffuse his wan cheeks.