“I think I’ll allow myself two of these today,” she murmured. “Did Millicent really say she compared the handwriting on your note to the signature in the guestbook? Nonsense!”
“She knows Mustard’s handwriting,” Cee chimed in. “He wrote her loads of letters, and I think she kept them all.”
That made me look at Millicent a bit differently. Keeping his letters suggested she actually cared for him. Perhaps that’s why she hadn’t shown anyone the note that reached me by mistake. She wanted to discredit me, but not at the risk of Mustard’s happiness.
“Oh, Astra,” Cee sighed, clucking, shaking her head, looking at me with an expression of deep sympathy. “What a terrible time! And you had to keep it all to yourself. What a dreadful burden!” She hugged me tightly. “I’m sorry I abandoned you.”
“Cee, darling, you didn’t. You didn’t have much choice.”
“All the same …” She gestured with her hands, and we all saw something glittering on her left ring finger.
“Care to explain this, young lady?” Laura demanded, grabbing the hand.
Cee’s blush deepened, and her smile widened. “Ducky’s been at Gryden this summer, and just the other day, well …” She giggled and we squealed and piled around her, all arms and love.
“Why, Cee,” I said, once the obligatory questions about details and wedding plans had been asked, “you’ll be needing a lady’s maid now, won’t you?”
“I suppose I will,” she agreed.
I raised my eyebrows and looked questioningly at Laura, who shrugged.
“Cee can have her,” she said carelessly. “I don’t have much call for a maid.”
Joyce had gone quiet just after Cee’s announcement, and now she rose and walked into her dressing room, waving her cigarette case and muttering something about it being empty. I slid off the bed and followed, quietly closing the door behind me. She had taken up a position at the window and was looking out at the fete she’d created.
“Joyce,” I murmured, laying a hand on her shoulder.
She slipped away from me and exhaled some smoke. “You are quite the planner. You put me to shame. You’ve even managed to maneuver Collins into a better position.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I waited.
“You didn’t trust me,” she said at last. “I asked you once in Paris if there was anything you wanted to tell me, and you said there wasn’t.” Her face wore a hard expression, but there was a wounded look in her eyes.
“Joyce, it wasn’t just you—I didn’t tell anyone,” I reminded her. “Not even Cee!”
“Well, we both know Cee can’t keep a secret,” Joyce hissed. “But I …” She toyed with a cigarette. “Was it because you didn’t think I would care, or were you afraid I’d poison my father against you? Ruin all your neat little plans?”
“Neither,” I answered stoutly. “And there was nothing neat about them, believe me. It was messier than that time we accidentally let the jam overflow. Remember that?”
A smile flickered. “Part of the stillroom floor here is still dyed red.” A long silence, then: “I’m so glad I could provide you with an entrée to my father, Astra. It’s good to know I have some use in this world. I can’t believe I actually thought you were romantically interested in him.” She rolled her eyes. “How stupid of me.”
“Joyce Bradbury!” I took her by the shoulders and turned her to face me. “Don’t you dare try to say that you’re useless or some kind of fool! We both know that’s not true at all. Look what you’ve done here!” I gestured to the tents and crowds outside, and then waved a hand to indicate the whole house. “And you planned our marvelous fortnight in Paris and your father’s ball. And you’re being very clever about playing politics and trying to do some good in the world. You are a marvel, Joyce, and it was wrong of me not to trust you. You’d probably have found a way to solve all my problems in about a day if I’d only given you the chance.” How stupid it had been for me not to tell all of them what was going on from the outset. How could I condemn my parents for concealing things from me, protecting me, when I’d been guilty of the same?
Joyce stared at me for a few moments, and then smirked. “It was wrong of you—very wrong,” she agreed. “Don’t go making that mistake again, all right?”
“I won’t,” I promised, relieved that we seemed to be reaching some even ground.
“Good.” She looked out the window again and finished off the cigarette. “What on earth am I to do now?” she wondered. “I’ll need a new project. Do you think Cee will let me plan her wedding?”
“She may let you help, but we both know Cee’s been planning her own wedding since she was four.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Joyce sighed. “I’ll just have to find something else.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll do it marvelously,” I said warmly. “Should we go join the others? Enjoy the last few minutes of your fete?”
“Yes, let’s.”
* * *
The fete was winding down as we reemerged. Parents packed sleepy children into cars and wagons, admiring prize cups and raffle winnings as they headed home.
Jeremy lingered, of course. He and David were out front, waving people off. As soon as we ladies joined them, David caught Joyce around the waist and hugged her.
“It was a brilliant fete, Joyce, really,” he said warmly. “The best we’ve ever seen, isn’t that right, Laura?”
“Oh, certainly,” Laura agreed.
“Thank you,” Joyce said, surprised by her suddenly effusive husband.
Jeremy grinned, turned to me, and murmured, “All is well?”
“As well as can be,” I answered.
“I’m glad. Do you feel lightened now everything’s out in the open?”
“I do. Very much so.”
He took my hand and laced his fingers through mine. “I was wondering if you might like to come to Midbourne for tea. If you still want to see it, that is.”
“I would love that, Jeremy.”
He smiled briefly. A sad smile, I thought. “All right then. Thursday, let’s say?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Where are you off to?” I asked Laura, coming upon her in the front hall as I came down to breakfast Thursday morning. She was—astonishingly—wearing a dress and high heels and a neat turban-style hat and pearls. I hadn’t seen her look so smart since … I wasn’t even sure. Her court presentation, perhaps? And it had been a fight to get her into the obligatory train and feathers for that.
Laura looked up at me while yanking on a pair of gloves. “I’m off to London with Freddie. Never mind why. I’ll tell you all about it later, if it’s a success. Oh, here, a telegram came for you.” She held out a yellow envelope and I took it.
COUSIN MINE—WHAT ARE YOU DOING? JUST RETURNED TO LONDON WITH MUMS TO FIND A LETTER WAITING. UNSIGNED, BUT TOLD HER ALL ABOUT YOU HAVING FREDDIE TO STAY AT W-P. MUM’S LIVID, SAYS YOU’RE NEVER TO COME BACK. ALL MY HARD WORK THIS SUMMER DOWN THE DRAIN. STAY IN THE COUNTRY UNTIL I TELL YOU IT’S SAFE.
—TOBY
PS: I QUOTED JOB FOR YOU!
“Good news? Bad news?” Laura asked, frowning into the hall looking glass and adjusting the turban.
“Expected news,” I answered. There was too much on my mind to fully absorb this now. I’d have to think about it—and make plans about it—later.
Laura finished with her hat, cupped one hand around her mouth and bellowed: “Freddieeeeee! Come on!”
Freddie skidded out of the dining room, still munching a slice of toast. “Sorry, sorry! Coming! Morning, Astra!”
“Morning Freddie. Have fun in London today,” I called after them both as Laura collected a handbag and hustled out the door to a waiting car.
* * *
It was a nice enough day to walk to Midbourne, so Dandy and I set off just after lunch, ready to enjoy the last burst of summer and pick some blackberries along the way. As I plucked the sun-darkened fruit, I noticed the air had an
autumnal edge to it now. Dull still, but it would sharpen soon. The afternoon sunlight was turning richer and more golden as we slipped into September.
We crossed the river at the rickety bridge, and soon the Abbey came into view, seeming like an old friend. “Welcome,” it seemed to say. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Just beyond the Abbey the ground sloped toward the mansion, glowing in the sun. The gardens beckoned, dressed gaily in their late-summer colors and looking, from a distance, like gorgeously rendered embroidery.
Dandy yapped and dove down the hill, with me following. As I descended, I could see what appeared to be a knot garden with a fountain at its center just beyond the house’s back terrace. Trellises draped with wisteria and climbing roses arched over white-stone pathways on either side of the elaborate hedge knots, and benches set deep into shady arbors invited someone to enjoy a good book outside on a fine day, or a couple to steal a few naughty minutes together in private during a ball.
This was a garden designed for lovers. A garden of the previous generation, before it was laid to waste by war and economic ruin. Ladies with parasols should be strolling down those paths, glancing devilishly at young men over the brilliant rosebushes. Making their plans for the slow hours between teatime and dinner. It was glorious.
But as I came closer, I couldn’t help but notice the signs of neglect, just as there were at Hensley. The untrimmed hedges had a grizzled, unkempt look. There were rust spots on some of the roses, which had also been chewed by insects. The fountain was still and empty. The trellis supporting one of the wisteria arches was beginning to rot.
I stood by the fountain and took it all in. Clearly, Jeremy was having to economize on garden staff. Changes would have to be made here, to keep it from running to ruin. Hardier plants should replace the more delicate flowers in need of constant care. Perhaps succulents and mosses could be introduced, to add interest without effort. And the wisteria, I saw, looked sturdy enough to support its arch without the trellis. Metal poles—less pretty but more durable—could be used to prop up any bits in danger of falling. The roses should be culled, the sickly ones taken away so the others could thrive.
Yes, there were possibilities if action was taken quickly. It would be sad, of course, to lose some of the graceful old designs, but everything must evolve to survive.
As I looked around, hands on my hips, mentally replacing trained box hedges with holly shrubs and wondering what should be done with the magnificent glasshouse near the kitchen garden, an enormous bull mastiff emerged from the house. It trotted up to the edge of the terrace and let out a single bark. Not an aggressive one, but one which definitely said, “Who are you and what are you doing in my garden?”
Dandy yelped and sprang toward me. “Oh, Dandy, don’t be such a coward,” I admonished him as, from inside, Jeremy called, “Hector, what’s all the fuss?” and came out to join the dog. “Ahh. I might have known you’d come by way of the gardens,” he said when he saw me.
“I hope you don’t mind.”
He joined me, followed by Hector. “I invited you here to see it,” he said. “What do you think? Not quite what you imagined, I suppose?”
“It’s a beautiful garden, Jeremy,” I told him. “It needs a little love and care, is all. A few readjustments, to fit with the times. You could say that about any of us.” I smiled up at him and he grinned back.
“I would love to hear what you think. But first, shall I show you the house?”
“Please do!”
He led me first into a long gallery lined with windows on one side and ancestral portraits on the other.
“The Harrises, in all their glory.” He waved an arm in their direction. “The first earl—” He indicated one man in a slashed doublet and hose, hand on the rapier slung at his waist. “A boon companion of Henry VIII, who gave him this land when he dissolved all the monasteries. He’s the one who built Midbourne.” He turned and pointed to biblical scenes in the stained-glass windows. “He took these right out of the abbey church and installed them here. Most of the lovely decorative bits around the house are from there. He was a looter extraordinaire. Made most of his money through funding privateers.” He smiled mischievously and moved down the line. “This man, the third earl, hid the future King Charles II from the Roundheads on his flight to France. Tucked him away in a hidden cupboard in the library. I’ll show you …”
We moved down the line of great Harrises past, Jeremy detailing their histories—romantic, funny, tragic. They stared down their noses, over snowy ruffs and frothy laces, in mute judgment of the girl walking beneath their gilded frames. “Does she belong here? Would she be one of us?”
Jeremy paused and gestured to the last portrait in the hall. “This is my father.”
I looked up at the man, a tall, russet-haired, pencil-mustached exemplar of his class and time. He was dressed in a ceremonial naval uniform and wearing the family signet ring on his right hand, just as Jeremy did. Unlike many of his forebearers, who stared directly (some even accusingly) at the viewer from their canvas perches, he was gazing off into the left distance, as though looking ahead to some future he would never experience. It seemed that most of Jeremy’s looks came from his father’s side. I wondered what, if anything, of his mother there was in him.
For two hours we toured Midbourne, climbing twirling staircases with dusty, elaborately carved banisters. I saw state bedrooms draped in dark brocades and heard about the dukes and princes who slept there. I crawled into the tiny closet that had once concealed a king and felt terribly jealous of the magnificent two-story library, with its shelves and rows of books, soft chairs to bury yourself in, and a fireplace big enough for Jeremy and I to stand in together. In the dining room, I heard more stories about the parties his grandmother had hosted, taking the place of Jeremy’s mother, who had avoided company. There was a dinner for fifty, with Kaiser Wilhelm and the Prince of Wales as joint guests of honor, and a masquerade ball that Jeremy insisted had rivaled Porter’s.
We ended in the morning room, where tea was already laid out along with a plate of jammy dodgers filled with blackberry jam.
“I thought you might like some,” Jeremy said, offering me the plate.
I laughed and helped myself, placing my little basket of freshly picked blackberries beside the plate.
As I nibbled my biscuit, I toured the room. It was at a corner of the house and caught the sun for most of the day. It was paneled in light oak, with a mantelpiece thickly carved with shells and leaping fish surrounding a heraldic sea lion. The furniture, upholstered in a fading floral brocade, had a dainty look to it. A portrait over the fireplace depicted a warmly smiling woman with soft gray hair, in a blue dress. She wore a beautiful diamond and ruby ring on her left hand. Jeremy had inherited her chin and nose.
“Your grandmother,” I guessed, indicating the portrait. Jeremy nodded, smiling fondly. There was something comforting about her, even in portrait form. “You’re right, Jeremy, she’s lovely.”
I turned my attention to a collection of photographs on the writing desk. There was one of Jeremy as a child, dressed in a sailor suit and clutching a toy boat. I laughed and held it up. “A sailor from the start!”
“Family tradition dictated it,” said Jeremy with a slight roll of his eyes.
I replaced the picture and picked up the next one. Five little girls in ruffles and curls, posed stiffly for the camera.
Jeremy poured two cups of tea and joined me, handing one over. “My mother,” he explained, pointing to the youngest girl, “and all of her sisters.”
He sighed, stirred his tea, then stared at the tiny vortex he’d created in the cup.
I set my tea aside and reached for his hand, wanting to ease this hurt. He took a deep breath and put his teacup down. Looked at me finally and held both my hands.
“My father was a coward,” he announced. “They hushed it up, but he was a coward. The war came and he was off with the navy, but when he saw action, he didn’t have the sto
mach for it. He wrote my mother a letter, telling her he was going to refuse to fight. Then he went to his superiors and told them he couldn’t manage. The ship was at sea, and there wasn’t much they could do except lock him up in his cabin. He drowned in there when the ship foundered. He and seven hundred other men. Worthy men,” he added bitterly. “My family had enough influence to keep it all quiet. Officially, he died in battle, and we were spared the humiliation. But my mother”—he shook his head—“she never tired of telling me about it. About what a disappointment my father had been.”
“Good lord,” I breathed. “Why would she do that?” He’d been so young! A child—who does such a thing to a child? How can any mother hate her child so much?
“She could be erratic in her moods,” he explained. “And the marriage was not a good one. She didn’t want a husband or a child, but there was nothing else for her. Her family had more daughters than money and couldn’t keep her, so that was it. She couldn’t vent her frustration on Father, so she did so on me instead.” He swallowed and a pained look spoke volumes of days he had spent as a terrified child, hiding from his mother’s wrath. At the Dower House, when he could. Or in a closet that had protected a king.
He closed his eyes for a few moments. I reached out and embraced him, hoping it conveyed what I was thinking. I’m here. I’m on your side. I understand. I love you.
“Jeremy,” I murmured. “Jeremy, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”
Hector, lying on a rug at the hearth, lifted his head, cocked it, and whimpered, upset by his master’s distress. Even Dandy forgot to be nervous about Hector for long enough to paw at Jeremy’s leg and wag his tail.
Jeremy sighed and patted Dandy on the head. “No one else knows any of that,” he told me. “Not even my aunts.”
I nodded. “It’s safe with me.”
“I know.” He squeezed my hand, then looked around the room and sighed. “I think about my father and what he did every time I think of selling up. It feels like I’m doing the same—running away—but I don’t see what else I can do. The estate isn’t profitable anymore, and I haven’t the faintest idea how to turn it around. I’m a navy man,” he added with a self-mocking smile. “What do I know about the land?”
A Bright Young Thing Page 32