by Lydia Joyce
The overcast sun had not yet burned away the fog below, and white tendrils curled through the village lanes and around the steeple of the church. The air had only the slightest hint of chill, but it was heavy with water.
“Are you sure that someone lives there?” Fern asked.
From somewhere over the fens came the distant, lonely clank of a bellwether’s bell, as if in answer to her question. “Where there are sheep, there are people,” Colin assured her, but the village below lay in unnatural stillness.
“Let us try the vicarage first,” Fern said. “I should not like to go rapping arbitrarily on the doors of strangers. Besides, it shall be hard enough to convince the vicar of your identity in our current state. I shouldn’t imagine that we would have any luck with a suspicious peasant at all.”
Colin nodded and fixed his eyes on the church. He led them the long way down the road, ignoring the temptation to take a shortcut across the bog. Colin knew that tussocks of grass and even entire bushes that looked anchored on firm land could be merely floating on top of a quagmire that would readily suck down an unwary trespasser.
As they walked, Colin found that he felt surprisingly good. He was tired, he was hungry, and, despite his wash the night before, he still felt somewhat gritty, and he had a kink in his back from how he had slept. Yet a sense of vigor coursed through his usually sluggish veins. The light and warmth of it seemed to find a focus in Fern, even as she trudged stolidly beside him, a look of faint worry on her face. She did not have to smile at him or touch him to make him feel this way, and her effect gladdened him and disturbed him at the same time. What if the color fled, and he was left again in a gray world? Would he care? Or—and this was the most disturbing thought of all—would he lack the depth of feeling needed for caring to be possible?
As they approached the village, the wind blew an eddy of fog toward them, and Colin caught the tang of wood smoke. A few scrawny chickens scratched aimlessly in the central lane, wandering among the collapsed foundations.
“There is someone here,” Fern said with audible relief.
“Yes,” Colin agreed. The block of the church squatted in front of the road at the edge of the village, the half-sunken headstones of the cemetery merging into the bog. He followed an overgrown path toward the back of the structure, where a small cottage in the same stone sat in its shadow.
Colin smoothed his hair—an utterly pointless gesture, considering the rest of his appearance—and knocked on the peeling paint of the door.
It was a long moment before he heard the sounds of someone approaching. There was a slow scrape as the bolt was drawn back, and then a small, wizened face appeared in the crack.
“May I help you?” The voice was surprisingly mellifluous despite its tremor.
Colin cleared his throat and pressed his calling card through the crack in the door. “I am Colin Radcliffe, and this is my wife,” he said coolly. “We arrived yesterday to review Wrexmere Manor, but there were no servants and no food when we arrived, and half the roof collapsed on us in the night.”
“Oh,” the man said. He blinked at the card for several seconds. And then he shut the door in their faces.
Chapter Fourteen
Colin stared at the door in mounting irritation before the scratching sound of a chain being removed made him realize what the old man was doing. A moment later, the door was swung wide.
“Come in, sir, madam,” the man said in the same resonant, cultured voice. “Mrs. Willis has just put a kettle on. It has been a very long time since I have seen a Radcliffe in these parts.” With that, the man turned away and hobbled into the depths of the house, leaving them to follow.
Fern glanced up at Colin, her expression uneasy. He simply shrugged and stepped inside, and, still linked to his arm, she came with him. He shut the door, and the narrow hallway was instantly swallowed in shadow.
The little old man’s silhouette disappeared as he turned into a room. Colin followed, squeezing past a narrow stair to find the doorway through which the man had gone. Fern clung to his arm. The elderly gentleman was seated on a wing-backed chair that dated from the middle of the reigns of the Georges—as the old man did himself. As they entered, he rocked forward and began to rise creakily.
With a quiet noise of pity, Fern released Colin’s arm and all but lunged for the nearest chair, sitting before the old man was halfway to his feet. The man gave a sigh and sank back again.
“Thank you, young lady,” he said. “I am not quite as spry as I once was.”
Colin looked at his wife, who had an expression of deep concern on her face. Just a moment before, she had been half-terrified of their host, all but cutting the circulation off in Colin’s arm as she gripped it. Now she seemed to have forgotten her fear in her care for the old man’s frailty. Colin found the switch obscurely charming.
He had to climb over Fern’s legs to take the remaining chair. The back parlor was scarcely larger than a cupboard, made even smaller a tiny brick fireplace on one wall and the tall, musty bookcases that crowded the narrow window.
“I don’t believe I introduced myself,” the old man said, putting his tassel-slippered feet on the ottoman before him with audible effort. “I am unaccustomed to meeting anyone who does not already know very well who I am. I am Reverend Biggs, the vicar.” He paused and blinked owlishly at Colin. “Well, I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of me, but I was in your grandfather’s college at Oxford. He was kind enough to offer me the living here when I graduated.”
Something of Colin’s aversion must have shown on his face, because Rev. Biggs chuckled. “I suppose you think it a poor kindness. But I was a scholarship student, without connections and without expectations. I was happier as the vicar here than as a subdeacon in a larger town. I like my independence.”
“I am surprised you believed me when I told you who we are,” Colin said.
The vicar gave a papery chuckle. “Believed you? I was expecting you. The vicarage is also the village post office, of sorts, as we have no other. I was given quite a turn this morning when I received a letter addressed to the Honorable Mr. Colin Radcliffe at Wrexmere Manor, but I deduced that it would be only a matter of time before you appeared at my door.”
The man pulled a letter from the pocket of his dressing gown and extended it to Colin, who slid it into his coat. He turned at the sound of footsteps in the hall. A large woman appeared in the doorway, a tea tray between her meaty hands. She looked at Fern and Colin with a flat expression, as if she were incapable of surprise.
“Your tea, sir,” she said curtly, squeezing in to place the tray on a small, rickety table. “Ye didn’t say ye’d be inviting over no guests. I suppose I’d best start making them viddly little sandwiches.” With that, she gave Fern and Colin a look of dislike and backed out of the room.
“That was Mrs. Willis,” Rev. Biggs said unnecessarily. “She has done for me for twenty-seven years, ever since her mother died.”
“How nice,” Fern said faintly.
Colin cleared his throat pointedly. “We came to see you in hopes that you might provide us some direction. I have been paying a man and his wife by the name of Reston to maintain the manor house in my name.”
The vicar’s face clouded. “Yes. That would be Mrs. Willis’ girl, Dorcas, and her husband, Joseph.”
“Seeing as how the house was covered in several years’ worth of dust and the roof collapsed only hours after our arrival, I cannot say that I am impressed by their attention to duty,” Colin said coolly.
“Yes …” The vicar peered at him, his rheumy eyes piercing. “The Restons and the Radcliffes have never been easy with one another.”
“Reston,” Fern repeated, looking startled. “That’s it. Jane Reston was the name of the woman in the letters whom the writer did not like.”
The vicar’s interest sharpened. “Letters?”
“Yes,” Fern said. “I found a bundle of old letters in the keep last night—from the late sixteenth and early seventeent
h centuries.”
“Jane Reston,” the reverend said thoughtfully. “I can’t say for certain that I know who she is. But the Restons have worked at Wrexmere since before the first Radcliffe came, so I daresay that whoever the girl was, I’m not surprised she was in the letters.”
“That was quite some time ago,” Fern said.
“Oh, my, yes,” the man said. “In fact, your letters must be from around the time when the cadet branch of the Radcliffes married the current heiress. Now, what was her name?” The man thought for a moment. “Charlotte. Yes, I am sure that it was Charlotte Gorsing. She had a sister named Elizabeth who married a baronet from the neighborhood and another named Lettice who never married anyone at all.”
“I think you may be right,” Fern said. “There was a Lettice mentioned in the letters, and they were signed with an E.”
“I daresay they are one and the same as Lettice Gorsing and Elizabeth Fitzhugh, then, because that must have been at the very end of the sixteenth century,” Rev. Biggs said. “Charlotte Gorsing married John Radcliffe and gave birth to his heir several months after he died, whom she also named John. It was the first John Radcliffe’s son who made the addition to the manor house and his great-grandson who inherited the barony and was raised by the king to the title of viscount.”
“Did ye say Radcliffe?” The growling voice jerked Colin’s attention away from the old man. Mrs. Willis was standing in the doorway with a tray containing more cups and a stack of scones and sandwiches. She fixed Colin with a glare. “Do ye be the new Radcliffe, then?”
“I am a Radcliffe,” he said, narrowing his eyes at the unfriendly expression on her face.
The woman grunted and set the tray upon the table hard enough that the spoons clattered, then turned and pushed out of the room.
After a moment of awkward silence, Fern cleared her throat and began serving tea, her shaking hands rattling the cups slightly against the saucers. Colin’s stomach rumbled impatiently. To distract it, he said, “I don’t mean to imply that my family history is anything but fascinating, but I am rather concerned about the present—and future—at the moment. We need a cook, a valet, a housekeeper, and a lady’s maid at the very least, as well as the services of a greengrocer and a butcher, never mind workers to repair the roof. I assume that, however lax they have been, Mr. and Mrs. Reston will be eager to make up for the past.” He took his tea, scones, and sandwich from Fern gratefully.
Rev. Biggs hemmed and hawed for a moment before finally saying, “I suppose that they might, at that.”
“Why would they not?” Colin frowned at the vicar, forcing himself not to snap.
The man’s reserve was clear. “I may have had this living for nigh on sixty years, but there are some things in this village that one shall always be too much of an outsider to know unless one happens to be born into the right local family. So I cannot say anything with the confidence of full knowledge. However, it does not take being family to know that the Restons do not like the Radcliffes, and the Radcliffes … give them room, as it were.”
“Why would my father—any of my relatives—do that?” Colin demanded. “The Restons are meant to be caretakers, but they have clearly taken care of nothing at all. Why were they not sacked years ago?”
Rev. Biggs shook his hoary head. “I have told you all I know. I will have Mrs. Willis arrange for provisions to be sent to the manor for you. If you wish, you can speak with Joseph Reston yourself to try to find domestics for your stay. His cottage is just down the lane, the only one with a green door.” And with that, the vicar took a sip of his tea and rang a bell at his elbow, effectively closing that line of discussion.
Fern cleared her throat, darting Colin an uncertain look. “So tell me, Reverend Biggs, what do you like most about living here?”
The old man’s face instantly lit up. “Butterflies,” he said firmly, and that topic, sustained by Fern’s questions and the vicar’s eager answers, filled half an hour, until all the sandwiches and scones were eaten and the last drops of tea had grown cold.
Finally, Rev. Biggs looked at his empty plate and said, “Goodness! I did not mean to keep you here so long. Mrs. Willis never did come, did she? She must be out. Or perhaps she is in the cellar. She was in the cellar when you called, and she never can hear anything from in there. I will see you to the door, then.” He began to lever himself out of the chair.
“Oh, no, sir, you mustn’t,” Fern said quickly. “We remember the way. Thank you for your kindness—and the tea. Both were very welcome.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Colin, rising. “Now we must find Mr. Reston.”
“Good luck,” the vicar called from his chair. “And please, come see me again.”
“I would like that,” Fern said, with every appearance of sincerity, and they left.
Out on the front walk again, Colin looked down at the neat figure of his wife. He had known before that she was a kind woman and a good hostess, but he had seen those qualities only in the context of his usual society, which was a flat kind of place to display any virtue. He had not truly considered what they meant, how she could use them to put someone at ease and draw them, almost unconsciously, into her friendship, and he found that he was touched by the generosity of the woman who was his wife.
Fern gave Colin a frowning sideways look. “That was queer.”
“What, his interest in butterflies?” Colin said lightly. “Most men have a mania, if only you can find it.”
“Not you,” Fern said instantly. “It is not a requirement of gentlemanly behavior. No, what I mean was all this talk about the Restons and the Radcliffes not liking one another. The Radcliffes are peers, and the Restons … well, they marry housekeepers’ daughters. They are not from the same world, so why would a Radcliffe even know what a Reston thought about him, much less care?”
Colin shrugged, uncomfortable with his uncertainty. “I understood what you meant, and in all honesty, I have no idea. My father has certainly never spoken of the Restons to me, and I don’t even know if he would be familiar with the name.”
“Yet they clearly haven’t done their job in years, and no one has sacked them. Do you think there might be something in what the vicar said?”
“We will find out soon enough.” Colin nodded to a small cottage with a shiny green door. “This is where they live.”
Given the general dilapidation of the village and the utter collapse of the manor house, Colin had expected a slatternly little hut. But the cottage was orderly and in good repair, with a burgeoning flower garden in front, new paint on the door, and the raw, red wood of recent repairs on two of the silvery shutters. The incongruity of the neat little home in such a village was almost disturbing. Colin knew where the money for the pretty green paint came from, and his jaw set.
Colin opened the gate and stood aside to let Fern through. He followed her up the short path and knocked crisply on the door.
After a moment, it opened. A young woman with rolled-up sleeves and a gray work apron stood there. Her features echoed those of the stocky Mrs. Willis, but that matron’s ruddy face and heavy jowls were replaced here by the flush and roundness of youth. The woman smiled, but her eyes stayed tight.
“Ye must be Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe, then,” she said. “My mum told me you had come. I be Dorcas Reston. Come in.”
She stood aside, and they stepped into a tidy little parlor, slightly crowded with chintz furniture and little china figurines.
“My Joseph’s helping old Abner vind a lost sheep,” she explained, her hands knotting in her apron. “But he should be coming here any moment.”
“I believe that some of my business can be handled more directly by you,” Colin said bluntly. “Mrs. Reston, my wife and I came to Wrexmere for our honeymoon, in hopes of escaping the unpleasant crowd at Brighton. We had no expectations that there would be rooms prepared for us when we arrived, but we were nonplussed to find the manor entirely abandoned. We had to go without food and sleep in a filthy room last nig
ht, and, far more gravely, the house has been so neglected that the ridgepole of the wing gave way in the rainstorm and came crashing through the attic, nearly killing us both.”
Mrs. Reston’s smile hardened, and the hands in her apron twisted harder. “My Joseph never did expect to do much vor that place because of the papers,” she said, pronouncing the last word as if it were a proper noun. “But he didn’t know about no ridgepole being near rotted through. He had another beam brought for the new hall and he were going to vix it next week—he didn’t know nothing about it being so bad.”
“It must be fixed today,” Colin said flatly.
Mrs. Reston nodded convulsively, then froze as if she were afraid that she had made an error.
“We also need a cook, a housekeeper, a lady’s maid, and, if at all possible, several other maids as well,” he added.
The woman looked relieved. “If ye’ll pay them, I can have half a dozen girls up there in two hours.”
“They will be paid,” said Colin coolly. “We need rooms cleaned for us, a fire laid, and a hot supper.”
“Why don’t … why don’t I arrange vor that now?” the woman said, and before Colin could respond, she swung the front door open and fled, leaving Colin and Fern alone.
“Does she feel guilty?” Fern asked, staring after her.
“She seemed more frightened to me,” said Colin. His neck prickled with suspicion, but he could not say whether it was merely a reaction to meeting the wife of the man who had clearly stolen so much of his money or whether it had a more profound cause.
“And what kind of papers was she talking about?” she added. She looked around the room. She was beginning to dislike it, with the chintz and doilies and the dozens of cheap china figurines haphazardly leering at her from every surface.
“I haven’t any idea.” Colin chose a seat. “We might as well make ourselves comfortable while we wait for her husband, though.”