The Master of Phoenix Hall

by Jennifer Wilde

  He gave me some papers to sign and I signed where he pointed. I held the quill between nervous fingers and the ink splattered. He blotted it with a piece of felt and waved the deed in front of the window to dry it. He tied up a stack of papers with a ribbon and asked me if I wanted a box at the bank. He agreed to handle all my legal matters for me, and I felt they were in good hands.

  “There is quite a bit of money,” he said. “Most of it invested. I will send you the statements. You’ll get a modest sum four times a year. That’s the interest. The rest will still be at the bank, making more.” He paused, obviously wanting to ask me a question.

  “Yes?” I said, prompting him.

  “Have you any knowledge of your aunt’s source of income?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “None of my affair really. I know she was paid well by the people, and she had a brisk business in herbs. I wouldn’t have thought it would pay so well—but perhaps she had another source of income we didn’t know about.” He grinned. “Perhaps a little distillery. I wouldn’t have put it past her.”

  I shifted the muff in my lap. “As you know, my aunt was a complete stranger to me.”

  He nodded. “You would have liked her, Miss Todd.”

  I stood up to go. Jacob Patterson rubbed his hands together, relieved to have another successful transaction behind him. I liked the man enormously, and I was sure that he was both honest and efficient.

  “You are a lucky young woman, Miss Todd.”

  “I know. This has all happened so quickly, I can hardly believe it even now. It is like a dream—a place of my own, an income, after years of making do. I feel like a child under a Christmas tree with a gorgeously wrapped gold and silver box just for me.”

  Jacob Patterson chuckled. He glanced at his watch.

  “I must not keep you,” I said, “I know you are busy. But, before I go, could you tell me a little about Phoenix Hall and its masters? I am very curious.”

  “I’ve never been inside the place,” he said, “but I have seen it from outside. It is a vast, rambling place a huge old pile of stone without any real claim to beauty. It’s a mixture of styles, originally built during the reign of Elizabeth and one of the places she visited. It was partially destroyed during Cromwell, much of it burned. It was reconstructed during the next century. Thus it got its new name, rising like the legendary bird out of the ashes. Reborn, so to speak. The Mellorys inherited it during the seventeen hundreds. It has belonged to them ever since. There was coal once, but the supply soon ran out and the old mines were boarded up. There was a large deposit of granite discovered and Bradford Mellory’s father quarried it. Bradford Mellory kept the quarries running, even when they had ceased to be profitable to Phoenix Hall, so that his people would have employment.”

  “He must have been a kind man,” I remarked.

  “Bradford Mellory was an easygoing, genteel old fellow, it would seem, well loved by all the people in the neighborhood. Phoenix Hall was open to everyone, and he gave grand, lavish parties for the people, the poor folks as well as the gentry. When he died there was much grieving. The new master is not at all like his father. Quite the opposite.”

  I very much wanted to hear about the man who was determined to have Dower House back. Jacob Patterson described him to me as a young man just turned thirty, something of a rake and despised by the people. He had been thrown out of Oxford for gambling, and there had been a lot of trouble with the young women of the neighborhood. The first thing he did when his father died was to close the granite quarries, thus putting all the people who had worked there out of work. There had been threats of a riot among the peasants and the troops had been called in. Violence did not break out, but there was still a smoldering resentment for the present Master of Phoenix Hall.

  “He must be very unpleasant,” I remarked.

  “Arrogant, spoiled, tyrannical,” Jacob Patterson said.

  “Who else lives in Phoenix Hall?”

  “His younger brother, Paul. The lad was injured as a child and he is a semi-invalid, interested mostly in his music and books.”

  “How old is Paul Mellory?” I asked.

  “Twenty-three or four, I would guess,” he replied. “I have never seen him, but I understand that he is a gentle boy, much like his father in nature and at odds with his brother. There is a sister, too, Laurel. She would be about your age, a pale, pretty lass who tries to make up for her brother’s harshness by her charity. The people love her, and the love is well earned. She was a friend of your aunt’s. You will no doubt meet Miss Laurel.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” I told him.

  I left the office with my head reeling, trying to sort out all the facts I had learned. It was one of those rare, sun-spangled days that can turn London into the most beautiful city in the world, and I decided to walk for a while. The air was fresh and sparkling with a clear blue haze. The sun made silver sunbursts on the windows of shops and glittered on the cobbles. I lingered at a book stall, turning over the old second-hand volumes, finding it hard to realize that I could buy all the books I wanted now. I wandered on, pausing to watch a group of swarthy, muscular men in front of a music store moving a large piano down a flight of stairs while its owner, a small Italian music teacher, made violent gestures and cried encouragement.

  The sights and sounds and smells of London were fascinating, and I would soon be leaving them. A vendor stood behind his cart, selling hot bacon rolls, soft strips of bread wrapped around bacon and mustard. He swirled a piece of brown paper around one and gave it to me, and I bit into the delicious treat, feeling like a child on holiday. Small children were gathered around a Punch and Judy show at the next corner, crying out in excitement as the colorful puppets danced on the tiny stage. I stood beside a little girl in a blue dress and watched the show with almost as much pleasure as the children.

  Life had been hard during the past few years, and I had been as patient as it was possible to be, waiting for that change that I knew would come, despite my rather grim, realistic outlook. Now it had arrived, and I felt like a new person. Before, I had felt old and weary; I was twenty-one years old, but I might as well have been forty-one. Now I felt as young as these children and lighthearted. A whole new life was opening up for me, like a flower whose petals had been tightly closed, and I was not going to let Phoenix Hall or any of the people there cast a shadow over it.

  II

  IT SEEMED that we had been riding for days. The coach was uncomfortable and crowded. Although Nan and I were the only passengers, there were a great many boxes that kept tumbling onto the floor. Nan had brought along her canary, a bright yellow bird with a little golden beak, perched disconsolately on the swing of its small gilded cage. His feathers dropped, as though he too was finding the trip unbearable. The horses galloped over the rough highway, and the wheels jogged over huge rocks, causing the whole coach to rock sideways. We could hear the driver curse occasionally and the sharp slash of his whip as he urged the horses on. Even though the windows were closed the dust was thick inside the coach. The vehicle smelled of sweat and old leather.

  “How much longer will it be before we reach the inn?” Nan cried.

  “Surely not much longer,” I replied.

  The coach jogged violently and we were both thrown forward.

  “I don’t know if I can endure much more,” she protested.

  “Patience, Nan.”

  “We’ve been riding so long!”

  “I know.”

  “I think the driver must be mad, going at this speed.”

  “He is anxious to get to the inn, too,” I informed her.

  The last rays of the sun touched the sky with crimson, and it would soon be dark. Through the window I watched long stretches of rolling hills covered with dead brown grass, huge gray rocks rising up in fantastic shapes surrounded by gnarled black trees. It looked ominous and forbidding. It was completely alien to anything I had ever seen before, and I shivered when I thought about those l
onely deserted stretches.

  Nan spoke comforting words to her canary and made a face at him. It was comforting to have her along, for despite her pretended anguish she was finding this a great adventure. Her face was lit up with excitement. Her golden curls were held back by a small blue bonnet, a sprig of purple velvet clustered about the brim. She wore a new dress of lilac colored linen with many rustling blue and violet petticoats. I had never seen her look so charming with her flushed cheeks and the tiny golden brown freckles scattered across her nose.

  “Just think,” she said, “tomorrow we will be in our own house. I am sure it will be in a shambles. We’ll have to spend a week cleaning.”

  “I hope there is enough linen,” I said.

  “I brought along several cakes of lye soap,” Nan said, “and some of that strong polish Mrs. Clemmons used. I hope she doesn’t miss it.”

  “Nan, did you steal it!”

  “And this bonnet, too. Isn’t it delightful?”

  “Anything else?”

  “Only some stockings”—she hesitated—“and a lavender silk parasol with an ebony handle.”

  “Nan,” I scolded, only half in earnest, “you should be ashamed.”

  “The old crow owed it to me after all those years of sweeping up after her and takin’ her tea when she’d had a drop too much. We will never have to set foot in the shop again. Never have to hear her roaring when a customer hasn’t been satisfied.”

  “It is well behind us,” I agreed.

  “I wonder what is ahead,” Nan said, reflecting.

  “Something wonderful, I hope.”

  “I am anxious to see the Master of Phoenix Hall,” Nan said. I had told her everything I knew about Phoenix Hall and its inhabitants. Nan’s curiosity about them knew no bounds, and while I tried to be more nonchalant, I too wanted to know all I could about that fascinating family who would soon be my neighbors.

  “I don’t imagine there will be an occasion for you to meet him,” I said primly.

  “What a shame, after all I’ve read about him in the papers.”

  “What have you read?” I asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

  “Surely you remember all those stories in the tabloids, Miss Angel. They were scandalous!”

  “I never read the tabloids, you know that.”

  “I know—you miss so much. You’re always reading those dreary old books by Mr. Dickens and missing all the juicy things.”

  “What did the papers say about Roderick Mellory?” I asked.

  “I can’t remember too well. It’s been some time ago. But one story told about a duel he had with an officer in the East India Company. They were fighting over the favors of a music hall actress and they met early one morning in Hyde Park and exchanged shots. The officer got a bullet in the shoulder, and he would have got one in the head as well if the seconds hadn’t restrained Mr. Mellory. There was a big write up, police called in and everything.”

  “The papers always exaggerate those things,” I said.

  “And there was the time Lord Fitzhubert found Roderick Mellory with the Lord’s young wife in a private box at the Ascot Races. Lord Fitzhubert slashed Mr. Mellory across the face with a riding crop. It seems that Mr. Mellory had been seeing young Lady Fitzhubert privately on many occasions. She’s a lovely blonde thing, they say, always wearing her pearls and lots of pink silk.”

  “Gossip,” I said, intrigued in spite of myself.

  Before leaving London I had seen Mr. Patterson again. He had a list of instructions to give me and more papers for me to sign concerning some investments he wanted to make. I had pressed him for more information about the Mellorys and he told me that Roderick Mellory was trying to put the estate back in order. It had lost considerable sums since his father died, and the new master of Phoenix Hall had spent three years in India, occupation unspecific, earning money to spend on the estate. He had recouped most of the losses, invested the money with the Bank of England, and only recently had started making repairs on the house. Getting back Dower House seemed to be an obsession with him, and Patterson had received another inquiry about the purchase of it since the first day I was in his office.

  He had also told me something more about Laurel Mellory. Her mother had brought her to London for The Season and the young debutante had been presented at Court. She had been squired about at all the balls and parties and had gone to all the fashionable places, yet it had been a failure for the most part and mother and daughter had gone back to Cornwall, disillusioned with London society. Young Laurel was evidently more interested in her good deeds, her young brother, and the gardens than in finding a suitably wealthy husband. Mrs. Mallory had died two years later with her daughter still unwed.

  I was interested in them all: the Master with his violent disposition, the pale young girl who had been a failure in London, the gentle boy with his lame leg and love of music. My new neighbors might prove to be antisocial, but they would certainly never be dull.

  All the light had washed out of the sky now and heavy shadows veiled the horizon. The coach lurched and shook. I felt my eyelids growing heavy, and my head nodded. Nan was already asleep, curled up in the corner on her side of the coach, the canary’s cage in her lap, her arm curved about it protectively.

  A box tumbling to the floor awoke me. It fell with a crash, and I sat up with a start, my eyes wide open. If the coach had been going fast before, it was fairly flying now, crashing over the road at a pace that seemed impossible. Nan and I were like rag dolls caught in a box being tossed up and down by some demonical child. Nan let out a shrill scream as a pile of boxes tumbled over her. I gripped the leather strap by the window, trying to catch my breath.

  The air around us seemed to be full of explosions. It sounded like Trafalgar Square on Guy Fawkes night, firecrackers bursting. What we heard was the driver’s whip slashing the air violently, rocks flying up to crash against the side of the coach and tree limbs that scratched it. There were shouts, too, from more than one throat. Nan was quite plainly terrified, and my heart felt as though it were going to leap into my throat.

  “God in Heaven!” Nan screamed, her blue eyes twice their normal size. “What is it!”

  There was an ear-splitting explosion and I saw a flash of flame. It was followed by the splintering of wood. The coach almost toppled over, but somehow the driver managed to hold it on the road. There could be no doubt now. We were being pursued by highwaymen.

  “Guns!” Nan yelled. “Murder! Lord preserve us!”

  I saw a dark figure streak past the window. It seemed that we were surrounded by horses. There was a final great lurch, the screeching of wheels and a jolt as the coach came to a stop. There was a sudden silence and Nan and I stared at each other. My heart was still beating, but I was not nearly as frightened as I had been when the coach threatened to go off the road and crush us as it rolled over. Nan sat up, adjusting her skirt and retrieving her bird cage from the floor. Her bonnet had fallen off and her golden curls were scattered chaotically over her head. There was a large streak of dirt across her cheek. She peered out the window with curious eyes.

  “Keep still, Nan,” I warned.

  “We’re surrounded,” she whispered excitedly.

  We heard loud voices and the sound of the driver climbing down from his seat. A lantern was lit and held up. We saw a group of shadowy figures in the flickering yellow glow. The door was jerked open and a hoarse voice commanded us to get out. I moved slowly, stepping out carefully. A hand seized my arm and pulled me into the open. Nan fairly leaped out of the coach, clutching the canary’s cage. The bird, for some strange reason, was chirping a bright, monotonous song.

  “Just keep quiet, Ladies,” a voice directed, “and you will not get hurt.” The voice was hoarse and gutteral, but it was obviously not natural. The man was disguising his normal speaking voice, and rather poorly, I thought.

  There were three men, but the man with the forced voice was obviously the leader. He was very tall, powerfully built,
and dressed entirely in black: highly polished black leather boots, tight black pants, black coat. There was a silky black hood over his head, with holes cut at eye level to enable him to see. On top of that he wore a broad-brimmed black hat, similar to those affected by the cowboys in America. The other men were burly brutes in leather jerkins and dusty trousers, bandanas tied over the lower part of their faces. One of them held the lantern.

  “Who are you?” Nan cried.

  “No questions, young woman.”

  “Don’t you touch us. Don’t you dare.”

  “Shut up, Nan,” I hissed.

  “Take your friend’s advice,” the man in black told her.

  “You don’t frighten me,” she snapped.

  “No?”

  He moved toward her slowly, menace in every step. He raised his black-gloved hand as though to strike her, and Nan stood there without flinching, her chin thrust forward arrogantly. She was a ludicrous figure in her lilac dress, holding the bird cage tightly, the smear of dirt across her face. I took her wrist and jerked her beside me, putting my arm about her waist. I had to admire her for this outburst of courage, and somehow I got the impression that the bandit did, too. We both stared up at him, and he watched us for a moment, his head held to one side as though he were making a decision. Then he chuckled.

  “Brazen pair,” he remarked to his companions. “Most of the women scream or faint or both.”

  He stepped over to me, peering closely into my face. I could feel his eyes examining me.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Are you going to faint?”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied calmly.

  “All calm and collected. Cool. Well bred.”

  “Would you prefer us to scream? Do you enjoy intimidating women?”

  He chuckled again, nodding his head. “Spirit, too,” he said to the others. “I like that.”

  Our driver was leaning against the coach, his face pale and his chest heaving. One of the men held a long pistol aimed at the driver’s head, and the poor man was much more terrified than either Nan or I. He was still panting from the exertion of the chase. The horses were standing quietly in their traces, their coats gleaming wetly in the light. I saw a large splinter near the top of the coach where the bullet had gone in.