by Anne Perry
“You will have to learn to conquer that,” Callandra observed, settling herself a little deeper in the chair. Her voice was quite gentle; there was no criticism in it, simply a statement of fact. “Too many women waste their lives grieving because they do not have something other people tell them they should want. Nearly all married women will tell you it is a blessed state, and you are to be pitied for not being in it. That is arrant nonsense. Whether you are happy or not depends to some degree upon outward circumstances, but mostly it depends how you choose to look at things yourself, whether you measure what you have or what you have not.”
Hester frowned, uncertain as to how much she understood, or believed, what Callandra was saying.
Callandra was a trifle impatient. She jerked forward, frowning. “My dear girl, do you really imagine every woman with a smile on her face is really happy? No person of a healthy mentality desires to be pitied, and the simplest way to avoid it is to keep your troubles to yourself and wear a complacent expression. Most of the world will then assume that you are as self-satisfied as you seem. Before you pity yourself, take a great deal closer look at others, and then decide with whom you would, or could, change places, and what sacrifice of your nature you would be prepared to make in order to do so. Knowing you as I do, I think precious little.”
Hester absorbed this thought in silence, turning it over in her mind. Absently she pulled her feet out of the basin at last and began to dry them on the towel.
Callandra stood up. “You will join us in the withdrawing room for tea? It is usually very good as I remember; there is nothing wrong with your appetite. Then later we shall discuss what possibilities there are for you to exercise your talents. There is so much to be done; great reforms are long overdue in all manner of things, and your experience and your emotion should not go to waste.”
“Thank you.” Hester suddenly felt much better. Her feet were refreshed and clean, she was extremely hungry, and although the future was a mist with no form to it as yet, it had in half an hour grown from gray to a new brightness. “I most certainly shall.”
Callandra looked at Hester’s hair. “I shall send you my maid. Her name is Effie, and she is better than my appearance would lead you to believe.” And with that she went cheerfully out of the door, humming to herself in a rich contralto voice, and Hester could hear her rather firm tread along the landing.
Afternoon tea was taken by the ladies alone. Rosamond appeared from the boudoir, a sitting room especially for female members of the household, where she had been writing letters. Fabia presided, although of course there was the parlor maid to pass the cups and the sandwiches of cucumber, hothouse grown, and later the crumpets and cakes.
The conversation was extremely civilized to the point of being almost meaningless for any exchange of opinion or emotion. They spoke of fashion, what color and what line flattered whom, what might be the season’s special feature, would it be a lower waist, or perhaps a greater use of lace, or indeed more or different buttons? Would hats be larger or smaller? Was it good taste to wear green, and did it really become anyone; was it not inclined to make one sallow? A good complexion was so important!
What soap was best for retaining the blush of youth? Were Dr. So-and-so’s pills really helpful for female complaints? Mrs. Wellings had it that they were little less than miraculous! But then Mrs. Wellings was much given to exaggeration. She would do anything short of standing on her head in order to attract attention.
Frequently Hester caught Callandra’s eyes, and had to look away in case she should giggle and betray an unseemly and very discourteous levity. She might be taken for mocking her hostess, which would be unforgivable—and true.
Dinner was a quite different affair. Effie turned out to be a very agreeable country girl with a cloud of naturally wavy auburn hair many a mistress would have swapped her dowry for and a quick and garrulous tongue. She had hardly been in the room five minutes, whisking through clothes, pinning here, flouncing there, rearranging everything with a skill that left Hester breathless, before she had recounted the amazing news that the police had been at the hall, about the poor major’s death up in London, twice now. They had sent two men, one a very grim creature, with a dark visage and manner grand enough to frighten the children, who had spoken with the mistress and taken tea in the withdrawing room as if he thought himself quite the gentleman.
The other, however, was as charming as you could wish, and so terribly elegant—although what a clergyman’s son was doing in such an occupation no one could imagine! Such a personable young man should have done something decent, like taking the cloth himself, or tutoring boys of good family, or any other respectable calling.
“But there you are!” she said, seizing the hairbrush and beginning on Hester’s hair with determination. “Some of the nicest people do the oddest things, I always say. But Cook took a proper fancy to him. Oh dear!” She looked at the back of Hester’s head critically. “You really shouldn’t wear your hair like that, ma’am; if you don’t mind me saying.” She brushed swiftly, piled, stuck pins and looked again. “There now—very fine hair you have, when it’s done right. You should have a word with your maid at home, miss—she’s not doing right by you—if you’ll excuse me saying so. I hope that gives satisfaction?”
“Oh indeed!” Hester assured her with amazement. “You are quite excellent.”
Effie colored with pleasure. “Lady Callandra says I talk too much,” she essayed modestly.
Hester smiled. “Definitely,” she agreed. “So do I. Thank you for your help—please tell Lady Callandra I am very grateful.”
“Yes ma’am.” And with a half-curtsy Effie grabbed her pincushion and flew out of the door, forgetting to close it behind her, and Hester heard her feet along the passage.
She really looked very striking; the rather severe style she had worn for convenience since embarking on her nursing career had been dramatically softened and filled out. Her gown had been masterfully adapted to be less modest and considerably fuller over a borrowed petticoat, unknown to its owner, and thus height was turned from a disadvantage into a considerable asset. Now that it was time she swept down the main staircase feeling very pleased with herself indeed.
Both Lovel and Menard Grey were at home for the evening, and she was introduced to them in the withdrawing room before going in to the dining room and being seated at the long, highly polished table, which was set for six but could easily have accommodated twelve. There were two joins in it where additional leaves could be inserted so it might have sat twenty-four.
Hester’s eye swept over it quickly and noticed the crisp linen napkins, all embroidered with the family crest, the gleaming silver similarly adorned, the cruet sets, the crystal goblets reflecting the myriad lights of the chandelier, a tower of glass like a miniature iceberg alight. There were flowers from the conservatory and from the garden, skillfully arranged in three flat vases up the center of the table, and the whole glittered and gleamed like a display of art.
This time the conversation was centered on the estate, and matters of more political interest. Apparently Lovel had been in the nearest market town all day discussing some matter of land, and Menard had been to one of the tenant farms regarding the sale of a breeding ram, and of course the beginning of harvest.
The meal was served efficiently by the footmen and parlor maid and no one paid them the slightest attention.
They were halfway through the remove, a roast saddle of mutton, when Menard, a handsome man in his early thirties, finally addressed Hester directly. He had similar dark brown hair to his elder brother, and a ruddy complexion from much time spent in the open. He rode to hounds with great pleasure, and considerable daring, and shot pheasant in season. He smiled from enjoyment, but seldom from perception of wit.
“How agreeable of you to come and visit Aunt Callandra, Miss Latterly. I hope you will be able to stay with us for a while?”
“Thank you, Mr. Grey,” she said graciously. “That is very kin
d of you. It is a quite beautiful place, and I am sure I shall enjoy myself.”
“Have you known Aunt Callandra long?” He was making polite conversation and she knew precisely the pattern it would take.
“Some five or six years. She has given me excellent advice from time to time.”
Lady Fabia frowned. The pairing of Callandra and good advice was obviously foreign to her. “Indeed?” she murmured disbelievingly. “With regard to what, pray?”
“What I should do with my time and abilities,” Hester replied.
Rosamond looked puzzled. “Do?” she said quietly. “I don’t think I understand.” She looked at Lovel, then at her mother-in-law. Her fair face and remarkable brown eyes were full of interest and confusion.
“It is necessary that I provide for myself, Lady Shelburne,” Hester explained with a smile. Suddenly Callandra’s words about happiness came back to her with a force of meaning.
“I’m sorry,” Rosamond murmured, and looked down at her plate, obviously feeling she had said something indelicate.
“Not at all,” Hester assured her quickly. “I have already had some truly inspiring experiences, and hope to have more.” She was about to add that it is a marvelous feeling to be of use, then realized how cruel it would be, and swallowed the words somewhat awkwardly over a mouthful of mutton and sauce.
“Inspiring?” Lovel frowned. “Are you a religious, Miss Latterly?”
Callandra coughed profusely into her napkin; apparently she had swallowed something awry. Fabia passed her a glass of water. Hester averted her eyes.
“No, Lord Shelburne,” she said with as much composure as she could. “I have been nursing in the Crimea.”
There was a stunned silence all around, not even the clink of silver on porcelain.
“My brother-in-law, Major Joscelin Grey, served in the Crimea,” Rosamond said into the void. Her voice was soft and sad. “He died shortly after he returned home.”
“That is something of a euphemism,” Lovel added, his face hardening. “He was murdered in his flat in London, as no doubt you will hear. The police have been inquiring into it, even out here! But they have not arrested anyone yet.”
“I am terribly sorry!” Hester meant it with genuine shock. She had nursed a Joscelin Grey in the hospital in Scutari, only briefly; his injury was serious enough, but not compared with the worst, and those who also suffered from disease. She recalled him: he had been young and fair-haired with a wide, easy smile and a natural grace. “I remember him—” Now Effie’s words came back to her with clarity.
Rosamond dropped her fork, the color rushing to her cheeks, then ebbing away again leaving her ash-white. Fabia closed her eyes and took in a very long, deep breath and let it go soundlessly.
Lovel stared at his plate. Only Menard was looking at her, and rather than surprise or grief there was an expression in his face which appeared to be wariness, and a kind of closed, careful pain.
“How remarkable,” he said slowly. “Still, I suppose you saw hundreds of soldiers, if not thousands. Our losses were staggering, so I am told.”
“They were,” she agreed grimly. “Far more than is generally understood, over eighteen thousand, and many of them needlessly—eight-ninths died not in battle but of wounds or disease afterwards.”
“Do you remember Joscelin?” Rosamond said eagerly, totally ignoring the horrific figures. “He was injured in the leg. Even afterwards he was compelled to walk with a limp—indeed he often used a stick to support himself.”
“He only used it when he was tired!” Fabia said sharply.
“He used it when he wanted sympathy,” Menard said half under his breath.
“That is unworthy!” Fabia’s voice was dangerously soft, laden with warning, and her blue eyes rested on her second son with chill disfavor. “I shall consider that you did not say it.”
“We observe the convention that we speak no ill of the dead,” Menard said with irony unusual in him. “Which limits conversation considerably.”
Rosamond stared at her plate. “I never understand your humor, Menard,” she complained.
“That is because he is very seldom intentionally funny,” Fabia snapped.
“Whereas Joscelin was always amusing.” Menard was angry and no longer made any pretense at hiding it. “It is marvelous what a little laughter can do—entertain you enough and you will turn a blind eye on anything!”
“I loved Joscelin.” Fabia met his eyes with a stony glare. “I enjoyed his company. So did a great many others. I love you also, but you bore me to tears.”
“You are happy enough to enjoy the profits of my work!” His face was burning and his eyes bright with fury. “I preserve the estate’s finances and see that it is properly managed, while Lovel keeps up the family name, sits in the House of Lords or does whatever else peers of the realm do—and Joscelin never did a damn thing but lounge around in clubs and drawing rooms gambling it away!”
The blood drained from Fabia’s skin leaving her grasping her knife and fork as if they were lifelines.
“And you still resent that?” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “He fought in the war, risked his life serving his Queen and country in terrible conditions, saw blood and slaughter. And when he came home wounded, you grudged him a little entertainment with his friends?”
Menard drew in his breath to retort, then saw the pain in his mother’s face, deeper than her anger and underlying everything else, and held his tongue.
“I was embarrassed by some of his losses,” he said softly. “That is all.”
Hester glanced at Callandra, and saw a mixture of anger, pity and respect in her highly expressive features, although which emotion was for whom she did not know. She thought perhaps the respect was for Menard.
Lovel smiled very bleakly. “I am afraid you may find the police are still around here, Miss Latterly. They have sent a very ill-mannered fellow, something of an upstart, although I daresay he is better bred than most policemen. But he does not seem to have much idea of what he is doing, and asks some very impertinent questions. If he should return during your stay and give you the slightest trouble, tell him to be off, and let me know.”
“By all means,” Hester agreed. To the best of her knowledge she had never conversed with a policeman, and she had no interest in doing so now. “It must all be most distressing for you.”
“Indeed,” Fabia agreed. “But an unpleasantness we have no alternative but to endure. It appears more than possible poor Joscelin was murdered by someone he knew.”
Hester could think of no appropriate reply, nothing that was not either wounding or completely senseless.
“Thank you for your counsel,” she said to Menard, then lowered her eyes and continued with her meal.
After the fruit had been passed the women withdrew and Lovel and Menard drank port for half an hour or so, then Lovel put on his smoking jacket and retired to the smoking room to indulge, and Menard went to the library. No one remained up beyond ten o’clock, each making some excuse why they had found the day tiring and wished to sleep.
***
Breakfast was the usual generous meal: porridge, bacon, eggs, deviled kidneys, chops, kedgeree, smoked haddock, toast, butter, sweet preserves, apricot compote, marmalade, honey, tea and coffee. Hester ate lightly; the very thought of partaking of all of it made her feel bloated. Both Rosamond and Fabia ate in their rooms, Menard had already dined and left and Callandra had not arisen. Lovel was her only companion.
“Good morning, Miss Latterly. I hope you slept well?”
“Excellently, thank you, Lord Shelburne.” She helped herself from the heated dishes on the sideboard and sat down. “I hope you are well also?”
“What? Oh—yes thank you. Always well.” He proceeded with his heaped meal and it was several minutes before he looked up at her again. “By the way, I hope you will be generous enough to disregard a great deal of what Menard said at dinner yesterday? We all take grief in different ways. Menard lost h
is closest friend also—fellow he was at school and Cambridge with. Took it terribly hard. But he was really very fond of Joscelin, you know, just that as immediately elder brother he had—er—” He searched for the right words to explain his thoughts, and failed to find them. “He—er—had—”
“Responsibilities to care for him?” she suggested.
Gratitude shone in his face. “Exactly. Sometimes I daresay Joscelin gambled more than he should, and it was Menard who—er …”
“I understand,” she said, more to put him out of his embarrassment and end the painful conversation than because she believed him.
Later in a fine, blustery morning, walking under the trees with Callandra, she learned a good deal more.
“Stuff and nonsense,” Callandra said sharply. “Joscelin was a cheat. Always was, even in the nursery. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he never grew out of it, and Menard had to pick up after him to avoid a scandal. Very sensitive to the family name, Menard.”
“Is Lord Shelburne not also?” Hester was surprised.
“I don’t think Lovel has the imagination to realize that a Grey could cheat,” Callandra answered frankly. “I think the whole thing would be beyond him to conceive. Gentlemen do not cheat; Joscelin was his brother—and so of course a gentleman—therefore he could not cheat. All very simple.”
“You were not especially fond of Joscelin?” Hester searched her face.
Callandra smiled. “Not especially, although I admit he was very witty at times, and we can forgive a great deal of one who makes us laugh. And he played beautifully, and we can also overlook a lot in one who creates glorious sound—or perhaps I should say re-creates it. He did not compose, so far as I know.”
They walked a hundred yards in silence except for the roar and rustle of the wind in giant oaks. It sounded like the torrent of a stream falling, or an incessant sea breaking on rocks. It was one of the pleasantest sounds Hester had ever heard, and the bright, sweet air was a sort of cleansing of her whole spirit.