by Ann Clement
Here was an opportunity to arrange a studio the likes of which no one had even dreamed of. She got up and paced along the line of French doors leading to the gardens, trying to measure the distance. Then along the shorter glass wall. Satisfied that her initial guess as to the size seemed close to reality, she looked around, as much as all the shrubs, tubs and vases crowding the space allowed. The canvases that needed preparation could go on the back wall now barely visible through all that greenery. She could have a good, long bench for all materials and use it as a working space. With a large easel placed toward the other end of the orangery, there would be plenty of space to move around, arrange various props and even add some armchairs to relax in or have a cup of tea with Josepha.
Her chemise began to cling uncomfortably to her skin. Only the vents under the roof were open, so the air inside was hot, thick and humid. No wonder no one came here anymore. With all those beautiful French doors firmly shut, one turned in no time into a gigantic chunk of stewed mutton. In the future, the doors would be open for ventilation, whenever possible.
What sort of a person had been the first Lady Hanbury? The indoor garden was magnificent in its lush growth, but at the same time, it made one feel…insignificant, almost oppressed by the heavy canopy of unfamiliar plants.
Letitia reached into her pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from her brow and headed for the door. She would wait for the housekeeper outside, or else Mrs. Waters would find a puddle of sweat on the orangery floor, instead of her new mistress. Once outside the orangery, Letitia took a deep breath of drier, cooler air and exhaled with relief. The corridor was, thankfully, much more suited to human habitation.
Then she suddenly heard children’s laughter and running feet moving through the main hall. Who was this? Sir Percival said he had no children, and she had not seen any yesterday or this morning.
But just as she approached the corner, a huge cannonball hit her stomach so unexpectedly and with such force that she doubled over it, her hands catching something warm and fuzzy.
“Oggghhh!” she groaned while the dull aftereffect of the collision sent the remnants of hot chocolate up her throat.
“Aawww! My nose…” wailed the cannonball.
“William!” That came from the boy who stopped a couple of feet in front of her, his eyes round as saucers.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said and swallowed. “We didn’t know Uncle Percy had a guest.”
Well, neither did she.
The cannonball nodded vigorously in agreement and wiggled out of her hands.
Who were they? Uncle Percy? So her husband had family nearby. She didn’t know anything about him.
“How is your nose, William?” she asked.
A blushing boy, no older than five, peered at her with curiosity and some apprehension.
“It hurts a little,” he confessed. “I…I’m sorry!” he added hurriedly.
“You should be,” Letitia replied, glancing at the reddened appendage on his face. “You would be in a heap of trouble if I were a marble statue. It is always better to look ahead and not behind when you run. Where were you going so quickly?”
“We were racing to the end of the corridor,” the other boy explained. “No one ever walks through here, except Uncle Percy, so that’s why William wasn’t careful.”
“Well, let it be your lesson,” she said, amused despite the chocolate still sitting somewhere between her stomach and her mouth. “Do you want to tell me who you are?”
“Henry Vernon,” said the older boy, “and this is my brother, William.”
“Henry lost another tooth yesterday!” William announced triumphantly.
Henry opened his mouth wide to show the gap.
“Soon you’ll have a new one,” Letitia said. “Do you often visit your uncle?”
“He’s not really our uncle,” William explained. “We call him uncle because he’s Mama’s best friend. Mama always asks him for help, and there’s a cow having a baby, and Mr. Lipkin went to the market in King’s Lynn, and the cow has a problem, and Mama didn’t know what to do, so she came to ask Uncle Percy to help because he knows everything about cows.”
“I see,” Letitia said, although she didn’t see at all. Why couldn’t Mr. Vernon take care of his cow? “Where is your mama now?”
“She needs to find Uncle Percy. We mustn’t disturb them when they talk about grown-up matters,” Henry explained.
“Do you want to play with us?” William piped in, his gaze encouragingly hopeful.
“Perhaps I ought to ask your mama,” Letitia said and began walking toward the hall. Who was the woman whose children ran unrestrained through this house and who called Sir Percival her best friend? Her chest tightened when she considered the answer.
“She won’t mind,” Henry told her.
Just then, a female voice called out from the center of the house. “William! Henry! Where are you now?”
“Here, Mama!” Henry called. “There’s a lady here in the corridor.”
“Is there?” replied the voice with a hint of laughter and sounding closer than before. “I hope she’s not wearing a white dress.”
The boys giggled in reply.
“She’s not a ghost, Mama,” William shouted back, clearly amused by the suggestion. “Her dress is blue.”
“Well, what sort of a jes—” The woman who appeared around the corner stopped abruptly, too astonished to finish the sentence. But she re-collected herself almost immediately.
“I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said. “That is indeed a surprise. Have you just arrived?”
Clearly, Sir Percival had not deemed it necessary to inform his mistress of his marriage. Letitia took quick stock. Mrs. Vernon was rather tall for a woman and past the first bloom of youth, but her features were handsome. Locks of dark hair peeked from under the bonnet, and dark-gray eyes smiled at Letitia with a mixture of apology and encouragement.
“I do beg your pardon,” she repeated. “I am Mrs. Vernon, Percy’s neighbor. I’d hoped to find him at home. He is always very helpful when it comes to farm problems. Mr. Petre, his steward, might do just as well, but unfortunately he is gone for the day too. Oh, Slater”—she turned to the butler who appeared in the corridor—“I’m sorry for leaving you behind while William and Henry dashed for the library, especially since Percy has a guest. But, you were about to tell me something when they took off and I followed them.”
Slater stopped and took a deep breath, probably to disguise the fact that he was panting like an old bellows.
“Yes, indeed, ma’am. My lady”—he turned to Letitia—“Mrs. Vernon came in search of Sir Percival regarding an emergency at Harewood House’s farm.” Then he addressed Mrs. Vernon again, “Her ladyship is not a guest, ma’am. This is Lady Letitia Hanbury, Sir Percival’s wife.”
The effect was immediate and akin to a bolt of lightning. Mrs. Vernon’s large and quite-beautiful eyes widened in a shot of panic before she lowered them and curtsied to the new hostess of Bromsholme.
“Good grief!” she exclaimed. “Why has he done this?” The color crept up her cheeks at Slater’s indignant jerk of the head.
Letitia, on the other hand, felt the blood draining from her face. Mrs. Vernon put a hand over her mouth as if astonished by her own words, but when she removed it, her eyes were laughing again.
“Oh dear,” she said while the color spread all over her face, “this is my day of blunders. I do beg your pardon again, Lady Letitia. My comment referred to your husband’s sly ways. I had no idea he planned to marry. I would not intrude upon you for the world if he had given us any hint at all as to his plans. Oh, if Percy were my son’s age, I would seriously consider boxing his ears for this omission.”
Letitia felt a smile tug at her mouth. It might be an amusing spectacle.
“Uncle Percy!” William cried. “Hen
ry lost another tooth!”
Mrs. Vernon whirled around while her sons ran toward the approaching figure.
Sir Percival didn’t seem the least embarrassed by his mistress’s visit. For some reason, he watched Letitia instead of Mrs. Vernon.
Then suddenly his expression changed, as if he’d just recalled something important. “Oh, I say, another tooth, Henry? Let me see how many new teeth you’re going to have.”
Henry obligingly opened his mouth again.
“Just as I thought.” Sir Percival winked and ruffled his hair. “Soon you’ll bite apples in half as if they were strawberries.”
“I do not know whether I should start with congratulations or scolding,” Mrs. Vernon said. “I am mortified to have accosted her ladyship unawares, while William and Henry nearly toppled her over, racing as usual. You have been extremely secretive, Sir Percival Hanbury. I hope you have a sound explanation.”
“I do beg your forgiveness, Mary,” Sir Percival replied with a slight bow of his head. “It had not been an intentional omission. As soon as the Earl of Stanville and I signed the marriage contract, I hastened to London to obtain a special license. His lordship did not wish to put off the nuptials on any account.”
“And sending a note was not an option?” she asked.
“Forgive me,” he mumbled. “I confess to certain absentmindedness on account of this important event.” As he spoke, his gaze shifted from Mrs. Vernon to Letitia, though, of course, the warmth with which he’d regarded the little Vernons a moment earlier gave way to something akin to a grimace. “Mrs. Mary Vernon is our neighbor,” he said. “Mary, this is Lady Letitia Hanbury. We hope to have the honor of your company at the wedding breakfast on Monday.”
Mrs. Vernon nodded.
“Thank you. It will be a great pleasure.” She smiled at Letitia. “You mustn’t fear that you will be confined to a life of seclusion on account of your husband’s, ah, absentmindedness. I believe I may safely vouch that there are many in this neighborhood who will be delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Thank you,” Letitia replied. “Will you please stay for tea?”
Mrs. Vernon blinked and turned serious. “One of the cows decided to calve just as my bailiff left for the day. Unfortunately, something is not right, and the men tending to the barn don’t know what to do without the bailiff’s help.”
Sir Percival was already walking back the way he came.
“Let me go right away,” he said over his shoulder. “No need for you to worry. I may be late,” he addressed Letitia again. “Best to not wait with dinner. This may take some time.”
“As you wish,” she replied to his departing back, then glanced at the boys. “How about some lemonade in the garden for you, William and Henry?”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Vernon replied while her sons squealed their approval and dashed for the back door, apparently perfectly acquainted with the layout of the house. Their mother took Letitia’s arm as they walked toward the drawing room. “I am most obliged, Lady Letitia.” She sighed with relief. “Percy is always so kind. I do not know what I would do without him since my husband’s death. He’s been the closest friend a woman in my situation could imagine and wish for.”
In the end, the introduction into household management had to be postponed until the next day. After breakfast, Letitia applied herself, not without some disdain for the idea, to living up to Sir Percival’s standards of marital accord and felicity, to a review of the contents of Bromsholme’s closets. Luckily, Mrs. Waters’s open, garrulous nature made time go fast.
In the course of an hour, she found out that a nearby estate, Pythe Park, belonged to a Mr. Wilkinson, who lived there with his son and daughter, but the younger Mr. Wilkinson was now traveling on the Continent. Mr. Petre, the steward, was remarkably competent, though the sixth and youngest son of a viscount, and thus left to shift for himself without the fortune his eldest brother commanded. Mr. Vernon had died suddenly of apoplexy three years ago, leaving his widow well provided for. And Mr. Slater had been a butler to the family since the days when Sir George and his lady were still alive.
But it was the mention of the first Lady Hanbury that drew Letitia’s undivided attention.
“This was her ladyship’s favorite cushion.” Mrs. Waters sighed and smoothed the flowery design of a needlepoint cover. “She always kept it on her bed. But as it was made by Sir Percival’s grandmother, it didn’t seem right to send it with Lady Hanbury’s other possessions to her parents.”
“I’m afraid I do not understand, Mrs. Waters.” Letitia was now keenly interested in what the housekeeper had to say.
Mrs. Waters carefully deposited the cushion back in the drawer. “Sir Percival sent all his wife’s books, clothes and personal belongings to her family,” she explained.
“He did?”
“Aye, and that was only the beginning.” The housekeeper nodded. “As soon as her ladyship’s apartment was emptied, he had an architect here and changed the entire upper floor. All the rooms are different on that side of the house. And then he had the entire eastern side changed too, where his and my lady’s rooms are now.”
“You mean, our apartments are now on the opposite side of the house than during his first marriage?” Why ever would he do something like that? And why couldn’t he just move the furniture from one place to another?
Mrs. Waters nodded again. “Sir Percival’s and Lady Hanbury’s apartments used to be on the western side of the house. When her ladyship died, the master was in such despair, like I never saw any other man.”
“Was it… Did she die in childbirth?”
Mrs. Waters shook her head.
“Sadly, there were no children. Lady Hanbury’s health was never good. She often spent her days in bed, without taking any nourishment. Melancholy, the doctor said. Yet the summer she died, she was greatly improved and seemed so happy. Until that last day, when she shut herself in her chamber. The master went up in the afternoon and found her dead. When we ran upstairs to see what happened, Sir Percival lay on the bed, holding his beloved wife in his arms, and cried like a child.”
Mrs. Waters’s eyes turned suspiciously shiny. “Lady Hanbury looked so bad, all blue and purple, but he wouldn’t let go of her.” She sniffed loudly. “Aye, how we all cried, we felt so sorry for him. Sir Percival has never been the same since that day. And then, only a week after her funeral, he ordered the upper floor to be demolished and rebuilt. I heard the young Mr. Wilkinson ask him once why he did that. He replied that no one deserved to live in those rooms.”
She rooted in her apron pocket and produced a large handkerchief. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I never saw such devotion in a man.”
Letitia only nodded in reply. Her head spun from the housekeeper’s story. To go to such extravagant lengths to make sure that no one—especially not another woman—would ever sully Sarah’s rooms with her presence was an unmatched proof of Sir Percival’s feelings for his deceased wife. The recollection of the pain marring his features after her outburst in the carriage flashed in her mind’s eye. She had no idea she had poured salt on a raw wound. No doubt he still carried a torch for Sarah and probably would forever.
And yet, it didn’t stop him from having a mistress.
She congratulated herself again on the clever plan she had hatched during her solitary wedding night. An escape to America was her best option. With Sarah worshiped on the altar of Sir Percival’s memories, and a mistress warming his bed, her absence would hardly be noticed. Oh, she might have the orangery, but it was now easy to see that he only thought to get rid of her this way. All the better. She didn’t need his meddling in her life.
All these thoughts were still churning in her head after the drawers were finished and Letitia walked slowly along the back corridor toward the main staircase. Josepha’s quiet laughter reached her and, as it always had, put Letitia at ease. Josie
seemed to like Bromsholme. What would she say once she learned the strange history of Sir Percival’s first marriage?
Then the sight that greeted her in the hallway pushed that thought aside.
Josepha stood in front of one of the portraits, her slender hand resting on the Boulle chest to her left. Sir Giles—Letitia had already learned the names of the sitters and their connection to the family history—stared down fiercely from his portrait at a man in riding clothes facing Letitia’s companion.
He was almost as tall as Sir Percival and about his age. His tousled light-brown hair had plenty of sun streaks, betraying the outdoor inclination. His voice reverberated between the stone walls while Josie—her always prudent Josie—grinned at him.
“It will be a great pleasure, Miss Fourier,” the charmer was saying. “If you come early in the morning, I will show you the hothouses before they heat up beyond comfort.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Petre. Perhaps I will come. And thank you for the offer of a potted plant for my room.”
So this was the steward? Letitia appraised him with interest.
“My pleasure,” he replied, bowing slightly. “I shall return later in the afternoon to speak with Lady Letitia about the changes in the orangery.”
“I cannot tell for certain when she will— Oh, here she is.” Josepha noticed her presence at last, having momentarily taken her eyes off the steward. “Mr. Petre has come to find out what you wish to do with the orangery.”
“Mr. Petre.” Letitia extended her hand to him, and he bowed over it with all the gallantry one would expect from the sixth and youngest son of a viscount. “Let me show you what I have in mind. Josie, would you please bring my sketchbook from the sitting room?”
Josepha nodded and turned toward the staircase.
Letitia headed toward the corridor leading to the library. “How soon can you begin, Mr. Petre?” she asked.
“On Tuesday, ma’am,” he replied, sending a fleeting glance toward the stairs.
Chapter Eight