Giles could not help sighing. He leant back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling for a long moment.
“It was made for the woman who died yesterday,” he said. “She made it for Kate.” There was silence between them for a moment, and then he asked, “How much did you give Miss Waites?”
“Two guineas – and the length of silk. And a dress of mine to copy. She is to send it to Holbroke when it is finished.”
“Ask her to bring it in person,” said Giles. “As soon as she can. In fact, can you find room for her when you go tomorrow? I’m sure work could be found for such a person in that house, and she would be safe there.”
“Safe?” said Mrs Maitland. “Is she in danger?”
“She may be. She certainly knows a great deal that may be of use to me, and that puts her in danger. If I can get her to Holbroke, she can disappear, in effect. And you can get her to talk – you have already made a good start on that.”
“Oh, I think anyone can buy trust with ready money. That is not so difficult.”
“You underestimate yourself,” said Giles, getting up. “I must go now, though I could sit here forever.”
“It is very pleasant, isn’t it?” she said.
“I should have gone in for the Church and got myself a nice living like this,” said Giles. She smiled at that. “And clergymen seem to get the best wives.”
“You make me afraid when you say that,” she said. “I have yet to prove myself worthy on that score, remember.”
“I’m sure you will be a success,” he said.
She got up from her chair and said, “It does feel something of a responsibility.”
“All marriages are, surely?”
“Yes. But Edward is –” she hesitated and then said, rather quietly. “So very good. It makes one feel most unequal to it. Especially as he sees in me nothing but unblemished virtue when, as you know all too well –”
“I am sure he sees your faults but chooses not to remind you of them,” Giles said. “He knows your conscience works hard enough, without him labouring the point, as other fools might.”
“Oh, how I wish that were so!” she exclaimed. “But in his eyes I am a paragon and, therefore, I can only fail him. That is truly frightening! It makes me wonder if –” And suddenly she had laid her hands on his forearm and was looking up at him, imploringly. “Tell me, my dear friend, that I am not about to –”
He gently removed her hand and said, as carefully as he could, trying to ignore the warmth in her voice, the particular intonation of ‘dear friend’ and the closeness of her.
“Edward is no fool,” he said. “He will have read you as you are. Otherwise, why else would he have asked you to share his life with you? He is too sensible to be clouded by fancy, and you are too open and unguarded for him to see you as anything else but as imperfect but adorable –”
“Adorable?” she said. The word had escaped him, like a bird evading a hunter’s net. “Adorable?” she said again.
He stepped back a little.
“It has been his great good fortune,” he said. “To be in a position to offer – he could have married anyone. He chose you, Emma, with his eyes open, I am sure.”
She looked away, her head a little bowed, and he wanted more than anything to reach out and touch her cheek.
“I know it is the greatest good fortune for me,” she said, “that my interests and my feelings should be so engaged. I ought not to hesitate, but –” She looked back at him imploringly. How tempted he was by that, by the doubt in her voice. It would have been the simplest thing in the world to press his advantage. She was inviting it, after all. That was clear enough. “But I do, still. I –”
“No sane person ever married lightly,” he managed to say. “This is all part of the business of doing it well, surely? Your doubts do you credit.”
When he had said this, he felt as if he had locked a puppy in a box to suffocate. It was a cruel necessity. He reminded himself he had nothing at all to offer her except self-indulgent desire which would no doubt dissipate when he found some other object.
The door opened, and Celia came in with the empty plate of toast and the butter dish.
“Full of crumbs, I’m afraid,” she said, putting it down on the tea table. “Boys are such pigs.”
“Even young Master Hughes?” said Mrs Maitland.
“He is a little better than Tom,” said Celia. “But only a little. And I have horrid sticky hands now!”
“Then I will kiss you on the cheek and say good-bye,” said Giles. She presented her cheek to him and dissolved in laughter when he put his arms around her and attempted to tickle her. She squeaked, half in protest, half in pleasure.
“I’m too old for tickling! Stop, stop, please!”
He did so and caught sight of Emma’s wistful smile. Again the bitter-sweet fancy of another sort of life came over him, and he felt certain she was thinking the same thing.
“That was simply horrible!” Celia said.
“It was,” he agreed. “I promise never to do it again.”
“Good!” she said, and flounced out of the room.
Emma her head at him,
“Half a woman, half a child,” she said.
“May she never change,” said Giles.
“We never do, at heart,” said Emma, “if we are careful,” and she again put out her hand to him.
He resigned himself to merely shaking it.
Chapter Twenty-three
Sir Richard Blanchfort was buried three days later in the little parish church at Hawksby, a few steps from his handsome manor house.
As was customary, neither his wife nor his daughter attended the service, but neither did they sit together with the other female mourners at the house and read through the burial service. Lady Blanchfort remained at Hawksby while Eleanor, despite Lord Rothborough’s strenuous efforts, remained at Holbroke.
“Was there ever such a pair of obdurate females!” exclaimed Lord Rothborough to Felix as they drove back to Holbroke after the service.
They had been in to pay their respects to the widow, and had been received with frosty correctness, or rather Lord Rothborough had been – she had not even bothered to acknowledge Felix. Lord Rothborough had taken the opportunity to urge Lady Blanchfort to come to Holbroke to make her peace with her daughter, but she declined, rather as if he had suggested something indecent. They had left after five minutes or so, five such strained minutes that Felix was relieved to find in the carriage the usual small but luxurious basket of refreshments. A generous measure of sherry in a silver-gilt cup and a chicken sandwich were like manna from Heaven.
“I think Eleanor will relent before her mother,” Lord Rothborough said. “Or at least I pray that she will.”
“Her position seems more than understandable to me,” said Felix with his mouth full. “Lady Blanchfort is hardly a tender parent. Why should she want to return to that?”
“Did you forget to breakfast this morning?” Lord Rothborough said.
“Yes,” said Felix. “And going to funerals always makes me hungry.”
“We must devise some compromise that both sides will find acceptable,” said Lord Rothborough.
“We?” Felix said.
“I think you have a measure of influence with Eleanor,” said Lord Rothborough.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Felix. “And why does it matter so much to you that they are reconciled? You are her sole guardian, and she evidently prefers you to her mother.”
“Because she is her mother, Felix – have a little heart for the poor woman! She may seem stubborn and cold, that’s true, but Eleanor is her only child. It would be highly remiss of me not to try to broker peace between them.”
“And it won’t look good if you don’t, I suppose?” Felix said. “I’m sure she is the type of woman who will write a hundred letters to her friends and acquaintances saying how you have poisoned her only child against her.”
“Naturally, I don’t want to be b
randed the villain of the piece,” said Lord Rothborough. “But that is not my principal motive. Family quarrels like these are dangerous for those involved in them – like some dreadful illness. Eleanor must make peace with her mother for her own sake – she is effectively my daughter now and her welfare is paramount. I will not have it on my conscience that I did not try. But what a business!”
“She will resent you as well if you try to force her hand,” Felix said.
“That is the danger,” said Lord Rothborough. “But I think with time, and the right influences, she will see and feel the good sense of it.”
The carriage had now turned onto a narrow, ill-made track that marked the entry into the wilder, wooded upland country to the north east of Northminster. More specifically, they were where the far reaches of the Hawksby estate touched borders with the extensive woodlands that surrounded Ardenthwaite.
As they jolted their way through the woods, he wondered again where exactly it was he had first encountered Eleanor Blanchfort, and how far he had managed to stray from the house in his delirium. There were still scabs and scars on his feet and legs to remind him of that business, although the undergrowth he had stumbled through was now shimmering with bluebells.
They turned from the winding lane into a broader avenue of great elms, with the house in view at the end of it.
Approached from this angle, the place seemed quite strange to him, but as they drew closer, the familiar shapes of the roof became legible, and when he smelt the wood smoke in the air, he had an agreeable sensation, akin to coming home. This surprised him somewhat, especially given recent events in the house. How had the old place come to mean so much to him?
Holt had been sent ahead to arrange things and hire some additional servants and it was Holt, now in the guise of butler, who came out to meet the carriage. Felix might have expected Major Vernon to come out too, but Holt informed them he was resting.
“Then I will not disturb you any further,” said Lord Rothborough. “We will expect you at dinner tomorrow!”
Felix went in and found Major Vernon sitting in an easy chair in the low-ceilinged, oak-panelled parlour. He was in a state of uncharacteristic lassitude, gazing vacantly into space, while Colonel Parham’s pointers lay dozing on the floor beside him. Felix’s entrance seemed to startle him for a moment, but he soon recovered.
“How was the funeral?” he said.
“Mercifully brief. But decently done. You seem very settled.”
“I must look indolent,” said Major Vernon getting up and stretching.
“Indolence has its uses, especially if you have been ill. How is your head?”
“Clear since yesterday, thank God! A little distance from Northminster has done me good. I was about to take Hector and Hero out,” he said. “Will you come with me?”
“Yes. I am stiff from the carriage.”
“I was going to take them through the woods. I have been thinking –”
“I knew you were not idling just then,” Felix said.
“There is some use in a state of cultivated vacancy,” Major Vernon said. “Things occur to one that might otherwise –” He broke off. “And you can keep an eye open for deadly milk-cap.”
They set off together through the gardens, the dogs happily rushing ahead towards the orchard gate.
“You see they are used to taking this path – they know where they are going,” said Major Vernon. “We might assume this is where the Colonel used to go.”
“Which helps us, how?”
“We need to consider exactly what happened on that last day – that may give us some idea who was involved. And also, the clearer we are about what may have happened, the better placed we are to look for witnesses. Someone will have seen something that will help us.”
Felix nodded, and opened the orchard gate where the dogs were now waiting impatiently. It was at this gate that Holt had found him that morning. Then the buds had still been tight on the branches; now the place was a dazzle of pale blossom.
“I wish they had not killed him here,” he could not help saying. “If I am to take up residence at some point then the memory of it will always –”
“There is a risk of that,” said Major Vernon. “But it may be that you can remove the stain by the act of occupation. I have to admit that was half in my mind when I suggested we come here.”
“You are like a riding master who makes you get straight back into the saddle after every fall.”
“Precisely.”
“There is sense in that,” said Felix. “I do care for the place, despite everything.”
They had reached the far side of the orchard where another gateway, this time with the gate ajar, led on to the ancient woodlands that formed much of the park at Ardenthwaite. There was a section of rough upland, but mostly there was a deep band of sheltering oak, beech and elms, carefully coppiced, with long shady drives through them, a delightful conceit at any time, and on that day, with the fresh greenery of spring and the great pools of bluebells here and there, it was particularly so.
“It would be hard not to,” said Major Vernon, as they set out into the woods, following the dogs. The dogs stopped, and seemed to be waiting for them to catch up. “The trouble is, there are too many ways through these woods,” he said. “Too many ways to go without being observed.”
“It would help if we knew where they were heading, I suppose,” said Felix. “And how they travelled.”
“Quite. I am assuming they left, at least, by horseback – remember they took the Colonel’s horses with them. And if they had any sense they would have gone off in different directions.”
“Mostyn towards Swalecliffe?” Felix said.
“At least we have that fragment,” said Major Vernon setting off again. The dogs seeing him do so, raced on.
“We are going somewhere that pleases them, at least,” said Major Vernon.
They walked for some time, with the woods growing darker and cooler, but then the path turned and they came across a small cottage, with a neatly fenced garden, and set in a clearing to catch what sun it could.
The dogs were yelping with delight at the cottage gate, and as they approached they could see they were being greeted by a sturdy, bearded man dressed in the clothes of a respectable countryman.
He swept off his hat at the sight of Felix and Major Vernon, and came out through the gate and along the lane to meet them.
“Squire!” he said, bowing respectfully to Felix. “Glad to see you here, that I am!” Although he looked familiar, Felix found he was struggling to remember the man’s name, and at the same time not at all comfortable to be so addressed. “Sam Webb, sir,” he went on, helpfully. “Forester. You set one of my lads to rights last year when he slashed himself with a sickle.”
“Ah, yes, I remember,” said Felix. “He is quite well again?”
“Right as rain. Working for his Lordship over at Holbroke now and doing very well at it. Will you gentlemen come in and have a dish of tea? Mrs Webb has just boiled the kettle. We’d be honoured.”
“Certainly,” said Felix. “This is Major Vernon.”
“Aye, that’s right, so it is! Odd, though, what a look of the Colonel you have about you, sir – you might be brothers, God rest his soul! What a business!”
“Yes, that has been remarked on,” said Major Vernon. “In fact, it would be very good to have your observations on that matter, Mr Webb. I think a constable may have visited you about the time we discovered him.”
“Well mayhap he did, but we didn’t see him, for I was up at Holbroke that week – I go and help out when I’m needed and Mrs Webb went to see her sister. I tell you, if we had been here, we should have seen or heard some thing.”
“I’m sure. But you may be able to help us anyway,” said Major Vernon. “Clearly you had some dealings with Colonel Parham. His dogs seem fond of you.”
“That they are. He used always to walk them down this way, and often enough we’d meet. Now, will you come in, sir
?”
He led them to the front door, calling out, “Mary, Mary, I have the young squire here!”
They went into an austere but immaculate kitchen, where Mrs Webb was soon mustering her best cups and saucers, and talking with great gratitude about “Johnny’s leg,” before concluding, “It’s the best of it you are back here, now, sir. The place shouldn’t be in the hands of strangers, especially those that get themselves done away with!”
“But I’m a stranger, Mrs Webb,” Felix could not help pointing out.
“Nay, Squire,” she said. “Thee is a Haraald to thy fingertips, wedding vows or no, and it’s better for the place that it should be yours. His Lordship knows best. When old Sir Robert died, well, who knows who might have taken the place over, if he had not. No, Mr Carswell, you’re no stranger, and I hope you’ll make a good long stay of it this time. Now, will you have a piece of tea-cake? It’s fresh.”
“I can’t promise you it will be very long,” said Felix. “Major Vernon and I have this business of the Colonel’s death to clear up.”
“What did you make of him, Mrs Webb?” Major Vernon asked.
“He was pleasant enough. I didn’t really speak to him. Usually he only talked to Mr Webb.”
“And did you ever go up and help at the house? Perhaps when Mrs Parham was there?”
“Aye, once or twice, but I never did again, because they never paid, did they? And she was not there for long. They were in a deal of trouble those two, and she was off by Christmas. In a huff.”
“You saw that?”
“Nay, Agnes Taylor told me – she was working there for longer than I was. She’s working over at Hawksby, at the big house, now.”
“Sir Richard’s place?” Felix said. She nodded. “Miss Blanchfort’s now, I suppose,” he added.
“Oh yes, so it will be,” said Mrs Webb. “Do you know her, Squire? Think you should, given you’ll be such close neighbours. Happen you should offer for her.”
“That’s none of your affair, Mary!” said Mr Webb.
“He’s of an age to wed,” said Mrs Webb, with no trace of apology. “And should be thinking of it.”
The Ghosts of Ardenthwaite (The Northminster Mysteries Book 5) Page 20