Scandal at the Dower House

by Marina Oliver

  ‘We are visiting a couple of my friends from school,’ she said cheerfully. ‘One is married now and living in the south, which is why we want to travel there later, after we have seen the one in Lisbon.’

  The two weeks they spent at the Quinta das Fontes were enjoyable, but both girls were glad when they could leave. One day Aunt Madalene had remarked that the good Portuguese food must suit them, as Joanna seemed to be putting on weight, and for a horrid moment Catarina thought she knew.

  They left, promising to return the following year, driven by their uncle’s coachman. Catarina insisted they take the public coach from Oporto, but she could not evade Antonio’s escort. It simply was not possible for two young girls to travel on their own, they were told. She could not risk anyone discovering their destination in Lisbon, but Joanna’s inventive mind provided the answer. They were, she said airily, to stay at a hotel for a night or so, as their hosts were away, and they would be collected as soon as the da Sousa family returned to the city. She had only a vague idea of the address where they would be staying, as the family had a couple of town houses and also a country estate.

  Antonio was horrified at the notion of two ladies being alone in a hotel. They were afraid he would insist on remaining with them, but Catarina assured him it was considered acceptable in England and, to their relief, he said he had to go back home as there were people he had promised to meet there on business connected with the grape harvest.

  Listening to Joanna, Catarina was thankful there were so few surnames in Portugal. There would be dozens, if not hundreds, of families called da Sousa and tracing an individual one would be difficult.

  By mid-August Jeremy was fit enough to go to Marshington Grange. He was so restless Nicholas was thankful to take him there. At his own house he would have more to do, and Nicholas meant to stay with him for several weeks and help him settle and get to know the people on the estate. Even to himself he did not admit that he hoped to meet Catarina again. She had not said when they would return from the visit to their Portuguese family, but surely they would be back before the winter.

  Jeremy insisted he could ride around the estate, not have to travel in a ladies’ gig, but he agreed to rest for a day or so after the tedious coach journey. Then he rebelled, telling Nicholas he was living up to his devilish name, so Nicholas went to the stables to make sure his saddle was put on a placid mare. Jeremy frowned when he saw her, but said nothing more. Nicholas trusted he was beginning to realize his limitations.

  It was clear within the first few minutes that Jeremy was finding riding difficult and, after they had ridden as far as the village and seen the new houses, Nicholas insisted on turning back.

  As they passed the Dower House Nicholas saw Staines in the garden and hailed him.

  ‘When do the ladies plan to return?’

  ‘Not for some months, my lord. I understand they are visiting several relatives.’

  Nicholas thanked him, and was silent all the way back to the house. Jeremy, clearly in pain, did not wish to talk. He winced as he dismounted, and instead of following his normal practice of making sure his horse was properly looked after, he handed the mare to a groom, grimaced at Nicholas and said he would go into the house.

  Before he went inside himself, Nicholas made sure there was a suitable gig and a pony to pull it. Jeremy might object and say he felt like a child or a female driving such a conveyance, but if he wanted to be able to tour his land he would have to endure the embarrassment.

  After the first few outings Jeremy was reconciled. He met the tenant farmers, listened to their praises of the late earl, and tentatively began to discuss his own plans for improvements. One or two of the farmers approved, but he met considerable resistance from others.

  ‘I’ll have to go slowly,’ he told Nicholas, as they sat over their port one evening. ‘Do you think, if the dowager were here, she might persuade them? Several of them talked about her, and they seemed to respect her views. She has been good to many of them, sending help when they were in trouble. If she approved of my plans they would accept them more readily.’

  For a few moments Nicholas wondered who Jeremy meant by the dowager, then with a shock realized he was talking of Catarina.

  ‘She’s still a girl!’ he exclaimed. ‘How can you call her a dowager?’

  Jeremy grinned at him. ‘I know, it sounds ridiculous, she’s the same age as I am, but as soon as you marry she’ll have to get used to it. We can’t have two countesses.’

  ‘I’m not planning to marry,’ Nicholas protested.

  ‘Oh, come. You wouldn’t want me to inherit the title, would you? Besides, you’ll live to a ripe old age and I would be too ancient to make the most of it. I’ll be content with the connection, the reflected glory. Seriously, Nick, you need to set up your own nursery soon. There will be even more debutantes on the catch for you now you have the title. Why don’t you go up to London for the Little Season and survey the field?’

  Nicholas grimaced. ‘The whole business is like a horse fair. Dance with some chit at two consecutive balls, or drive her in the Park, and the dowagers are taking bets. Dowagers!’ he added.

  Jeremy chuckled. ‘I’ll hazard you don’t meet many like our own dowager at Almack’s!’

  Catarina rented an apartment a week after they arrived in Lisbon. She hired a cook and a Portuguese maid, and they announced that Joanna, a grieving widow, would not be entering Society or receiving calls.

  ‘That will explain how we don’t know anyone here.’

  ‘If we’d gone to a smaller town we could at least have driven out,’ Joanna complained.

  ‘And been more conspicuous. Here we are anonymous, and no one will notice us, or begin to speculate about us.’

  Joanna nodded reluctant agreement. ‘I am so bored!’ she complained. ‘I’ve read this book of poems so many times I could recite every one.’

  ‘There are clothes to make for the child,’ Catarina reminded her.

  ‘I hate sewing. I have enough reminders of Matthew; I don’t want to spend my time sewing for his wretched brat!’

  Catarina sighed. Joanna insisted she did not wish to keep the child. In any event it would have been impossible, unless they moved from Somerset and all their acquaintances and settled in another part of the country where they could have maintained the fiction of Joanna’s widowhood.

  ‘I’ve been making enquiries. There is a convent nearby which takes in orphan babies. They either find someone to adopt the children, or they keep them until they are old enough to be apprenticed to a trade. If I give them a large sum of money they will ensure the child goes to a good home.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  Catarina lost her temper. ‘This baby is yours too! You are as responsible for creating it as Matthew. You can’t be so heartless as not to care what becomes of the poor mite!’

  ‘It was Matthew’s fault!’ Joanna muttered. ‘I thought we were married, and he might have been going to his death at Waterloo.’

  ‘You should have had the sense to know it was not all correct when it was done in a clandestine manner.’

  ‘He said he didn’t want Uncle Ivor to know, as he wanted Matthew to marry some girl with a title, not just a small fortune like mine.’

  ‘He survived.’ Catarina was horrified at her wickedness when she caught herself thinking it might have been better if he had not. ‘His mother wrote to tell me, and also to announce his betrothal to a girl from Leicestershire. Will you tell him when the baby is born?’

  Joanna shook her head. ‘He doesn’t care. He wanted me to get rid of it and, as soon as I can, I want to forget I ever had it. I mean it, Cat. This baby is not going to ruin my life.’

  Nicholas and Jeremy were still at breakfast when their new butler came to say that Staines was in the kitchen, rather upset, and wanted to speak to them.

  ‘We’ll see him in the estate office in five minutes,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘I suspect some problem has arisen at the Dower House wh
ich he cannot deal with,’ Jeremy said.

  ‘There may be a message from Lady Brooke,’ Nicholas said, but knew it was unlikely Staines would be coming to them so early in the day just to relay a message that the ladies were coming home. He wondered at his preoccupation with Catarina. Why did she occupy his thoughts so much? He admitted frankly that he desired her, wanted to make love to her, but he had desired many women, and then banished all thoughts of them either until the desire faded, which it often did, or an appropriate moment came to satisfy it. Perhaps, perversely, it was because he knew Catarina was not like his other conquests, bored married women who could love and leave their lovers as readily as he did himself.

  Staines was standing by the window of the estate office when the brothers entered. He swung round and took a few steps towards them, holding out his hands in supplication.

  He had dressed hurriedly and not shaved. His hair looked as though he had spent the time of waiting thrusting his hands through it.

  ‘What is it, man?’ Nicholas demanded. ‘Here, sit down, you’re as pale as a ghost.’

  ‘My lord, I don’t know what to do,’ Staines muttered, almost collapsing into the chair Nicholas thrust towards him. ‘It’s Cook. Ellen. She’s dead.’

  ‘Your cook at the Dower House? But she isn’t an old woman. Has she been ailing?’

  Staines shook his head and wrung his hands together. ‘Wicked, it is!’ He took a deep breath. ‘It was her custom to go out into the garden last thing at night; she said a breath of fresh air helped her to sleep.’

  Nicholas nodded. He knew many people who said the same.

  ‘Who normally locked up after her? Did you see her? Was she looking ill then?’

  Staines shook his head and groaned. ‘She did herself. I saw to all the other doors and windows, but she’d lock the back door and go up to her room. I’d usually hear her, but not always. I was tired yesterday. I’d been helping Mr Lewis repair the roof of his barn, and must have gone to sleep the moment I put my head on the pillow. Oh, why didn’t I wait for her!’

  ‘Are you saying she didn’t come back into the house?’

  He nodded. ‘This morning she wasn’t in the kitchen when I went for my breakfast, so I thought she’d overslept. I sent up young Liza, and she said the bed hadn’t been slept in. Then—’

  He stopped and dragged his sleeve across his eyes.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The kitchen door wasn’t locked. We went out, thinking she might have had a fall. But’ – he gulped – ‘she was down by the raspberry canes at the end of the garden and – and she was stone cold.’

  ‘Dead? Had she fallen, could you tell?’

  ‘She was covered in blood. Bludgeoned to death, poor lass.’

  ‘Have you called a doctor? Or the constable?’

  Staines shook his head. ‘Dr Holt could do no good. I didn’t know what to do, with my lady not here, so I came to tell you.’

  Nicholas turned to Jeremy who had been standing by the door, listening. He looked horrified.

  ‘Send a groom for Dr Holt and the constable. And saddle my horse. I’ll go straight down. You bring Staines in the gig. Did you move her?’ he asked, turning back to Staines as Jeremy, looking pale himself, nodded and left the room.

  ‘I thought it best not to. There was nothing we could do for her, poor wench.’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘I have to tell my lady, but I don’t have her direction! She said she didn’t know where they’d be after they’d visited her aunt. What shall I do?’

  Chapter Five

  JOANNA, HAVING SUDDENLY grown large and ungainly, so that even wearing a loose cloak did not hide her condition, refused to go out of the house apart from taking some gentle exercise in the small garden attached to it. Catarina, thankful to be away from her constant complaints, spent as long as she could over the daily marketing. She explored Lisbon on foot, admiring the many new buildings. Since convention demanded she take a maid with her she was thankful that Luisa had lived in Lisbon all her life and was proud of her city, so that she knew all the best places to see. At the same time Catarina was improving her grasp of the language, which she had rarely spoken since her mother died.

  Sixty years earlier, on All Saint’s Day, just as people were going to church, the city had been destroyed by a large earthquake, followed by a huge wave which had capsized many boats, and a fire that had raged for three days and destroyed most of what was left. Lisbon had then been one of the largest and most prosperous cities in Europe. Catarina had been old enough to remember her mother telling her how one of her uncles had been in Lisbon, one of the few survivors, and he had described how the house he was in had shaken. There had been a tremendous underground rumbling noise, and three terrific shocks, followed by the terrifying wall of water. Being on the outskirts, her uncle had been able to ride away.

  ‘There was great destruction all over Portugal, Spain and Morocco too, and the high waves reached the coast of England,’ Mama had said.

  One day early in November she had escaped for a couple of hours, and was standing outside the Basilica de Estrela, admiring the white dome, when she heard her name.

  ‘Surely it’s Catarina Brooke? Catarina, how astounding to see you here! Are you visiting your mother’s family?’

  Catarina turned, slowly. ‘Delphine. What are you doing here?’

  Of all the people she might have met, her old schoolfriend Delphine was the worst. She had been a noted gossip in the seminary, seemed to spend all her time writing letters, and had never been able to keep any secret. She was fashionably dressed in an olive-green walking dress and slightly darker green pelisse; a chip straw hat was perched on her bright golden curls. An elderly woman, presumably her maid, stood slightly behind her, carrying a couple of parcels.

  ‘Oh, my husband, Captain Pearce, is here, doing something about the roads. He is in the army. There is so little organization here since the French occupation, we are helping. But you must come to dine with us. We have a sweet little apartment near the castle. Are you staying with relatives? And don’t you have a sister? Is she with you?’

  Catarina thought rapidly. She dared not admit Joanna’s presence, or Delphine would insist on calling to see her, and that would be fatal.

  ‘I am staying with – with an elderly great aunt,’ she said slowly, praying that Luisa, who was standing just behind her, could not understand. ‘She has been very ill and I am keeping her company. Jo – Joanna is with friends in London.’

  ‘Then I expect your aunt is not receiving—’

  ‘No, not at all. She was rather reclusive before she became ill.’

  Really, Joanna would be proud of her powers of invention, she thought wryly. She must be sure not to give Delphine their direction for, despite the mythical invalid, she suspected Delphine would contrive to visit.

  ‘Can you come to dine tomorrow? We keep country hours here, unlike the Portuguese, so I will expect you at four. I heard about your husband’s death, and I wrote my condolences, but I want to hear all about what you have been doing since. You are not a very good correspondent, Catarina!’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘It must be tomorrow, we are going back to England two days later. Oh, how wonderful to have run into you!’

  What appalling timing, Catarina thought. Only three more days and this need not have happened. She considered her options. If she refused, Delphine would try to make a different arrangement, and would certainly insist on having her direction in order to contact her about it. She gave in to the inevitable and hoped she could maintain the fiction.

  ‘I would love to dine. Thank you.’

  ‘I will send a carriage.’

  ‘No, no, that won’t be necessary. I’ve no doubt my aunt will have some commissions for me that I will need to do beforehand. She usually does, so I will use her carriage. Where is your apartment?’

  She escaped soon afterwards, when Delphine recalled all the various tasks she had to perform before they lef
t for home and, after watching her friend and the maid walk away, Catarina turned back towards their own apartment, walking slowly so that she could think what to do.

  Nicholas was relieved to see that the Dower House cook had not been so viciously attacked as Staines had suggested. There was a deal of blood, but it appeared to come from just one wound, a heavy blow to the side of her head. Doctor Holt arrived and pronounced her dead, which they all knew. Then the constable came and shook his head gloomily.

  ‘Poor woman, but she was asking for it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, sir, Ellen was always a flighty piece. The despair of her parents, though they tried to keep it quiet. Lady Brooke couldn’t have known what her reputation was when she took her on. After all, she came from ten miles away. But I’ve heard rumours lately she was meeting one of Farmer Lewis’s men on the sly. Married, Dan is.’

  ‘Mr Lewis’s man? Mr Lewis who rents the home farm?’ Nicholas asked. ‘So that could account for her breaths of fresh air late at night. You think this might be a lover’s quarrel?’

  ‘Aye, that, or a jealous wife. Dan’s missus Annie has a vicious temper and has given him a black eye or two since they’ve been wed.’

  Jeremy was horrified. ‘This isn’t a woman’s crime!’

  ‘This was done with a heavy club, or more likely something like a heavy branch, not a fist,’ the doctor said. He was still examining the body. ‘Look, there are scraps of leaves and bark in her hair, which I swear didn’t get there except from the weapon. The blood has stuck to them.’

  ‘I’d best go and talk to Dan and his missus,’ the constable said. ‘And send a lad with a note for Ellen’s parents. Poor souls, they’ll be wretched. She was their only daughter. They may want her buried over their way.’

  ‘Doctor, if you have finished, can we put her in an empty stable?’ Nicholas asked, and the cook’s body was soon neatly stowed.

  Staines had remained at a distance, but now he came forward.