by Annis Bell
“Sometimes a facade is forbidding but looks much different from the other side.” Jane tried to drum up some courage for both her maid and herself, though her words did not sound very convincing even to herself.
“When is the captain going to come home, ma’am?”
The coach pulled up at a weathered stairway flanked by stone lions. A uniformed servant, who had obviously been waiting for her, opened the door of the coach.
“What makes you ask, Hettie? I’ve told you that Captain Wescott spends much of his time in London.” They climbed out. Jane handed the servant her visiting card, and they followed him into a brightly lit vestibule furnished in surprisingly good taste.
“Yes, ma’am,” Hettie whispered, close beside her. “I was just wondering.”
Facing an unknown house and a host with a dubious reputation, Jane would certainly have felt more secure at her husband’s side. But their arrangement was the way it was.
The servant had just relieved her of her coat when the butler, a thin man with a crooked back and imperious lines, appeared. Jane could instantly see that he was a man used to giving orders.
“Welcome . . .” The butler cast a practiced glance at the card the servant held out to him. “Lady Jane. You are expected in the salon. Your maid will be so kind as to follow the footman.”
Jane and Hettie exchanged a brief, telling glance before going their separate ways. The butler led her past lush potted palms and landscape paintings into a bright salon. The men were seated in armchairs arranged at one end of the room before a fireplace. Two women sat on a sofa in front of the high windows, and an afternoon buffet had been set up opposite them.
“Lady Jane!” the butler announced formally.
The men immediately jumped up from their chairs, and Lord Hargrave greeted her with an amused smile. “Wonderful that you could make it, Lady Jane. Allow me to introduce my dear sister, Mrs. Violet Sutton, and her friend Lady Florence.”
Violet was the opposite of her brother in every way. Her face was narrow and pale, framed by thin ash-blond hair. Her light-blue eyes seemed somewhat absent, and the delicate hand she offered Jane was cold and feeble. She was not unattractive, but her lips were too thin, and she radiated the air of someone who had withdrawn into a different sphere of existence. She lives in her own world, thought Jane, and turned from her to Rutland’s wife.
Lady Florence was powerfully built and gave the impression of an unmitigated woman of pleasure. She had applied too much color to her cheeks, and her eyes were strikingly dark. Expensive rings glittered on her fingers, and her entire appearance could only be described as excessively flamboyant for an afternoon tea. But she smiled welcomingly. “You are still in mourning, Lady Jane?”
“I miss my uncle very much, thank you, my lady.” She mentally noted Violet Sutton’s brown and black dress, but did not ask about a possible bereavement in the family.
Finally, Hargrave introduced her to the Duke of Rutland, who bowed briefly to her before raising her hand almost to his lips. As a man, Sidney Rutland was similar to Hargrave, perhaps somewhat older and more benevolent, as Jane would have expected of a peer and advisor to the Queen. His beard was trimmed close on his cheeks and tapered to a neat point on his chin. Not a good-looking man, but one whose appearance left a strong impression.
“A pity you did not bring your husband with you, Lady Jane,” said Rutland.
“He is in London, on business. My uncle’s sudden passing threw our plans into some disarray, my lord,” Jane replied, not without a certain sharp edge.
“Of course, of course. I can imagine. How do you like it down here? Not everyone’s cup of tea, eh, Florence?” Rutland laughed out loud.
Florence Rutland had taken her seat on the sofa again and screwed up her nose. “Not much to do here at this time of year. You must have noticed that, Lady Jane? The horrible, damp wind, the fog. And these drafty old houses! In London, one has no end of distractions, but here, well, you’d have to be born here to put up with it.”
Violet cast her a reproachful glance, and Florence patted her hand. “All right, if you happen to be a saint, you’ll find something to do wherever you are.”
“Florence, of course, is referring to the sacrifices my sister makes through her work for the poor. I always say you can’t help everyone, and that some of them don’t deserve it at all, but . . .” Hargrave gave a quick shrug. “She doesn’t believe me, though she’s been let down often enough.”
“Oh, Robert, stop it! That is not true at all!” Violet defended herself in a reedy voice. Her skin was pale and so transparent that Jane could see the veins beneath it. Violet’s hands lay folded primly on her lap.
“Let me think . . .” Hargrave made a show of thinking hard, obviously amused at his sister’s unease. “Oh, yes, there was this lovely young girl from Tavistock, for whom you found a position with Florence. Who was it that she ran off with? The boot boy?”
Florence giggled but said, “Robert, stop it.”
“Wait! What about the short one with the blond curls? Pretty little thing, could even read and write and might have made it to governess. But no, Violet picks her up from the gutter and finds her a job in London, and not more than six months later she purloins her mistress’s jewels and disappears quick smart. Shall I go on? Oh, my dear Lady Jane, all we’re trying to do is show my sister the real world!”
Jane moved over to stand beside the couch where the women were sitting. “Is it wrong to believe in the good in people? Isn’t it far more objectionable to judge someone based on their origins? I can understand your sister only too well. My own maid comes from the most humble of circumstances, and I don’t regret for a moment taking her on.”
Hargrave and Rutland exchanged a meaningful look, the slightly lewd nature of which did not appeal to Jane at all. Her host remarked, “You do not shy away from expressing your opinion, Lady Jane. Let us hope, for your own sake, that you do not find yourself let down.”
“Don’t give yourself a headache on my account, my lord,” Jane shot back.
“A lion in a lambskin. How charming!” said Rutland with a broad grin.
Before Jane could continue the exchange of blows, Florence Rutland interrupted. “My dear, join us. We’ll leave the gentlemen to enjoy a cigar. Violet has an outstanding cook. We really only come here for the food.” Florence laughed a touch too loud at her own joke.
Violet, who was looking up doubtfully at Jane, picked up on her friend’s suggestion and waved to the maid waiting beside the buffet. “Bring us an assortment. What would you like to drink, my lady? Tea, sherry, champagne?”
Florence laughed. “We don’t stand on ceremony this far out. Champagne is good at any time of day!”
With a nod, Violet sent the maid off to the buffet. Jane thought that, in this house, there were a number of things they didn’t stand on ceremony about, and she could not say that she felt particularly comfortable. Still, her social experience was limited to a handful of balls during the London Season, visits to the theater, and occasional outings with Alison or her uncle. With a sigh, she took a champagne glass from the silver tray the maid held in front of her.
“We are quite impossible,” said Florence. “Please forgive us, Lady Jane!” Florence and Violet raised their glasses and smiled at her.
“But once you get to know us, you’ll change your mind,” Violet added.
“We’re even worse!” Florence laughed.
Jane smiled and clinked glasses with her new friends. The men, meanwhile, were deep in conversation by the fireplace.
“So, tell us, what is the story with your husband? We are dying to make his acquaintance, Lady Jane. You’ve hooked yourself a terribly attractive man, title or not. On any account, you’ve a title yourself!” Florence seemed more and more in her element. Her ample bosom threatened the embroidered neckline of her top every time she laughed, and her cheeks were
growing redder. It occurred to Jane that Florence Rutland was already well acquainted with the champagne.
“Florence!” said Violet in a chiding tone. “You must not take everything dear Florence says so seriously. The loss of your uncle must be painful for you. You grew up with him, didn’t you?”
“I spent my youngest years with my parents in India. After they died, Uncle Henry took me into his home, Rosewood Hall,” Jane said, as plainly as she could.
“A magnificent estate. Sidney and I were there once, many years ago. Oh, and wasn’t there an incident there not long ago? A peasant girl who died? Gossip spreads at an alarming rate. Even faster out in the country, believe me, because there’s nothing else worth talking about.” Florence looked at her expectantly.
Jane cleared her throat and selected a small sandwich offered to her on a tray. “The unfortunate girl was laid to rest in the village cemetery,” she said, and bit into the sandwich.
“Who was she?” Violet asked as she laid a slice of buttered bread on her plate.
“That could not be established,” Jane admitted.
The men had been helping themselves to the buffet, and Hargrave stopped and stood in front of the women. “Which confirms my theory: another runaway from service.”
“Nonsense,” Jane retorted. “No one knows the first thing about her! And something could have happened to her. There are a thousand reasons for a girl to run away, and not all jobs are respectable. What about the dead girl at St. Winnow?”
“You heard about that?” Hargrave raised his eyebrows in surprise and sipped from his glass.
“News travels fast out here in the country,” Jane said and smiled, earning an approving nod from Lady Florence.
Hargrave’s brow furrowed. “Well, these are hardly topics of conversation for sensitive ladies.”
Florence giggled and Violet lowered her eyes. What illustrious company I’m in, thought Jane, and glanced at the clock above the fireplace. “You’re active with the orphanages in this region, Mrs. Sutton?”
Violet looked at her almost in shock. “Uh, yes. I pay regular visits to the homes in Bodmin and St. Austell. And I go out to Newbridge, but rather less often. Are you interested in charitable work?”
“Yes. Very, in fact.” Jane’s reply came spontaneously.
“You can come with me, if you like. I’ll be driving to St. Austell next week. They mine the china clay there, which means work, but the children are often very sick. You could see for yourself what it’s like.”
They had been mining the clay around St. Austell for the porcelain industry for many years. Until clay was discovered there, only China could provide material of similar quality and quantity. The enormous spoil heaps had become characteristic of the region.
“With pleasure!” Jane assured her.
A few minutes later, she said her good-byes. Better not to extend the first visit unduly, Jane reasoned. Besides, she had the feeling that she had gotten somewhere with Violet, and Florence was growing increasingly talkative, and lewd.
When she was finally alone with Hettie in her coach, she sank back into the upholstered seat with relief. “Did you have a pleasant afternoon, Hettie?”
“Not especially enjoyable, ma’am, but informative,” her maid replied slyly.
As the coach rolled slowly away from the house, Jane saw Hargrave walking with a young man around the side of the house. The clothes of the younger man indicated he was a hunting tenant, but the two men seemed better acquainted than such an owner-tenant relationship would have allowed.
13.
Hettie, her eyes gleaming with excitement, sat opposite Jane. “Well, the kitchen in Bromfield is huge, really, and the cook knows her business. Mrs. Roche could send our cook over there to apprentice. For dinner, they’ve prepared artichoke soup, lamb, and raisin pudding.”
“Hettie!” Jane warned. Her maid was quick to forget herself where food was concerned.
“Mrs. Violet’s maid is Nancy, and very curious she is, I can tell you. Twice as old as me and with a nose that’s always sniffing around. But I’m smarter, and did not let her sound me out about you!” Hettie said proudly.
“Good girl,” Jane praised.
“Mrs. Violet has been living in Bromfield ever since her husband passed on, six years ago. It seems she took his death very hard. He was twenty years older, an officer, and he died in Crimea a few months after they married. Nancy says Lord Hargrave had never been able to abide Mr. Sutton. But his sister was no longer young and wanted desperately to marry the man. She was in a family way when Sutton went away to the war. Poor woman . . .” Hettie shook her head. “Her husband fell in the war, and her baby was stillborn. After that, she retreated here to Cornwall. The house used to belong to her parents, and now it’s Lord Hargrave’s. Sutton had no fortune to speak of, which left Mrs. Violet dependent on her brother. The servants say she looks after the orphans only because she herself wasn’t able to have children.”
“Why do they say that? It doesn’t sound very nice,” said Jane.
“No, but the mistress is not especially nice either, apparently. She makes out like she’s a saint, but she’s moody and screams a lot. They say she’s a right terror when the lord’s away. No one stays at Bromfield long, it seems. Or so Nancy says, at least.”
“So why is Nancy still there?”
“She says she’s had worse positions, and I think she’s got something going with Lord Hargrave’s valet. He came into the kitchen for a minute and whispered with her, then went off again. A good-looking chap he is, but not one to miss an opportunity, if you know what I mean,” said Hettie with a telling look, and she leaned back, satisfied.
Jane suppressed a smile. “You really shouldn’t talk like that, Hettie. It isn’t proper for a young lady.”
“But I’m not a young lady, ma’am. I’m just a maid.” Hettie grinned.
“And what do they say about the lord of the manor?”
“That he’s mostly away at one of his other properties or in London. He’s known for the parties he throws.” Hettie giggled. “His valet seems well suited to him. Because of the many women, I mean. The duke’s often part of the show, too. Florence comes to visit Mrs. Sutton quite a bit. That’s all I found out.”
Jane nodded. “That’s certainly a lot, Hettie. Well done!”
The young woman gave Jane a contented smile. Jane thought that she could count herself lucky not to have ended up with a man like Hargrave or Rutland. She would have hated it if her husband constantly amused himself with other women. But what did she really know about Wescott? Perhaps he was no different, just more discreet. Still, the women had made no veiled comments about any amorous adventures on her husband’s part. If they had had the opportunity to do so, they would certainly not have wasted it. But thinking about it made no difference. She and Wescott had an agreement, and discretion was part of that.
“I’ll be accompanying Mrs. Sutton to the orphanage in St. Austell next week.” Jane had determined to visit the orphanages in the area one at a time and ask about two girls, one of whom was named Mary. She would take the book by John Polidori with her. One never knew, after all, when coincidence would play in one’s favor.
No fish was served in Mulberry Park that evening, but the mushy peas were tasteless and the roast beef tough. Jane finished her lonely meal and gave the leftovers to Rufus, then left the joyless dining room that bordered the laundry. She passed through the entrance hall and entered the library and a salon that opened onto a lovely terrace overlooking the garden. I could make something of this room, Jane thought. The portraits of her parents and her uncle, as well as the Indian painting, were already hanging on the walls, which were papered in pale green.
Two young girls, one of whom owned a book about vampires . . . it must be possible to find them, Jane thought. She was becoming more and more convinced that Rosie and Mary had lived together in a
home or an orphanage. They had been friends, and the more Jane heard the local people speak, the more convinced she became that Rosie had come from this corner of England.
Jane tugged on the bell pull to call a servant. Rufus had stretched out in front of the fireplace to digest the tough roast. There was a short wait, then Mrs. Roche appeared in person.
The woman’s expression was like a wall. Her gray dress was clean and immaculately ironed, and the white collar starched and stiff. She was probably around fifty, with a sturdy build, and her pinched mouth reflected her aversion to the new mistress of the house. “The new girl’s just spilled soup over her dress, so I’ve come myself, my lady.”
“That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Roche. Please go and fetch Mr. Coleman,” Jane said. “Oh, and there was something else. The cook . . .”
Mrs. Roche’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Yes, my lady?”
“Has she been here long?”
“No. We used to do the cooking ourselves. There was never any company here, and the late Lord Henry didn’t put much store in big dinners when he came to visit.” Mrs. Roche spoke coolly, her chin raised. “We had to find a cook right quick, my lady. Mrs. Thomas is from Lansallos and happened to be available. She used to cook for the parson.”
“How could he bring himself to part with such a find?” Jane’s words dripped irony.
Mrs. Roche scraped one foot nervously on the floor. “He let her go.”
“I assume that had to do with the fish. Please start searching immediately for a new cook with decent references. Mrs. Thomas can remain until the new cook arrives, but not a day longer.”
“As you wish, my lady. But if you’ll allow me the observation, it won’t do no good to ruin things with the folks in the village.” Mrs. Roche raised her eyes.
“Why? Was the parson struck dead?”
“Not exactly dead, my lady. He had himself transferred.”
Jane raised her eyebrows in surprise. “He felt threatened by the people who live in the village?”