by Annis Bell
They had nearly reached the door to Floyd’s room. “Who found him?”
“The horse came back here alone. As soon as we saw it, my husband rode out with Stuart, and they found Mr. Coleman at the edge of the woods, just by the gate that leads to the lower meadow.” Mrs. Roche kneaded her hands nervously. “No one can say how it happened. Such a terrible accident.”
Yes, thought Jane grimly. And I’m sure what you regret most is that Floyd can’t check up on you anymore. She knocked and turned the door handle. She stopped momentarily, as if paralyzed at the sight that met her eyes, but quickly pulled herself together and stepped into Floyd’s room.
The doctor was a man of medium height with blond hair and penetrating blue eyes. He washed his hands in a bowl and dried them. “Lady Jane, I’m Doctor Woodfall. I’m sorry to have to make your acquaintance like this.”
Jane nodded absently. She only had eyes for Floyd, who lay motionless on his bed. His forehead was red and swollen, and his cheek badly grazed. His breathing was shallow and irregular, but it was his leg that shocked Jane most. Blood had seeped through a tight bandage on his thigh, and a bowl of bloody water stood on a table beside the bed. Beside the bowl lay medical instruments and an old bandage with an unpleasant smell.
“An open fracture?” asked Jane flatly and stroked Floyd’s hand.
The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Are you one of Florence Nightingale’s nurses?”
“No. That experience was never mine, I’m sorry to say, but I’ve seen my share of injuries. More with animals, but still . . .”
She heard a whistle behind her, followed by a wheezing sound. “Blood. I can’t stand to see blood,” said Mrs. Roche, standing in the doorway.
“Fetch us a bottle of whisky and fresh towels,” said Jane. “And hot water?” When the doctor nodded, Jane gave the housekeeper a wave, and the woman hurriedly left again.
“Has he been unconscious the whole time?” asked Jane.
“No. But his pain was so bad that I gave him laudanum. The swelling on his forehead would have come from the horse throwing back its head. Your butler was lucky. I’ve seen similar accidents leave the rider dead or paralyzed.”
“Then there’s hope that he’ll recover fully?” Jane looked at the familiar face of her loyal butler and felt a sharp pang in her chest. “He’s practically part of the family.”
Woodfall smiled. “He seems a robust chap. If no gangrene sets in, his chances are good. I was able to set the bone, but I won’t splint the leg until his wounds have closed.”
The doctor knows what he’s doing and has had experience with traumatic injuries, thought Jane. “What is someone with your knowledge doing out here in the country? You were in Crimea, I presume?”
“Sebastopol. Balaklava. I was there, and I stitched the soldiers back together. My wife comes from St. Austell. Part of the land where they mine the clay belongs to her family.”
“Then they’ve called you here all the way from St. Austell?”
“No. We have our own place in Looe. Keeping a little distance between us and her family has its advantages. I’ve had enough of battlegrounds.” The doctor grinned.
“I understand. My husband says the same. He was in Crimea, too. Captain Wescott.”
“Really? I know him! He was on my table!” Woodfall paused. “I beg your pardon. In war, social strata are of less importance, and can be fatal.”
“You mean what happened with Lord Lucan?” People still talked about the terrible defeat at Balaklava, the direct result of the general’s incompetence.
“That, too. My lady, may I ask when your husband is expected? It would make me very happy to see him again.”
There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Roche and a housemaid brought whisky, towels, and hot water.
Once Jane knew Floyd was in good hands, she left the doctor to his work. “When you have finished up here, please join me for dinner, Doctor Woodfall.”
When Jane stepped into her bedroom, all the tension she had been feeling suddenly slackened, and the strain of the events of the day caught up with her. Exhausted, she let Hettie help her out of her dress. “Bring me a cup of hot tea, then have them draw me a bath,” she said. “Put out the violet dress. Doctor Woodfall is staying for dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve spoken to Stuart. He told me that the horse Mr. Coleman was riding came back very nervous, and it’s normally a completely unflappable beast.”
“Then it must have gotten a fright. Maybe someone was shooting. Not all horses are gun proof.”
“That’s true, but who would be shooting? The gamekeeper was in his house, and no one else is allowed to shoot anything around here.”
Jane slipped into her dressing gown and slumped onto a chair. Through the window, she had a sweeping view over the park. “Unless someone’s poaching again. I wouldn’t put anything past that Fred Thomas. It was probably a mistake to dismiss the cook, but she was simply unbearable.”
“I’ll get the tea, ma’am. You made the right decision. Mrs. Roche doesn’t like the Thomas clan any more than you, but she and her husband are afraid of them. I have yet to find out why, though.”
Jane pulled the longest pins from her hair and shook it loose. The embroidered bag in which she kept her money and powder lay on a stool within easy reach. Pensive, she retrieved the letter the grimy boy had handed her that morning and unfolded it again.
“‘Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow . . . and the rose faded,’” Jane murmured. The death threat could be meant for her, or just as easily the second girl, Mary. She felt she could safely assume that whoever was following her also knew about the two girls. “P. and Mary, where did you live? Where did you come from on that cold winter night?”
Not directly from an orphanage, that much was clear. The girl had been wearing the plain outfit of a simple maid. Miss Shepard knew of no girl who had found a position in a household only to disappear, and if Mary had still been in the orphanage in Bodmin, then Miss Shepard would no doubt have thought of two inseparable girls immediately. Something like that would stand out. On top of everything came Floyd’s strange accident, utterly unlike anything that should happen to such a cautious man.
The table was set festively, the lamps lit, and a fire crackled in the fireplace. With the dark-green curtains and the landscape paintings Jane had brought with her from Rosewood Hall, she had to admit that the dining room looked thoroughly presentable. The sideboard and the silver had been polished, and the étagère in the center of the dining table had been filled with fruit. Mrs. Roche has outdone herself, thought Jane, and she smiled at Doctor Woodfall, who had seated himself on her right at the table. Rufus lay in front of the fire and stretched.
A maid that Jane had not previously seen served the oxtail soup, which was surprisingly tasty. Jane lifted her glass of red wine. “Your health, Doctor. I’m very glad you were close by and able to attend to Floyd.”
“Thank you, Lady Jane, the pleasure is all mine,” Woodfall replied.
They turned their attention to the soup, and Woodfall reassured Jane that Floyd was on the road to recovery. The main course consisted of roast venison, mashed potatoes, and carrots, and Jane nodded appreciatively when she tried the gravy.
“You have an outstanding cook, Lady Jane,” Woodfall remarked.
“Hmm. Well, the truth is that I don’t have a cook at all. I believe the praise is due my housekeeper, who has jumped in for the time being. Unfortunately, I had to dismiss the previous cook. I haven’t been at Mulberry Park long.” She drank some wine and looked at Woodfall directly. “I assume you heard of the death of my uncle. The captain and I brought our wedding forward for his sake, which is why not everything in this house is as it ought to be. There simply hasn’t been time to do it all.”
Woodfall set down his cutlery and dabbed at his mouth with the napkin. His blond hair was graying at the te
mples, Jane noted, and he could have been a few years older than Wescott. Life as a doctor at the front had left its legacy on him. Social decorum was the last thing that interested this man.
“Outstanding, Lady Jane. Please, don’t give a second thought to formalities. In the war, we were thankful for clean water and a piece of bread that wasn’t moldy. You mentioned Lord Lucan. I have to admit that when I hear that name, everything in me boils up. So much arrogance and stupidity in one man makes me furious, in particular when this man is able to order a brigade to ride into certain death.”
“That must have been a terrible experience. I don’t think anyone who has not been to war can really understand what it is like. And my husband actually found himself wounded on your operating table?” Jane asked, hoping to find out more about Wescott.
Their conversation paused as the maid cleared away the plates and set a cheese plate on the table.
“Without wanting to go into great detail about the battle, Lady Jane, the captain was among the wounded of the Eleventh Hussars. His horse made it to the edge of the battlefield before collapsing, fatally wounded. If memory serves, the captain was rescued by his adjutant, who immediately brought him to me in the field hospital.”
“Blount,” Jane whispered.
“Right. That was the man’s name. Headstrong type, came from a Hungarian gypsy family. I would not have trusted him myself, but the captain wouldn’t hear a word against him. Your husband’s wounds were serious. I had little hope at the start that he would even survive.” When he saw Jane’s horrified face, the doctor smiled. “But he proved us all wrong. I provided the initial treatment, but at some point I had to move on to the next patient. His adjutant took care of him after that. I never understood why he stayed on in Crimea. With the wounds he suffered, he could have been given an honorable discharge and immediately sent back home.”
Jane had come to believe that the quarrel with his father was what had kept Wescott away from England for so long, but she kept that to herself. To the doctor, she said, “Do you need to be going, or can I offer you a room for the night?”
Outside darkness was falling, and it would soon be too late to ride anywhere.
Doctor Woodfall stood and went to the window. “Hmm. Perhaps it’s really for the best if I spend the night here. Then I can change your butler’s dressing once more before I leave in the morning.”
Jane, too, had stood, and said to the serving girl waiting by the sideboard, “Bring us a carafe of fresh water in the library. Doctor, would you keep me company a little longer?”
“It would be my pleasure.” He offered her his arm and then scratched Rufus’s ear, for the dog immediately positioned himself at the doctor’s side. “He’s hurt. It looks like he’s been hit.”
“Yes. An unfortunate story.” Jane told him about the incident at the mill, and did not omit the miller’s relationship to the dismissed cook.
Thoughtful, the doctor led her down the hallway. “The Thomas clan does not have a good reputation. I’m surprised that your housekeeper employed Becky in the first place. The father is said to be a very bad egg. No one shed any tears when he was transported. I hear bits and pieces on my rounds in the area. Being a doctor also makes you something of a pastor.”
In the library, Woodfall lit a cigar to accompany his whisky, and Jane settled into an armchair with a glass of port. It was pleasant to spend the evening in the company of an eloquent man. Perhaps she should push ahead with the renovations and invite guests more often. Violet Sutton and Lord Hargrave, at least, were expecting a return invitation.
18.
Mulberry Park, Cornwall, April 1860
Two days after Jane’s return to her new home, Floyd’s condition had improved considerably. He required very little laudanum, and the wound on his thigh had not become infected, which allowed Doctor Woodfall to strap on a splint. The doctor ordered absolute bed rest for his patient to give the bone time to knit, a stipulation that Floyd accepted only with the greatest reluctance.
Jane set the estate’s books on the table beside Floyd’s bed. “If you don’t do what the doctor says, I will be extremely disappointed in you, Floyd. We’re lucky to have such a skilled doctor in the neighborhood, and we should follow his instructions. Promise me that, will you?”
The butler grumbled something and tried to reach for a cushion, but Jane was faster and pushed it behind his back.
“My lady, please, that is not your job. I’m supposed to be taking care of you!”
“Maybe. But the fact of the matter is that you’re the one with the broken leg. When you’re healthy again, you can look after me. Until that time, I’m in charge!” She smiled and looked to the open door. “Stuart will be bringing up some chicken soup soon, and there’ll be tea and fruitcake later. I don’t really know who in the kitchen is responsible for that miracle, but Mrs. Roche seems to be trying, in her own way, to apologize for all the unpleasantness caused by that Becky Thomas. Now, tell me again how the accident happened, and don’t leave out a thing.”
With a sigh, Floyd folded his hands on top of the blanket. He was very pale, and despite his reluctance to take laudanum, it was clear that he was still in pain. “I paid a visit to Jacob Blythe, the gamekeeper. I’m not yet done with him, my lady. I am certain he has something to hide. He has pens full of partridges and pheasants and, as far as I could see, a large number of tame deer besides. Far more than what we would ever use in the house, and none of it is entered in the books.” The butler closed his eyes. Even talking was a strain. “I left things at that for the time being, just a talk, and rode back through the woods. Then there was a shot, just before I reached the edge of the woods, and it sounded very close. My horse went mad. It reared up, then galloped off with me. After that, I don’t remember much at all.”
There was a soft knock, and Stuart entered with a tray. “Here’s the soup for Mr. Coleman, and lunch can be served down below, ma’am. Oh, and there’s a letter for you.”
Jane took the envelope. Her name and the Mulberry Park address were written on the front in a delicate hand. “I’ll come to check on you a little later, Floyd. Stuart, he is forbidden to leave the bed!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jane did not open the letter until she was in her room. It was from Miss Shepard! After the usual formalities came the sentence that really mattered: “. . . asked after teachers whose surnames begin with ‘Ga,’ and I have had some success. Until a year ago, a Miss Hope Gardner taught in St. Austell, and the same agency that listed me also had a Peter Gaunt on their books. He was in Plymouth, and most recently in London in an institute in Fleet Lane. I very much hope that I have been able to assist you in your search.”
Hettie came into the room, and Jane showed her the letter. “Well, if that isn’t a coincidence! St. Austell! Isn’t that where you wanted to go with Mrs. Sutton?”
“I would most like to drive over there immediately, but under the circumstances, I think it best to go with Lord Hargrave’s sister,” said Jane, still very much aware of the threat she had received in Bodmin. “Send Mrs. Sutton a message to say that I am looking forward to our excursion together. Perhaps that will speed up her plans.”
Jane spent the following week in anxious expectation of word from Mrs. Sutton and from Captain Wescott, from whom she expected at least a short reply to her letter. Her days were filled with looking after Floyd and the visits of the doctor, whose company at dinner she found herself looking forward to more and more. He told the most adventurous stories from his army days in Russia and on the Crimean Peninsula.
Spring brought milder temperatures and showed its face more and more often. Jane had the terrace in front of the dining room cleaned and all of the weeds removed. She did not want to go to great expense with the park yet, at least not until Matthew’s demand for repayment of her father’s debts had been sorted out. But she had approved the purchase of whatever the gardener needed t
o restore the vegetable beds and planters all around the house. She hoped a few daubs of color would improve not only the house but also her mood. As things turned out, however, improvements to her mood would have to wait.
Jane returned cheerfully from a morning walk by the sea and playfully let Rufus tug and tear at her wrap. Her eyes turned from a barberry bush, its orange berries almost luminous in the sunlight, to a splash of radiant yellow euphorbia beneath a hazel bush beside the front entrance. The idyll, however, was shattered by Hettie, who was waving excitedly.
Jane’s maid was brandishing a newspaper. “Ma’am! Come quickly! Oh, ma’am!”
I can’t bear any more bad news, thought Jane, then berated herself for being a coward and began to walk more quickly. “What is it, Hettie?”
“Take a look! The newspaper came an hour ago. Oh, it’s terrible. Poor Miss Shepard.” Hettie held the article under Jane’s nose.
It was the story of a young teacher from the orphanage in Bodmin, found dead by the river. The writer regretted the loss of the young woman, who had clearly taken her own life because she was carrying a child. She shared the fate of many fallen women who knew only one way out of their predicament, namely, to drown themselves. Beside the short report was an etching of the George Frederic Watts painting that depicted the corpse of a young woman on the shore of a river and bore the sad title Found Drowned.
“It has to be Miss Shepard, doesn’t it? Who else could it be?” Hettie asked breathlessly.
Tears rolled over Jane’s cheeks, and her trembling hands clutched the newspaper. “I’m afraid it most likely is. What’s going on here? Who would do something like that?”
“You don’t think she drowned herself, do you?”
“No! She wasn’t . . .” But did she really know that? Perhaps Miss Shepard had really been pregnant. Under such ample skirts, a pregnancy could be kept hidden for a long time. “And maybe it isn’t Miss Shepard at all!”