Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  ‘Miss Alexander—?’

  The woman turned, fixed her with a piercing eye.

  Kitty bit her lip. ‘This evening – there was to have been a musical gathering—’

  ‘Yes, Miss Daniels, I did remember.’ The tone indicated clearly that Miss Alexander considered herself the only one capable of remembering anything in a world that had reprehensibly lost its grip on itself. ‘I have sent word. I have also suggested that the vicar might call later this evening, and have suggested to Mr Winthrop that he might call sometime tomorrow.’

  Kitty looked at her blankly. ‘Mr Winthrop?’

  ‘Of course. He is the family’s oldest friend. And Anne will need the help and advice of a dependable gentleman.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’ Kitty’s brain seemed not to be functioning at all. She pressed a hand to her forehead. ‘Anne – is asleep—’

  Miss Alexander’s expression changed not a whit. ‘Good.’

  ‘Miss Alexander?’ Kitty hated the uncertain, almost pleading note in her own voice. ‘Wh – what will happen now, do you think? I mean—’ Her voice died.

  The woman, tall, thin, austere in the black that had always seemed to Kitty to make her look close kin to a crow and that was now so chillingly appropriate, took a slow breath. ‘To you? To Anne? To the house? Who knows? That very much depends upon Sir George’s forethought – in which I have to say I have no great trust – and upon the new owner of the estate.’

  ‘The new—?’ Kitty stared. ‘But – Anne, surely? The estate must go to her?’ She stopped. Miss Alexander was shaking her head slowly and with heavy emphasis. ‘What do you mean – “the new owner”?’ Kitty’s voice was weak.

  Miss Alexander made a small, clicking noise with her tongue. She reached for the bell-pull. Kitty thought for a moment that she would not answer. Stubbornly she stood her ground, waiting, trying to still the strange, erratic beating of her heart. The governess turned back to her. ‘The estate cannot go to Anne.’ She spoke as if to an idiot child, slowly and clearly. ‘It is entailed. To the male line. It may not pass to a daughter.’

  ‘But – the Grange is her home!’ The uncomfortable, irregular thumping of her heart had worsened. She could hardly breathe. ‘Of course it must be hers.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then – who? Miss Alexander, who?’ she repeated, when the woman did not immediately answer.

  ‘Really, Miss Daniels, how should I know? The estate goes to her nearest male relative—’

  ‘But she hasn’t—’ Kitty stopped, eyes widening in shock. ‘Not that – that disgusting cousin of hers? Sir George couldn’t stand him – he wouldn’t have him near the place!’

  ‘I hardly think, Miss Daniels,’ the cool, hateful voice interrupted her, ‘that this is the time or place for a discussion of the personal affairs of our employers. Now – if you will excuse me. There is much to do—’

  Dumbly Kitty turned and left the room. On the vast, dark staircase she stood for a moment, struggling to adjust to this new blow. A stranger? To own Westwood Grange – the estate – the farms – the village? And a stranger, moreover, about whom the darkest of rumours had circulated; a rake and a gambler who had already all but beggared himself and squandered his own inheritance – to own all this? To take from Anne what should be hers, when she had lost so much already?

  Around her the house crouched in silence, brooding on injustice.

  (iii)

  It had never seemed reasonable to Kitty that one could hate – or for that matter love – another person on sight. But on the day that the foppish Percival Bowyer – now, thanks to blind providence and the wild North Sea, Sir Percival Bowyer, heir to a large slice of East Suffolk – stepped from his rented carriage, lifted a languid head and surveyed with open and scornful dismay the honest square red-brick front of Westwood Grange, she detested him. Small, slim, girlishly pale, he shuddered exaggeratedly. ‘S’truth! What a perfect barn of a place!’ He tucked his slender silver-headed cane beneath his arm, held out immaculately gloved hands to receive from the burly manservant who had scrambled from the carriage after him a small, snuffling bundle of fur with a wet, crumpled nose and venomous eyes.

  ‘What in the world are we goin’ ter do with this, my Barnabas? It looks more suited to house the Brigade of Guards than our poor selves, eh?’ Smooth fair hair gleamed beneath his black silk top hat. The pale lavender and blue waistcoat, silk also, was displayed with elegance beneath an improbably well-cut frock coat. His dark trousers were immaculate and his boots, Kitty thought sourly, looked as if mud had never been invented. His attention entirely upon the ugly little dog, he neither moved nor glanced towards the household, assembled warily upon the wide steps that led to the great entrance hall of the Grange. The animal sniffled again, and dribbled disgustingly.

  ‘Collins!’ The word was sharp.

  The manservant leapt forward, a large, snow-white handkerchief at the ready. The mustered servants and estate workers watched, their expressions ranging from amused astonishment to sardonic and downright disbelief. The animal attended to, the young man lifted his head, cast bored eyes over the assembly at last and, his gaze coming to rest upon a pale-faced Anne, made the weakest of efforts at a smile. ‘Cousin Anne, I presume?’ The vowels were so exaggerated, the tone so affected, that it was difficult to understand the words.

  Anne stepped forward, bobbing something of a curtsey. ‘Cousin Percival.’ Her voice was subdued.

  ‘Demmed pleased to meet you, m’dear.’ He neither looked nor sounded it. ‘Now – tell me – is there anywhere in this—’ he cast his eyes to heaven ‘—godforsaken place that a man might quench his thirst?’

  ‘Why – yes – of course—’ Anne stood confused. The doll-like young man had moved past her and was waiting at the top of the steps with ill-concealed impatience. She glanced around at the waiting, watching faces. ‘Should you not like first to be introduced to—?’

  A drooping, white-gloved hand flicked a bored dismissal. ‘Later, later. You shouldn’t, I’m sure, Cousin, wish to see me expire here on the doorstep?’

  ‘Of – of course not—’

  Kitty caught her brother’s eye and the same caustic thought glinted between them. If wishes had been granted this day the precious Sir Percy would not survive to take another step. It was not, however, to be. The young man hefted the dog more comfortably in his arm, addressed himself entirely to Anne – as if, Kitty thought with a spurt of anger, the gathered household were of no more account than a flock of silly sheep to be herded aside and disregarded.

  ‘The journey from London to Suffolk, m’dear, is an experience that should not be wished upon a dog, let alone one of such delicate disposition as meself. Ain’t that so, my Barney?’ He crooned to the dog as a mother might to her child. Kitty glanced at Cook. The woman pursed her lips and lifted her disbelieving gaze to the August skies. The men – servants, fishermen, men of the land – watched, faces impassive, eyes unreadable. ‘I declare myself to be quite, quite worn out. Lead me if you will to a comfortable armchair and a large glass of madeira. All else must wait—’ He preceded Anne through the front door and was swallowed by the gloom of the great house.

  Embarrassed at the outright and careless offence offered to her waiting people, Anne, bright patches of colour upon her drawn face, glanced about her. Then she picked up her skirts and hurried after him.

  She left behind her a silence edged unmistakably with anger, but coloured too with astonished hilarity. ‘There’s a poppet,’ someone muttered, from behind Kitty. ‘I allus did ’ear they bred ’em queer in Lunnon. Seems tha’ss true—'

  ‘Poor little mannikin,’ a woman’s voice chimed in, mocking. ‘P’raps ’e’ll find Miss Anne’s doll’s ’ouse more to ’is taste?’

  Kitty did not join in the general laughter. For all Sir Percival’s limp-wristed foppery, his precious airs and graces, there had been something about that small-boned, handsome face that had disturbed her; a cruelty about the mouth, a hardness in th
e eye that no amount of affectation could disguise.

  ‘Well.’ Cook rubbed plump hands upon her vast, freshly starched apron. ‘Seems we’re not to be honoured with a word after all. So, seems we’d better be about our business. Tha’ss a pity the young man was so – tired—’ She spoke the last word with a gently ironic emphasis that brought more laughter from the crowd. Talking amongst themselves they began to drift away in twos and threes. Kitty nibbled her lip. Such a beginning boded ill, she suspected – ill for the household and ill above all for Anne, already all but broken by the loss of those she loved, who would certainly bear the brunt of any difficulties created by the new master of Westwood Grange.

  ‘Come, now, Kitty gel. Doan’ look so down! Tha’ss not the end of the world, you know.’ Cook’s kindly eyes twinkled sympathetically. ‘Come on down to the kitchen with us, eh? Tha’ss a good long time since you’ve honoured us with your company.’ Her smile took any sting from the words. ‘An’ Miss Anne looks to be able to do without you for a minute or two—’ She stopped suddenly, her hand searching in the capacious pocket of her apron. ‘Lord above! My keys? I’ve lost my keys!’ She stepped back, eyes searching the ground anxiously. ‘I had them – I know I did. Ruby! Come, gel – your eyes is sharper than mine – help me look.’

  The kitchenmaid obediently dropped to her knees and began to search. Others, too, bent their gaze to the ground. After a moment, however, Kitty lifted her head, scanned the faces about her and, heart sinking at the mischievous hilarity that lit a pair of dark eyes, pushed her way through the crowd to her brother’s side. As she reached him another voice said, surprised, ‘My kerchief’s gone!’ ‘And mine! Right from round my neck!’ ‘My purse! Who has my purse?’

  Kitty held out her hand.

  Matthew laughed at her.

  The noise around them had suddenly died. ‘By God!’ someone said. ‘Matt Daniels up to his tricks again.’

  There was a murmur. Some laughter.

  Kitty was trembling with anger. ‘Give them back,’ she said.

  Matt glanced about him, then made a pass with his empty hands and a red kerchief fluttered. A girl squealed. ‘Tha’ss mine! You give that back, Matt Daniels!’

  ‘Come and get it!’ Matt was off, dodging through the crowd, chased by the girl who shrieked and tumbled after him. A leather purse flew into the air, a spotted kerchief dangled from the branch of a tree. Through the pandemonium Kitty stood like stone, watching as her brother eluded reaching, exasperated hands, danced like a wraith about the courtyard, dodging around the carriage and the patiently-standing horses, Cook’s keys dangling from impudent fingers. Large Cook, red-faced, inadvisedly launched herself after him. ‘Imp of mischief! Just wait till I lay hands on you!’

  The horses moved uneasily. The driver fiddled nervously with the reins. The man who sat beside him – a giant with shoulders as big as an Essex barn, who had remained with the carriage to guard his master’s luggage – reached across and with no ceremony twitched the reins from the man’s nervous fingers and hauled sharply on them, quieting the beasts. Sir Percival’s other manservant stood where his master had left him beside the carriage and watched the antics of Matt and his pursuers with a suspicious scowl. Matt dodged behind him. Cook, enraged, bore down on them both, hand upraised. Matt jingled the keys, grinning, and then was gone whilst with flawless timing the blow intended for him caught the manservant a buffet that all but knocked him from his feet.

  The front door opened.

  ‘Matt! Matt – enough!’ Kitty’s voice rose above the uproar, urgently.

  Matt grinned at her, far beyond restraint now.

  In the open doorway stood Sir Percival. Beside him, smooth malicious head bent to his, lips at his ear, was Imogen Alexander.

  ‘Matt! Stop it!’

  Matt ducked beneath a reaching arm, dodged behind a laughing girl, holding her shoulders lightly, using her as a not-unwilling shield. Behind him, heavily, Sir Percy’s enormous manservant climbed down from the high driving seat of the carriage.

  Kitty could only watch.

  ‘Take him,’ Sir Percival said, very crisp and cool, cutting the uproar to silence in a breath. The little dog, tucked still into the crook of his arm, yawned, showing yellow teeth. Imogen Alexander, her mischief done, glanced in small triumph about the chaotic scene and withdrew. Too late, Matt turned. A huge hand clamped upon his shoulder. He tried to pull away, twisting, still half-laughing. The man held him as he might a squirming puppy about to be drowned, and then, brutally, brought his free hand crashing down upon the boy’s face. Blood spurted, bright in the sunshine. A girl shrieked. The man shook Matt, raised his hand again.

  ‘No! Oh – please! Stop him! Matt didn’t mean anything!’ Kitty, tripping on her skirts as she scrambled up the steps, almost fell at Sir Percy’s feet. ‘Please!’

  A small white hand, imperiously raised, stilled all movement. Matt, blood dripping from his damaged mouth, hung like an ill-strung puppet from the giant’s fist. The man waited, his eyes, as were everyone’s, upon his master.

  Sir Percival’s childlike fingers fondled the dog’s head. Pale eyes travelled from the torn hem of Kitty’s skirt to her distraught face. ‘Your name?’

  Behind him now Anne Bowyer stood, wringing her hands, the weak tears that were lately always so close to the surface standing in her eyes.

  Kitty swallowed terror. ‘Katherine Daniels.’ Then, on a quick breath, as an afterthought: ‘Sir.’

  The light, heavy-lidded eyes were ice-cold in an expressionless face. ‘And – that?’ He indicated Matt with a contemptuous flick of his head.

  ‘—is my brother, Sir. He means no ill. I swear it. He’s a boy, Sir – high-spirited is all—’

  Curved eyebrows lifted. ‘So I see. And a thief to boot, I hear?’

  ‘No!’

  He waited a long time. ‘Not the tale I’ve been told,’ he said, pleasantly.

  ‘Please—’ Kitty was shaking. She clasped her hands together, if not to still their trembling at least to disguise it. ‘It’s a game to him, Sir—’ Not always, and not a soul there who did not know it. Please God, she prayed, let no one choose this moment to even past scores.

  No one did. Warm, dusty silence rang with birdsong.

  ‘Search him,’ Sir Percival said, his voice still perilously easy, his hand, small, pale, fleshless, moving ceaselessly over the dog’s long, soft fur.

  With a rough hand the giant slammed Matt up against the side of the carriage, held him there effortlessly, his shoeless feet barely on the ground, as Sir Percival’s other manservant ran equally ungentle hands over the boy’s body. ‘Hah!’ Triumphantly the man, tossing aside an assortment of small objects, held up something that gleamed dully in the light. Leaving Matt in the hands of the other man he turned, ran to the foot of the steps and extended his hand, upon which lay a shining silver coin. ‘Mine, Sir. You gave it me yourself, if you remember, for—’

  ‘Yes. Quite,’ Sir Percival said.

  ‘The little bugger must’ve filched it from me when ’e – sorry, Sir—’

  Sir Percival had ducked his head to the dog, a pained expression on his face. ‘Really, Collins. Save your gutter language for the gutter, if you will.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  The small, dapper figure straightened, walked down the steps towards Matt and his captor. No one but Kitty moved. Brushing aside the swift movement of Cook’s restraining hand she followed him and tried once again to interpose herself between him and her brother, fell back at the look he bent upon her.

  ‘So – Matthew Daniels,’ – all trace of the drawling, foolish accent had gone – ‘what have you to say for yourself?’

  Matt said nothing, licked bloody lips.

  ‘Tell me—’ The man looked down at Barnabas, stroked the dog beneath the chin. The animal stretched, raising its head to the caress. Sir Percival lifted his cold eyes again. ‘Are you not the same lad that was supposed to have been attendant upon my uncle and older cousin on the day of t
heir’ – he paused, delicately – ‘unfortunate accident?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes – Sir,’ the voice was steely.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I see.’ For a moment something close to a smile flicked across the fine-boned face. ‘A strange world, is it not? Had you drowned in your young master’s place you would not, of course, be here today. And neither would I. It could be, could it not, that you did me a service by surviving?’

  Confused, Matt glanced at Kitty and away. ‘I – yes, Sir. P’raps so.’

  ‘I hope’ – the voice was ice-cold – ‘that you don’t expect anything by way of gratitude, however?’

  ‘N-no, Sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Sir Percival made a sign to the servant who held Matt. Dangerously gently the man set him upon his feet. Sir Percival studied the boy for a moment, apparent interest in his eyes. Matt stood, head up, defiant; yet something in Kitty shrivelled in pain at the fear that lurked clear to be seen beneath the bravado. ‘Are you familiar, Matthew Daniels,’ Sir Percy asked at last, quietly, ‘with the saying that those who are born to hang will never drown?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ The boy’s voice was a breath.

  Sir Percival smiled again, and Kitty’s heart all but stopped at the cruelty of it. The small man stepped forward, breathing in the boy’s frightened face. ‘I am your master now, boy. Would I not be failing in my duty if I did not discourage you – and others’ – his flickering glance took in the silent assembly about them – ‘from such a fate?’

  ‘I – y-yes, Sir.’