by Megan Daniel
“Well, I never! Cornelia Crawley. Why the tales she can tell! I never seen the like. Now tell me, what became of poor Master Tom from Dark Abbey? Did he get to sea at last?”
Saskia’s eyes danced with mischief. “Of course he did. Who could imagine Tom in that stuffy old school. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He ran away, you see.”
The old blue eyes widened again; the wrinkled mouth pulled into a perfect circle, and Mrs. Gleason let out a soft, “Ohhhhh, I am glad."
With a belated realization of the proprieties, she made a curtsey and said, “Pleased to meet ya, miss, Pm sure. ’An only wait till Mary Manners hears! Won’t she be green? The daughter of Miss Crawley right here in the house!” Overcome, she sank into a chair to collect herself and sipped gratefully at her tea. Saskia did the same.
She fetched about in her mind for what to say next. "Perhaps you understand why I am here, Mrs. Gleason?” She received a blank stare. “Well,” she went on, improvising madly, “Mama has a truly wonderful idea for a book. More, well, more English, you know. Set in a big country house rather like this one. We’d heard—the way one does hear things you know—that the Manor might be just what she has in mind. She has sent me to discover what I can about it. She likes to have real places and people to base her stories on. Perhaps that’s why they are so real. Do you think I could look around, make some notes, just to get the feel of it, you see?”
“Mercy! Why, it’d be an honor, miss, I’m sure. Imagine! Our house in one o’ Miss Crawley’s stories.”
“I’d want to see all the principal rooms.” She was getting into the spirit of the game. “And are there attics? We could not have a Cornelia Crawley novel without attics, perferably with cobwebs like ropes.”
“Oh, there be attics, miss, lawks yes!”
“And of course we would need a housekeeper in the story.” She pulled a small notebook from her pocket, wondering at her foresight in bringing it “Now let’s see, your eyes are blue, are they not?”
Mrs. Gleason looked faint with delight. After patiently waiting through several more “Mercies!” and “lawkses!” and other pertinent exclamations, Saskia found herself being shown through a green baize door into the house to which her grandmother had come as a bride.
She might have stepped into another century.
One might assume—and without being wrong—that Mr. Gleason was pottering about the grounds while his sister was ooohing and aahing over Saskia in the kitchen. He was, in fact, tinkering in the stable and had not seen her arrive. Shortly thereafter, as he strolled through the yard, he did see another rider approaching up the lane. This was an unusual occurrence, and the more so as this rider was clearly a gentleman. The horse he rode was a fine polished roan, well set up and a good sixteen hands, if Gleason was any judge, which he knew well he was. Hadn’t been a gentleman out to the Manor in he couldn’t remember how long.
Now the fellow got closer, there was a familiar look about him. Couldn’t say just what it was—didn’t know him or anything like—but damme if the fellow didn’t have something of the old master about him. But there, no good speculating about what he wanted when here was the gentleman getting off his horse and obviously about to tell what he wanted.
“Good morning,” said the gentleman. “I’m looking for Mr. Gleason.”
“Aye, an’ you’ve found him,” came the answer.
“How do you do. I’m Derek Rowbridge.” Mr. Gleason belatedly touched .his forelock, then gingerly took the man’s proffered hand.
“Aye. An’ that explains it, then,”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but it’s the nose. The Row- bridge nose. You’ll be Master Richard’s boy, I’m thinkin’.” Derek looked surprised, but answered smoothly, “I am. Did you know my father then?”
“Aye, sir. Put him on his first pony, I did. ’Course, I were just an undergroom then and him a nipperkin, but Master Richard an’ I, we were friends.”
Derek liked the man instinctively, and he smiled.
“Aye, an’ you’ve the Old Master’s smile too. You be a true Rowbridge, right enough.”
Derek couldn’t know it yet, but he had just received the highest encomium the man could give. It might
have been more than forty years since a Rowbridge had lived at the Manor. It might be that his pay came from some upstart name of Banks. But John Gleason knew who his real masters were. Derek might have been the prodigal son, returned at last.
Unfortunately, such affection helped Derek not at all in his quest. The questions he put to Gleason netted little more information that he’d already had from Lady Eccles.
“And no one has lived in the house in all these years?” he asked.
“Nary a soul, ’cept me an’ Bess. Don’t seem right, neither. House like that. Meant to be lived in. Now I think on it, there was one fella, a Nabob, come out to have a look. Right after the accident, it were. Said he might be wantin’ to buy it. But nothin’ came of it. Looked at the drawing room and the library, plopped his hat back on his bald head, and took hisself off. Weren’t what he had in mind, I reckon.”
“The house was for sale?”
“Didn’t say it was. Never has been. But he seemed to think he could have it all the same. Didn’t seem the sort used to hearing too many ‘nos,’ if you take my meaning.”
“What was his name?”
“Can’t say I ever heard it. Or if I did, it’s clean gone. More’n forty years ago, y’know.”
“Might I have a look at the house? I’d like to see the place where my father was born.”
“Aye, an’ so ye shall. I’ll not say no to Master Richard’s boy, whatever’s said.”
They tinned toward the house.
The chill air of uninhabited space struck Saskia in the Great Hall. The sparse furniture was swathed in Holland covers; no welcoming fire crackled in the enormous fireplace. Little light penetrated the heavily shuttered windows, but the stained glass over the door broke the sunlight into solemn rainbows, giving the Hall the unreal look of a painting. Her half-boots clicked on the slate floor as she followed Mrs. Gleason to the drawing room. It was dark, a bit musty-smelling. Ghost shadows lurked in invisible corners; the weird shapes of draped furniture seemed to object to the intrusion of life. They reflected only cold emptiness, refusing to give any sign of the laughter, tears, and human living they’d witnessed...
“Tsk, tsk,” clucked Mrs. Gleason. Cant see a thing m here.” She walked with a brisk, squeaky step to the windows and threw open the shutters. Light flooded the room, evaporating the ghosts in the comers to nothing more than motes of dust, dancing in the sunbeams. Cov- ers were whisked from chairs and tables. Settees and cabinets became only furniture again, waiting patiently for whatever services might be required of them.
Saskia felt she’d stepped into a museum. The furniture was of the heavy, opulent style favored before Old Mad George became King. There was oak and walnut, linenfold paneling, and velvet, rather than the satinwood and beech, silk and muslin to which her modem eye was accustomed. ,
Mrs. Gleason skittered about, sending a stream ot chatter over Saskia’s head. “. . . and the Mistress saw her morning callers here. Her favorite room it was. Now you’ll want to see the library. That were the Master’s room, God rest his soul.”
Saskia snapped to attention. Mrs. Gleason, do you
mean that you were here when the house was still occu-
pied?” . . , T
“Oh, lawks, yes, miss. ”Twas my first position when I went out to service. In course, I were just a housemaid then. Lord, but it were a good few years ago. Me an’ Gleason were asked to stay on and care for the place. We were young an’ strong then, an’ we came as a pair, y’see. Even an empty house big as this one takes a day s work to keep it from wrack and min.”
“Apparently Mr. Banks wants it well cared for.” Something suspiciously like a “humph” passed Mrs. Gleason’s pursed lips; her minuscule bosom hea
ved as much as ever it could. "Well, as to that, miss, I wouldn’t say ‘well cared for’ myself. It’s a shame is what it is. Me an Gleason does our best, but it’s more’n two folks can do. As to Mr. Banks, I couldn’t say, never having set eyes on the man. I get my pay reg’lar from Mr. Dawes, an he lets me have Rose Malley ever now an’ again for the heavy airing.”
"Mr. Dawes?”
The agent. Sour ol’ thing, he is. He comes out regular to have a look-see. It’s a comfortable life, miss. I’d serve a mistress right well if I had one, but I’m jest as pleased to be my own, I’ll not deny.”
They turned toward the library.
Mr. Gleason led Derek through the kitchen and up two flights of back stairs to the nursery floor. “Ye’ll be wantin’ to see Master Richard’s room. A good lad were Master Richard.”
Derek let slip a smile at hearing his robust and rakish father referred to in this manner and stepped into the room. He.was far from sentimental, but his smile grew, his truly charming smile, as he saw his father’s hobbyhorse, forlorn in a comer. A set of toy soldiers in old- fashioned uniforms marched across the mantel, their boots buried in dust. The windows were unshuttered, the calico curtains a pale dead grey. But they had been a bright happy blue once. It was not unlike Derek’s own nursery at Willowhurst.
It had been so long since he’d thought of his father with anything but resentment that Derek surprised himself as memories of laughter flooded his mind. He was riding on Papa’s shoulders crying “Giddyap!” as they galloped round the room. He was rocking with laughter as he and Papa, stark naked, jumped into the pond at Willowhurst, dunking each other with abandon.
He coughed to clear the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat and turned away.
“Ye’ll be wantin’ to see the Old Master’s room, I don’t doubt. It be jest below.”
Saskia stepped into the library. Dark oak paneling and bookcases covered the walls; Morroccan bindings gave a patina of age. A large well-upholstered wing chair, its leather arms aged to a soft glow, sat before the grate, wondering, perhaps, why the master was so long away. It was a thoroughly comfortable room, and Saskia felt a stirring of kinship with her long-dead grandfather.
One thing dominated the room. It was a portrait, and it held pride of place over the fireplace. It had obviously been lovingly hung only in the year of Edward Row- bridge’s death.
When she saw the portrait, Saskia froze. For here, in a picture hat and blue ribbons and with an elfin smile, was her sister Beatrix. The same China-blue dancing eyes, the same golden curls, had been caught by the hand of a master.
“She were a pretty thing, was Milady,” said Mrs. Gleason. “Painted by Mr. Gainsborough, it was. And not a penny would he take for it. Said it was treat enough just to paint her. Oh, a great favorite with everyone, she was.”
Saskia looked more closely at the painting. Susannah Rowbridge, 1775 read the caption. Saskia had never seen a likeness of her grandmother. At least she thought she hadn’t. In truth, she had seen one nearly every day for the past seventeen years in the face of her sister. The resemblance was unearthly. She immediately and completely understood Mr. Weddington’s reaction in the Pump Room.
“What was she like?” she almost whispered.
“Oh, she were a treat. Always happy and laughing. And kind? Why the stableboy himself could count on a visit from Milady if he took sick. With that soft, pretty voice of hers, and the smile in her eyes. Until the end, that is. I disbelieve I ever seen a body change so as she did when the Master were killed. The life jest went out of her,” she sighed.
“And my ... Mr. Rowbridge?”
Mrs. Gleason gave a girlish giggle. “Oh, he were a lively buck, he was. If he weren’t a one for catching a body on the stairs!” she added with a hint of blush. “Mind now, there weren’t none o’ that after Milady come. Lawks! If ever a man was potty for anyone, he was for her. Worried *bout her all the time he did, towards the end. Seems to me he mighta worried a bit more "bout hisself. Had to go get his neck broke, an’ then where was she, poor thing?”
Saskia pulled her eyes from the painting and began an inspection of the room. She calmly slid open a desk drawer, astonished at her boldness. Mrs. Gleason didn’t seem to mind. But whatever she hoped to find, it wasn’t there. Quills, a wafer box, some engraved visiting cards. But not a trace of a paper, ledger, or journal. She opened other drawers. No letters, no documents, no records of any kind. She didn’t know how high her hopes had been until they fell flat.
As though reading her mind Mrs. Gleason said, ‘Ton’ll get little of the Master in here, for all it were his favorite room. You can almost feel him still upstairs, with all his things about, but not here. Mr. Dawes, he come an’ took all the papers an’ things away soon as Milady left. Didn’t touch nothin’ else. Well, come along upstairs an’ you'll see for yourself.”
Derek stood in his grandfather’s bedroom, but the lump in his throat did not return. He had never known his grandfather, never ridden on his shoulders or laughed with him. The emotional response was set aside and the keen analytical powers took over, searching for a clue, anything, that might lead Derek to the mysterious Mr. Banks.
The room was as perfectly preserved as the nursery. Some furniture was draped with covers, but the heavily carved bed, with its chocolate brocade hangings, stood proudly uncovered and dominating the room. Brushes and razors were still laid out on a shaving stand; old-
fashioned coats and knee breeches, embroidered waistcoats and lace-trimmed shirts still hung in the wardrobe.
“But this is incredible!” Derek exclaimed. “Was nothing sold or taken away by this fellow Banks?”
“Nothin’s been touched, sir, ’ceptin’ only the papers. Orders. Don’t make no sense to me. But we done what we was told. Seal it an’ leave it. That’s what we was told, an’ that’s what we done.”
“The papers?” asked Derek with a sinking feeling.
“Aye. Took ’em off straightaway, all tied up with red ribbons. Even took the Missus’s account books.”
“Banks did that? Did he say why?”
“Never seen no Banks. It were Dawes what come out. Ain’t nobody laid an eye on any Mr. Banks. Not even Dawes, I reckon.”
“Dawes?”
“Agent. Got hisself an office in Bath. Cabbage-head, if you ask me.” He sighed heavily. “Fair breaks my heart, it does. The Master, he loved this ol’ house. One week it were full o’ livin’. Next week it were dead.”
Derek wandered about the room. He slid open drawers peered under covers and in cupboards. “Tell me about him, about my grandfather,” he said.
The ladies headed up the back stairs, saving the main bedrooms for later. Saskia pulled her notebook from her pocket to please Mrs. Gleason, but the only notes she made were: Banks, Dawes, portrait, papers, WHY???
“She were a thrifty housekeeper too, was Milady. Knew what a thing cost. Right surprised us all, her cornin’ from money an’ all. But there, she had to know, didn’t she, livin’ here. Never a penny to spare. Shameful, I call it!”
Mrs. Gleason chattered on inconsequentially while Saskia poked her nose into cupboards and comers, looking for something, anything, that might help her. There was nothing.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Gleason, "then he broke his neck
an’ that were the end o’ that. Shouldn’ta been ridin’ that colt. Weren’t properly broke an’ so I told him. ’Twere a wager, I reckon. Always were a bettin’ man, the Master.”
“I know.” said Derek grimly as they descended the grand staircase and headed for the library. “It runs in the family.”
“Mind, there weren’t hardly none o’ that after the Missus come, no sir, ’ceptin’ only at the end. Seemed like he needed money real bad at the end. Try most anything to get it.”
The bits of information were catalogued and stored in Derek’s well-ordered mind, but they didn’t seem to add up to much. He looked keenly around, not wanting to miss anything. But what was he even looking for? He f
ound nothing.
Her grandmother’s room was charming, thought Saskia.
“Pretty, ain’t it, miss? Jest like her. Partial to yellow, she was.” The old lady could still sniff away a tear for her mistress after all these years.
“It is a charming room.”
Mr. Gleason coughed. “An’ would you be wantin’ to see the cellars, sir? There still be some fine old brandy set down. French, it is. The Master liked a good drink.”
“Thank you, Gleason, but not today. If you’ll save it, I’ll come another time.”
“Oh, I’ll save it, right enough. You ask me, it belongs to you.”
With a grateful farewell and a promise to bring her mama soon—“Really, miss? Mercyl Lawks! My, my, my”—Saskia walked slowly to where Sunshine nibbled placidly at some fresh spring grass. She mounted with the help of a dead tree stump and headed around to the lane, dwelling on the information the morning had gained her. Snippets. Memories. Gossip. Was there,
buried somewhere in Mrs. Gleasons chatter, the vaguest beginnings of a solution?
Derek thanked Mr. Gleason warmly and stepped through the French doors on the stable side of the house. They marveled together over Pasha, then he mounted and turned toward the lane, trying to make something out of the nothing he had just seen and heard.
He came up short at sight of another rider coming around the side of the house. He recovered quickly from his surprise.