Charley looked helplessly at Medrose, who nodded and called for another footman.
St. Merryn lingered three days but spoke not another word, and Charley felt as if from the moment of his collapse he had thrust on her the whole burden of looking after his estates. Her grandmother, a frail lady who had enjoyed poor health for years, collapsed on her sofa at learning of the deaths of her son and his wife, and her husband’s subsequent seizure. Though Charley could leave Lady St. Merryn to the tender mercies of Miss Ethelinda Davies, the poor relation who looked after her, other important matters required her immediate attention.
Thanks to Medrose and Mrs. Medrose, the housekeeper, the household was running smoothly, but she knew better than to leave all direction to the servants. There would be many decisions to make. On the other hand, her grandfather’s excellent land steward, Petrok Caltor, was quite capable of keeping the estates going with no more than a command to do so. It was he to whom she turned that first day for help.
“You’ll be wanting to fetch home the bodies,” he said practically when she met with him in his tidy office. “I’ll arrange for all that. And,” he added, bluntly broaching a subject she had not cared to mention, “we’ll be putting them in coffins straightaway, miss, and shutting the lids tight. His lordship won’t want no one gaping at Mr. Charles or Miss Davina in the condition they’re like to be in. I’d not be putting the funerals off, neither, Miss Charley. Unseasonable warm it be for the middle of April.”
“We’ll see how Grandpapa does, Mr. Caltor, but we must send someone to tell the vicar. I think we’d best send for Grandpapa’s man of affairs, as well.”
“That would be Mr. Stephen Kenhorn of Bodmin, miss. If you will be so kind as to write him a letter, I’ll have one of my lads take it to him straightaway, though it do be a Sunday.”
The doctor arrived that afternoon. After he had examined St. Merryn, he joined Charley in the downstairs parlor where she had been conferring with the housekeeper. Shaking his head gravely, the doctor said he feared that the earl was failing rapidly.
“Your father’s death was a great blow to him, my dear,” he said. “I think he cared more for Charles than for anyone. Such a tragedy. You have my condolences.”
“Thank you,” Charley said. Dismissing the housekeeper, she added, “Will you look in on her ladyship before you go, please, sir?”
The genial doctor smiled his understanding. “To be sure, I will. I daresay she’s taking all this very hard. Even were she not, she’d be sure to take a pet did I come by Tuscombe Park and leave again without paying my respects. You’ve enough on your plate, I’m thinking, without adding a bout of her megrims to the mixture.”
She was tempted to ask him for some liniment for her bruises, but she did not, believing that, although painful, they were not serious. He had been gone long enough for her to make a list of things to do when Letty came into the room.
Taking a seat near the table where Charley was working, the child said with a sigh, “I have been reading to Grandmama so Cousin Ethelinda could go for her walk, but she hurried back when she saw the doctor’s carriage. She asked him to look at the bump on my head, and he told her it’s not broken, which I already knew.” She paused, then added, “Is Grandmama really very sick, Cousin Charley?”
“Not really, darling, though she is certainly distressed just now. Generally, she enjoys the attention she receives on account of her ills. And, in truth, her frailty allows Cousin Ethelinda to feel useful. When I was a child, I was unfeeling enough to think her a mere barnacle who cosseted Grandmama so as to seem needed, but our cousin is very kind. I have long since come to appreciate her many good qualities.”
“I should think you must,” Letty said. “I was never more glad to see anyone in my life. Grandmama is upset, certainly, but she seems to believe Aunt Davina and Uncle Charles died merely to provoke her, and that Grandpapa is putting on airs to be interesting. She says she is the only one who truly suffers from their loss.”
“I know, darling. Twice she has pointed out to me that, because my papa died before Grandpapa, I shall never be Lady Charlotte. As if I cared for such stuff.”
“I know,” Letty said with a wry smile. “She warned me not to puff off my being a ladyship because it might distress you. And when I told her I would never do such a thing, she looked wise and said I was only a child and might not know how words can hurt people. Really, she said that, as if her own words were of no moment whatever.”
Charley leaned over and gave her a hug. “I am so glad you are here, Letty. I begin to think you are the wisest, most sensible person in the house. Where is Jeremiah, by the bye?”
“In my bedchamber. Grandmama is not fond of him, and Cousin Ethelinda is so restive that she makes him nervous. He’s made friends with the maid who looks after my room, so he will be content for a while, I expect. Can I do anything to help you?”
“You may tell someone—Jago, I expect—that I shall want a horse saddled first thing in the morning. I must ride to Lostwithiel to have some proper mourning clothes made up. You had better come, too, I suppose. Grandmama and Cousin Ethelinda have proper things to wear, but I do not. My riding habit is the only black garment I own. Kerra is presently removing all the trimming, so I can show myself abroad. In the meantime, I intend to write letters to inform people of the accident. You should write to your parents. You may use some of my paper if you like.”
Charley decided not to seal her letters, knowing she might well have to add the news of her grandfather’s death. Only Letty’s and one other, to their great-grandaunt Lady Ophelia Balterley, in London, went post haste.
Letty left the room soon after her letter was finished. When Charley finished hers, she resumed her discussion with the housekeeper about necessary arrangements for the forthcoming funeral, then took supper with Letty and found other small tasks to occupy her until bedtime. By the time she retired, she was exhausted, and fell asleep at once, just as she had hoped she would. She did not want to lie awake with only memories for company.
The following morning, when she went downstairs to break her fast, she found Letty before her, chatting happily with the two footmen who were serving her. Charley joined the conversation, but ate less than usual, and was soon ready to depart.
As they left the stable yard, followed by Teddy, the groom who had served Charley since her childhood, Letty said, “I like Jago and Pedrick. They told me about when Papa came here the first time, and how Mama always wore a bright red cloak then. I’d adore to wear a red cloak, but with my hair, I simply cannot do so.”
“Certainly not with two recent deaths in the family,” Charley agreed. “What else did you talk to Jago and Pedrick about?”
Letty eyed her uncertainly. “I hope you are not vexed with me for talking with servants. Aunt Davina said I consort far too much with the lower classes, but I like people who will talk to me. Here in England, even more than in France, I have observed that grown-ups frequently do not talk to children. Or, if they do, they talk to me as if I were a baby with no understanding whatsoever.”
“I will tell you what Great-Aunt Ophelia said to me about that when I was your age,” Charley said. “‘I don’t care who you count as your friends,’ she said, ‘because every friend is more valuable to you than an enemy or a stranger.’ She did insist that I consider other people’s sensibilities, however, and take care not to offend them.”
“Great-Aunt Ophelia is very old,” Letty said. “When we stayed with her at St. Merryn London House, Aunt Davina told me she is in her ninetieth year.”
“She is elderly,” Charley agreed, “but she is no less formidable for being past the age mark.” She had a great fondness for Lady Ophelia Balterley, and wished very much that that staunch supporter of the female sex were at hand to advise her now. “You are very observant, Letty, and wise beyond your years. Moreover, I don’t mind confessing that you are much more of a lady than I was at your age.”
“Ah, yes, but then I was born a lady,” Let
ty said, shooting her a mischievous look from under her auburn eyebrows.
“Minx. I hope you don’t become saucy while you’re here with me. I know very well where your papa would lay the blame for that, and I’d prefer that you not give him my head for washing. He’s the only man I’ve ever known whom I could not wrap round my thumb.”
Letty chuckled. “Mama says the same thing.”
They were riding along the River Fowey now, their way shaded by overhanging willows and alder trees. They chatted in a friendly way about family matters until they reached the cobbled streets of Lostwithiel and drew rein before the dressmaker’s shop in the High Street. As they dismounted, Letty said with a twinkle, “Will she be offended that we came to her on horseback? Mama always visits her Parisian modiste in very grand style. She says Cerisette would be distressed if she did not.”
“Today my need to ride was greater than my need to help Angelique impress her neighbors,” Charley said frankly. “I’ve ridden here decorously enough to avoid looking like a wild woman, but on the way home I mean to gallop away my fidgets. I’m still feeling battered and bruised, so I might regret it, but I’ve been cooped up in carriages for far too many days, not to mention the packet boat before London.”
Letty shot her a quizzical look from under her eyebrows but said only, “I shall like a gallop, too. This horse you’ve given me to ride seems to have excellent paces.”
“All Grandpapa’s horses have excellent paces,” Charley said. “Acquiring good horseflesh is a passion that runs in the family. Papa—” She broke off, turning away to hand her reins to Teddy, then added with a forced smile, “Come along now, darling. Let’s attend to business. Then, afterward, maybe we can visit Dewy the Baker.”
They entered the little shop to hear a strident voice scolding someone in Gallic accents. The sound of a sharp slap followed, then an outcry. Charley exchanged a look with Letty, whose eyes were wide with astonishment, then rang the bell on the counter. A moment later the owner bustled through a curtained doorway from the back.
A tall, faded-blond woman of indeterminate age, whose prettiness had faded over the years, Angelique Peryllys had a natural sense of style that was expressed today in an elaborate coiffure and a simple gown of saffron-colored armazine, trimmed with dark brown piping and edged with a narrow band of ochre lace at cuffs and hem. She greeted Charley with dignity. “Good day, mademoiselle. We were sad to hear of the dreadful tragedy in your family. You have come to obtain mourning dress, I believe.”
“Yes, we have,” Charley said briskly. “Angelique, this is my cousin, Lady Letitia Deverill. She, too, will need a few things.”
“Bien sûr, mademoiselle. Black gloves, of course, and two or three little gowns. Will the child attend the funeral?”
“She will not,” Charley said. “Nor will I, for that matter. My grandmother does not hold with females attending such ceremonies, and in truth, I’ve no wish to go.” She did not add that, like Lady Ophelia, she believed funerals were a barbaric custom and preferred to remember her parents as they had lived rather than as they had died.
Letty began to explain her requirements, in French, but Angelique cut her off, saying abruptly, “It is my practice to speak only English to my customers, if you please, mademoiselle. I am persuaded that Miss Tarrant will explain your needs to me.”
Catching Letty’s eye, Charley saw that there was no need to warn her to keep silent. Thinking of how she would have responded at the same age to an impertinent rebuke from a tradesperson made her very glad that Letty’s temperament was less fiery than hers had been.
Angelique said with much more politeness, “I have mourning gowns already made up, Mademoiselle Charlotte, just like any other modiste of quality. They require only fitting and hemming, so if you will allow me to take some measurements—What do you want?” She hurled the indignant question at a ragged-looking child a year or two older than Letty, who had stepped through the curtain from the back.
“Beg pardon, mum,” the child murmured, “but Bess wants to know—”
“Can you not see that I am engaged? When I am finished, you may believe that I will teach you never to interrupt me when I am assisting a customer.”
The child paled and clutched her hands together under her limp apron.
At the same moment that Charley noted the red imprint of a hand on the little girl’s white cheek, she recognized her. “Jenifry Breton, is that you? Good mercy, I nearly didn’t recognize you, you’ve grown so. Come here, child, and tell me how your mama and papa are getting on. I’ve just returned from France, you know, so I have not seen them in months.” Glancing at the seamstress, she added, “You must know, Angelique, that Jenifry is the daughter of one of my grandfather’s tenants.”
The child gazed anxiously at Angelique, who nodded curtly. Only then did Jenifry say, “Good day, Miss Charley—Miss Charlotte, I mean,” she added with a darting look at her stern mistress. “Mama and Papa are well, I expect, though I haven’t seen them in months myself, not since I got apprenticed to Madam Angelique.”
“Good mercy,” Charley exclaimed, looking at the seamstress. “Is that not a trifle harsh? Surely, she might have leave to visit her parents from time to time.”
“Not for the first year,” Angelique said firmly. “Once our girls know the rules and have shown they can abide by them, and once I know they take well to stitching, then perhaps. Until then, it is not so good for them always to be shifting from Papa and Mama to Angelique.”
“I see.”
“Go away now, Jenifry. I shall speak with you when Miss Tarrant has gone.”
Jenifry blanched again, and Letty said quietly, “Perhaps she could select some black ribbons for me, Cousin Charley, while Madame Angelique assists you.”
Charley said, “That’s an excellent notion. Lady Letitia will need several widths, I think, Angelique. Sash lengths, and for her hats—and black gloves, as you suggested. She requires only one mourning dress, however, to wear the day of the funeral. No one expects to see a child rigged out like a baby raven for months on end, thank heaven, and gray is one of her favorite colors. She will have plenty of suitable outfits if the trimmings are altered.”
“As you say, mademoiselle. Now, as to yourself, perhaps I might suggest …”
Charley allowed herself to be drawn away then, but after making her selections and before arranging for payment, she said quietly, “I hope you were not intending to punish Jenifry too harshly merely for coming to ask you a question.”
“She will be soundly whipped,” Angelique said uncompromisingly. “My girls have strict orders never to enter the shop. She must learn to obey my rules, miss.”
“Nevertheless, Angelique, I would take it kindly if you were to let her off with a scolding this time. I could not, in good conscience, continue to patronize a shop where a child from Tuscombe Park is harshly used. Much as I should dislike having to travel all the way to Bodmin or St. Austell …” Pointedly, she let her words trail to silence.
Angelique nodded. “It shall be as you wish, mademoiselle, certainly.”
Having arranged for delivery the following day of two gowns suitable for deep mourning, and a few accessories, Charley and Letty took their leave.
“How glad I am that I had this black habit made for me in London,” Charley said. “Now that Kerra has removed the pink epaulettes and piping, and replaced the mother of pearl buttons with jet, it is perfectly suitable. Oh, but how vexatious! Dewy the Baker’s shop is closed now. I wanted to buy you a special Cornish treat.”
“Thank you, but I don’t feel like enjoying a treat right now, in any event,” Letty said. She remained silent after that until they had left the cobblestones and the resulting clatter of hoofbeats behind them. Then she said fiercely, “I am very grateful to have been born a Deverill, believe me!”
“I suppose you are thinking of Jenifry. I have known her since she was born, you know. Their cottage is on the edge of the moor near the river. I used to ride up there and play i
n a pool nearby. In fact, her father, Cubert, taught me to swim.”
“Papa taught me,” Letty said. “Cousin Charley, do you know that awful woman beats the girls who work for her? Not just when they are naughty but for setting stitches too far apart or for getting a fingerprint on the material. Jenifry says she makes them pick up their skirts behind and takes a switch to their bare legs. If she complains to her husband about them, their punishments are even worse.”
“Good mercy,” Charley said.
“Jenifry and Bess are the only ones left to do the work right now, too. There was another girl, but I think she must have run off. I don’t think Jenifry was supposed to tell me about her,” she added thoughtfully. “She kept darting looks at her mistress while we talked, and that was one of the times Angelique looked back. Jenifry didn’t say another word, except about ribbons.”
“I’m sure it is a hard life,” Charley said, “but if Jenifry learns the business from Angelique, one day she may have a shop of her own. She might even go to a bigger town—even London—and make her fortune. It’s too bad she angered her mistress today, but I took care that she won’t be whipped this time. I believe that if she works hard and always does her best, one day she will be very thankful for her training.”
Letty did not look convinced, but when Charley suggested a gallop, she agreed with alacrity.
Their mourning gowns arrived the following day, and the day after that, the Earl of St. Merryn breathed his last breath. Charley was with him when he died, and she felt abandoned, even a little angry, but she experienced almost none of the profound grief she had expected to feel. St. Merryn had played a large part in her life. Now he was gone, but she felt only the same empty numbness she had felt since the accident. It seemed strange, but she did not allow her thoughts to dwell on it for long. There were too many other details to attend to, no time to contemplate mere emotions.
Stephen Kenhorn arrived from Bodmin that afternoon. He met with Charley in her grandfather’s library, a spacious room lined with books that she doubted the hunting-mad earl had ever read. Kenhorn, a thin, wiry man with a habit of wringing his hands together, seemed almost put out with St. Merryn for dying before his arrival.
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