by Jane Steen
“Very well.” Michael stood, pushed back his chair, and strode to the door without saying good-bye. It was a formality he had a tendency to forget unless reminded.
“His lordship has your best interests at heart, m’lady. As do I.” Brandrick also stood, and his voice was gentle. “I haven’t had the chance to offer you my sincerest condolences. Please accept them now. Sir Justin was a good man.”
I nodded with as good a grace as I could manage. “Thank you.”
Left alone, I stared morosely at the empty coffee cups. If it hadn’t been so completely typical of Michael to barge into a house of mourning to discuss what was on his mind, I would have believed this was Brandrick’s doing. The man clearly thought that Dene Farm—Justin’s great interest in life—should come under his own management.
“And I resent his management,” I said out loud to the empty room. “I resent his management of my brother. I resent my brother’s management—or attempted management—of me. And if you think, Michael,” I wagged a forefinger at the empty doorway, “that you have a right to dictate what my life is to be, you have another think coming.”
If only I’d been able to say that to my brother’s face.
3
A widow’s armor
By the time Odelia appeared downstairs, I had conquered my annoyance at Michael. O never rose early when she was in the country. In London, she might be up at the crack of dawn to catch the best light for her paintings. At Whitcombe, she requested breakfast in bed and saw nobody but the servants until eleven.
Our first task of the day was to visit Justin’s grave. Since the first viewing of one’s husband’s final resting place was hardly the appropriate moment to raise any grievances against my brother, I kept silent during the short walk to the Littleberry cemetery. I resolutely banished Michael from my mind as I stood staring at the six-foot-long mound of tan-colored clay, surmounted by three elegant arrangements of chrysanthemums and hothouse lilies and a large number of smaller tributes. In the mellow sunshine of October’s last day, the pink-tinged lilies seemed to glow. The mingled colors of the rest of the flowers looked almost cheerful.
What, I wondered, did this horticultural exuberance have to do with Justin? How could this neatly dug rectangle of earth possibly contain his kindness and intelligence, the fond smile with which he’d greeted me every morning, the wiry, muscular body that could mount a horse or wrestle with a recalcitrant sheep as easily as a man half his age?
I couldn’t cry. O and I both wore heavy veils to conceal our tears, but I, who had wept aplenty in the eleven days since my brother-in-law Ned had stood in front of me, hat in hand, to bring me the news, could find no tears to shed that morning. We spent twenty minutes remarking on the number of small bouquets that proved how well-liked Justin was, and then we turned for home.
We entered Whitcombe by the conservatory door and helped each other shed our muddy boots. Soon I would need to ring the bell for Guttridge and prepare for luncheon, but for a few minutes I allowed myself to enjoy a moment alone with my sister and Scotty. We had not taken my dog to the cemetery for fear Scotty might start digging in the loose soil of Justin’s grave.
The conservatory was not particularly warm, but it offered a fine view of the distant sea, today a gray haze with a tinge of blue. The valley below us was a patchwork of greens and tans. A plume of blue smoke marked the burning of some debris by one of the farmers.
I waited until we were seated in the large wicker armchairs to broach the topic of Michael’s visit.
“Michael cannot, in any way, force you to either marry or give up Whitcombe House. It’s as simple as that,” was O’s immediate response.
“It’s never as simple as that.” I sighed, running a hand over Scotty’s wiry, brindled coat as he nestled into the crook of my arm. “I see Michael several times a week when he’s not in London—even before Justin’s death our paths crossed all the time—and you know how relentless he is. I’m not sure how long I can stand up to him. The only way I could avoid him altogether would be to leave Whitcombe, and I don’t want to do that.”
Odelia hesitated before speaking. “Darling, forgive me for asking this—why on earth not? I mean, how can you stand it here? It’s so quiet. And much too green.”
I hugged Scotty to me and rested my head on my other hand, looking out at the magnificent view. Below us, the gentle dip of the valley was sprinkled with the white-and-brown dots of grazing sheep. Farther to the west, the land rose into softly rounded hills, punctuated by the dark greens of copses and hedgerows. In the far distance, where the headland reared into tall cliffs, the hills were a smoky blue. In front of the headland, I could see Broadmere, its fading glory wrapped in dark, encircling trees. If I crossed to the corner of the room, I’d be able to see Littleberry, a huddle of red-brown brick and tile on its low hill, its windows flashing gold in the lambent sunlight. Two small towns deserted by the sea, brooding over their former glory and prosperity, picturesque and drowsy under the wide autumnal sky.
“It’s where I belong,” I said at last. “I’m not like you, O. I couldn’t stand living in London with all its noise and bustle. Here, I feel—”
“—safe?” Odelia snorted in derision. “Baby, darling, in your short life you have exchanged one large house looking out toward the sea for an even larger house looking out toward the sea. You’ve never given anywhere else a chance to worm its way into your heart.”
“I spent two Seasons in London,” I said indignantly. “And never came to love it.”
“Because Daniel was here, and you were a very young girl in love. Of course you wanted to fly back to your mate.” O shook her head, a gesture half-impatient, half-sad. “And later you allowed yourself to be steered into a marriage with Justin, and you just seemed to grow into the soil.”
“I was content.” I leaned back to pluck a flower from a standard fuchsia, admiring its intricate delicacy. “Justin and I were content. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Not for Justin, certainly. At his age, perhaps he had a right to be content.” O stretched out a narrow foot, looking critically at her fine silk stocking. “But you’re twenty-five. You should have a few years of adventure before settling for contentment.”
“Justin wasn’t so very old.”
“He was forty-seven, even if he had a younger man’s physique. You were twenty-two when you married him—twenty when he began taking an interest in you. I know it’s common practice among our sort of people for older men to wed young women, but you could have had a dozen better offers. Far better than a baronet, however wealthy. Or you could have married some impoverished genius. The old Helena could have, at any rate. I always used to think you’d be the rebel of the family, not me.”
“I don’t remember being that person,” I said. “And besides, in what way would I have rebelled? If Daniel had lived, we’d have married before I was twenty. We were already talking about when Daniel should approach Papa to ask for my hand.”
“Daniel would have brought out the rebel in you. He’d have turned you away from Mama’s herbs and potions and whisked you to Paris to soak up some Republican principles. Look how interested he was in the war between the French and the Prussians.”
“Yes, he was interested in a great many things.” I could hear the hard edge to my voice. “And then he was dead.”
In my mind’s eye, I could see the orchard on the slope below Hyrst—a place I’d avoided for two years afterward—and for a moment could smell the apple blossom, fresh and sweet. And there was Daniel, lying once more at my feet, his lips blue and cold. And I hadn’t been able to save him.
“You lost interest in everything for a while.” Odelia’s voice was gentle. “Your studies, your little hobbies, your clothes, your friends, even Mama’s herb garden. You stopped bringing home half-dead animals and sitting up all night trying to nurse them back to life. You stopped helping Mama with her patients in the workhouse and the slums. Because you no longer trusted your ability to heal
anyone.”
“When you realize you’re useless, it’s better to stop pretending you’re useful, isn’t it?” I rose to my feet, placing Scotty on the floor. “It’s cold in here, and luncheon will be ready.” I stepped inside the billiard room, preceded by my vigorously barking dog, and pulled on the bell.
“Baby.” Odelia was beside me in an instant, her face close to mine. “It’s as if—well, if I lost my right arm, I’d paint and draw with my left. I could never bury my gift, even if that gift had brought harm to somebody. My art is me. Even when I’m not painting or sketching, I’m doing so in my head. Right now I’m composing a sketch in my mind. I can’t help it. You—you had a real talent for healing, just like Mama. For serving others. And you simply buried that talent with Daniel. I would feel as if I were only half a person.” Her brow wrinkled. “You won’t let Justin’s death sink you into despondency as Daniel’s did, will you?”
She gathered me close to her, and I gave in to the need to feel the warmth of another person. She had always been the first one to hug me and kiss me when my other sisters were distant. I leaned my head on her shoulder.
“I know it’s what you’re all worried about.” My voice was muffled by the heavy silk of her dress. “It worries me too—but I’m not sixteen any more. I’ll find my way through this. It’s just that rebellion is no longer a path open to me.” I sighed. “I don’t have your strength. Daniel’s death broke me in so many ways. If I had any rebelliousness back then, I lost it somehow.”
O hugged me tighter. “Then it’s time to get it back. This is your new beginning, Baby—your new chance. Don’t you realize that as a widow you have control of your money and property, at least until you remarry?”
“In law, perhaps. In practice, that’s not what Michael believes. He thinks he should take over everything. He and that horrible Brandrick man.”
“So don’t let him. I have to go back to London, darling—I’ll die here. But I’ll help you resist any arrangement Michael tries to impose upon you. I know a lawyer in Greenwich I can send to you if it comes to that. He won’t be in the least impressed that he’s standing up to the Earl of Broadmere. This family may be important in this tiny corner of the world, but it’s not at all important in a city where titles are ten a penny.”
Odelia released me as Guttridge stepped into the billiard room, and I smiled at my lady’s maid.
“We took off our boots, Guttridge. They’re rather grubby. Could you fetch slippers and neaten us both up a bit for luncheon? Lady Hastings will be getting impatient.” Blanche had declined to accompany us to the cemetery.
“With pleasure, my lady. Come along, dog—you’re not hiding under the table during luncheon again.”
Guttridge was a tall woman, somewhat plain, but with a pleasing air of authority and strength. She somehow managed to pick up our outer clothing, muddy boots, and the dog before disappearing into the depths of the house. The diversion afforded by watching her gave me time to think.
“Don’t rush to provide me with lawyers,” I said eventually. “I’ll have a try at standing up to Michael myself.”
“Hooray!” O stretched her arms toward the ceiling in a gesture of jubilation before addressing my returning maid. “Oh, Guttridge, how wonderfully quick you are! Now listen—don’t you think you and I should put our heads together and ensure Lady Helena is outfitted properly for mourning? I’ve seen that dress too many times already, and I’ve only been here a week.”
“Just what I’ve been telling her ladyship.” Guttridge nodded in approval. “We still have a position to uphold in the county.”
I followed the two of them, who were now talking rapidly about parramatta silk and crape, in silence. I was being managed once more, albeit benignly. Between the two of them, Guttridge and Odelia would ensure I looked the part of a wealthy widow—give me armor, in a sense. Something I could hide behind as I resisted Michael’s attempts to control my life. Until, perhaps, I could develop a harder carapace of my own.
“Is there anything else you need, my lady?”
The long day had drawn to a close. Guttridge paused at the foot of my bed to survey my room and ensure she hadn’t left any task undone. The day’s clothing was draped over one of her long, strong arms; her capable fingers had braided my hair into two shiny plaits; and I lay alone in my bed.
Beyond the connecting door to my right, I could sense the stillness of Justin’s room. I had sat in there for a while, inhaling the scents of tweed, leather, and cologne that still hung in the atmosphere. I had closed my eyes, remembering the times I had climbed into Justin’s bed or he into mine as soon as our respective attendants had gone downstairs. Remembering the feel of his back, smooth and hard with muscle. His legs, brushing against mine. His arms, solid and strong.
I brought my fist down hard on the coverlet, and Guttridge opened her eyes wider.
“Are you all right, my lady?”
“I’m upset about being a widow.” I grasped a handful of satin and squeezed it between my fingers. “I’m angry I was widowed because my husband chose to rescue a sheep. Why couldn’t he have ridden for Farmer Hatherall instead of trying to do everything himself?”
“Was that the way of it?” Guttridge set down her burden of clothing on a chair and crossed to the bed, her expression one of mild curiosity. “I’d heard he’d slipped into the river somehow, but I didn’t know he was after a sheep. Can’t they swim?”
I shrugged. “I always thought so. I’ve seen them being driven across the river. But they found a young ram drowned downstream, marked as one of Justin’s. They think he’d seen the animal in trouble and gone after it. They worked that out later, of course.”
Guttridge tutted. “The farmer saw Sir Justin’s horse outside his garden; I’d heard that. So he went looking for him in the fog.”
“Yes. And some time afterward, when they’d gotten him out of the river, Sir Edward got involved. He’d been riding along the river path on his way to Pincham. It was he who came to tell me.”
Ned had been so shaken he’d left a trail of mud to mark his passage through my house. His somber frock coat had been damp, streaked with mud and dotted with yellowed leaves, when he’d burst in upon my breakfast.
“It was a terrible shock,” Guttridge said. That was a statement, not a question. I’d been having breakfast in bed, and she’d come to clear away the tray only to find me gasping and raving in my nightdress, clutching at Ned’s coat like a madwoman.
“It was the meaninglessness of it all.” I let go of the coverlet, which was becoming damp and creased from the pressure of my fingers. “An accident—a stupid slip—that’s all it took to destroy my life. It makes me furious.”
Guttridge was silent for a long moment. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, my lady,” she said at last, “you don’t look like a woman who’s destroyed. You just need to take your time to say good-bye to your old life.”
“But my old life was what I wanted,” I wailed. “A quiet, settled life. Neither looking backward nor creating dreams and ambitions for the future. Not major ones anyway.”
Guttridge frowned. “There’s no such thing as a settled life, begging your ladyship’s pardon. We’re always moving in some direction. You can’t move back, so you must move forward.”
She turned to retrieve my abandoned clothes and left the room, leaving me to reflect on the advantages and disadvantages of having a lady’s maid with a philosophical bent.
“How I miss you, Justin,” I whispered into the darkness a few minutes later. “But she’s right, you know. I can’t have you back, so I’m forced to move forward with my life. I let Daniel’s death reduce me to some kind of paralysis, but you rescued me from it in the end. Perhaps this time I can find the strength to do without a rescuer.”
4
The French physician
I slept well and awoke refreshed. I felt more ready to face the day—and the future—than I had since the news of Justin’s death had been brought to me.
That mood lasted until I entered the morning room, a pleasantly airy space on the eastern side of the house. The servants were accustomed to leaving my correspondence there. I had neglected it for the last few days, but that morning I arrived at my desk out of force of habit. I knew I would have at least two hours before I saw either of my sisters.
The pile of black-bordered letters from friends and acquaintances sent my determined mood plummeting through the floorboards. These missives were concrete proof that I was a widow—moreover, a widow with social responsibilities. I would have to answer them, every one, and with each letter and answer, a new dagger would be driven through my heart.
I set to sorting them. One pile of letters that must be answered immediately; another pile of letters of lesser importance, to which I could reply with a brief word of thanks; and a basket full of discarded envelopes.
The first pile was depressingly thick. I would have to spend the rest of the morning writing, at least until the others were dressed. Then I could relinquish one social obligation for the much more attractive one of playing hostess.
Well, one’s debts to society must be paid. I sorted through my collection of pens to find the ones with the best nibs. I had just uncapped my crystal inkwell when one of the footmen entered with a calling card.
Armand Fortier, Physician and Surgeon.
The name was familiar. Justin had mentioned it once or twice. A sound man he’d consulted in preference to the other Littleberry quacks. A Frenchman who’d moved to Littleberry about a year ago, whose sister was the wife of a prominent pottery owner.
“I’m at home, I suppose. Please show him in.”