by Jane Steen
I had been only sixteen when Daniel died, and nothing bad had ever happened to me before. I suppose it was natural I should react to his death childishly. I had wrapped myself up in a selfish silence and withdrawn from the world where I had once been so carefree. A young woman could be selfish when she had no need to earn money or keep a household, and my retreat into numbness had harmed nobody but myself. Mama had tried to interest me in the world of healing again but eventually had given up and relied increasingly on Susan Hatherall, the capable—and beautiful—child she had befriended.
After Papa died, we all accepted Mama’s vagueness as the result of grief. It had not seemed so very unusual that a woman in her mid-sixties should become a little forgetful. It had taken two years of increasingly bizarre and disturbing incidents—the worst being the day Mama dismissed Susan—to make Michael, who had his own grief by then, consult a London specialist about Mama’s condition.
I nodded at Belming, the godsend who had been a direct result of that specialist’s recommendations, as I sat down. She had risen briefly when I entered but was now back in her armchair, darning stockings.
“Now, Mama, you know the gardener will be along directly,” I said, smiling into my mother’s watery blue eyes. “Are you feeling well?”
Mama’s gaze sought that of Belming, who seemed to sense her patient’s uncertainty and paused in her darning. “Am I well?” Mama asked her. “The young lady wants to know.”
“Your ladyship is quite well and has passed a happy day. We went out onto the terrace for a few minutes and enjoyed the colors of the leaves very much. Luncheon was soup followed by poached salmon, which we ate with a hearty appetite.” Belming smiled reassuringly at me. “Things always become a little more cloudy toward the evening, m’lady. But it’s been a good day, on the whole.”
“I’m quite well.” Mama nodded at me graciously, as to a visiting stranger. “Thank you for your concern.”
“What’s that on your table, Belming?” I indicated the large sewn book at Belming’s elbow, its thick pages splayed out fanlike. “It looks like one of Mama’s old sketchbooks.”
“It is.” Belming put down her work and reached for the book. “I found it in the lowboy. I’ve been sorting through drawers to see what Lady Alice and Lady Annette might like to take for their charities. Her ladyship needs so little these days.”
She handed the large volume to me, and I opened the pages. Mama had once possessed a superb gift for botanical illustration, and this was indeed a treasure. The blue-purples of monkshood, the bright yellow of broom blossoms amid their glaucous spikes, the pale trumpets of nicotiana were as vibrant as the day Mama had painted them. Notes were written around some of the illustrations in Mama’s firm, elegant handwriting. Here was a petal that had fallen between the pages and dried to a paper-thin wisp of pink over the years. I removed it carefully, marveling at its fragile beauty.
“Look, Mama.” I angled the pages so my mother could see them. “You’re such a talented artist. Do you remember the flowers?”
“No. There’s no sense in it. We haven’t a cloud to walk on.”
Mama rose unsteadily to her feet and walked away from me. Belming shook her head.
“She won’t look at them, m’lady. I’ve tried. She might ask for the gardener, but she won’t tolerate anything that reminds her of her garden.”
“What a pity.”
“Perhaps you should take the book, m’lady. When Lady Alice and Lady Annette are in their organizing mood, there’s no saying where things will end up. I’d like to think a bit of her ladyship will be left behind.”
I smiled. “I wish Mama’s talent had extended to drawing people. I would like to have seen some studies of Papa or my sisters when they were little. I only have one small daguerreotype of my father as I remember him. I never knew him without silver hair, you know.”
“Will you show me the photograph one day, m’lady? Of course, I never knew him at all except from the portraits. I like the one of him with the hounds better than the one in court dress, but he was a terribly handsome man.”
“He was handsome even as an older man,” I laughed. “A true Scott-De Quincy in looks. I used to run my fingers through that thick hair, looking for the golden threads that remained among the silver. Yes, I’ll take the book.” I looked over to where Mama was hovering by a small table, repeatedly touching it as if she were trying to understand its use. “There were many other illustrations and paintings, you know. I should look for them one of these days.”
By the time the dinner gong sounded and I headed downstairs, I was tired in body and mind. Mama had that effect on me. Even though Belming did all of the actual work of caring for her, I found sitting with my mother exhausting. And that made me feel guilty. Would I resent Mama if I did invite her to stay at Whitcombe? Or would I feel less guilty because I was providing for her comfort? Certainly, Whitcombe was large enough that Mama could have a bigger suite of rooms. I could make the night nurse Belming occasionally requested a permanent fixture. I did not have to watch my pennies the way Michael did. Our father had been an extravagant spender, and my brother was still trying to clear his debts.
Dinner was a subdued affair. Michael looked tired and morose while Alice and Annette were more than usually wrapped up in each other and spoke to nobody else. Gerry seemed out of sorts with Blanche, who was characteristically querulous. Lydia and her husband mostly made small talk about county society with Maryanne, who was hoping to catch a husband soon, and Thomas was not present. Julia tried to keep the flow of conversation going but looked slightly green around the gills, as if her stomach were bothering her.
The men did not remain behind in the dining room, but accompanied the ladies into the drawing room straight after dinner. Here, I thought, was my chance to talk with Ned. He was clearly bent on avoiding Michael—who had been particularly trying on the subject of the Irish question during dinner—and accepted my offer of a quiet game of Old Maid with alacrity. We retired to the gloomiest corner of Hyrst’s gloomy drawing room—Michael was forever putting off Julia’s pleas to redecorate, saying they couldn’t afford it—and settled into a rather leisurely game.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you about the inquest on Justin,” I said after twenty minutes, when we’d won a hand each.
Ned frowned and tugged at his heavy mustache. “An unpleasant subject, my dear.” He began shuffling the pack of cards but then put the deck down and patted my hand in an avuncular fashion. “All over now, and you’ve been a brave little woman.” He smiled, brown eyes kind under his thick, curling brows. “Best not to think too much about it, eh?”
“I can’t help thinking about it,” I said. “And I have to ask you—are you absolutely sure in your mind that Justin’s death was an accident?”
His eyes widened. “If I hadn’t been sure, I’d have spoken up. My position in the town doesn’t allow me to gloss over any suspicion of wrongdoing.” He frowned. “Who’s been putting ideas into your head?”
There was no use in hiding it. “Monsieur Fortier.”
Ned waved a large hand as if swatting at a bothersome fly. “That damned Frenchman. He’s a troublemaker, my dear. A troublemaker with too much imagination. Has he been pestering you? Just say the word and I’ll make it clear to him he should not.”
“‘Pestering’ isn’t the right word. He did talk to me. Do you think it’s possible he’s seen something the rest of you didn’t see? He seems intelligent enough.”
Ned looked faintly amused. “And the rest of aren’t intelligent enough? My dear Helena, you must give Littleberry’s leading citizens some credit for sense. We all listened to Fortier’s theory, and none of us thought he’d made a sufficient case. Killing a strong man by shoving him into a river, on a well-used path, in a field which could have been overlooked from a dozen different directions—and why, for heaven’s sake? Who had a motive?” He removed a large handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose vigorously.
“So you discounte
d Fortier’s theory due to its farfetched nature?”
“We didn’t discount it. We discussed the matter thoroughly and decided the balance of the evidence was against foul play. We even took an extra day to make inquiries around the area, to see if anyone had been spotted where they shouldn’t be—or if they’d not been seen where they should be. We looked for even the slimmest evidence of someone doing something unusual and found none. In short, we took Fortier’s suggestion seriously, as our responsibility as a jury demanded. And now, it seems, that arrogant pup has disregarded our verdict and taken to bothering you.” Ned’s cheeks, already red from the wine he’d drunk at dinner, were bright vermilion above his wiry beard.
I felt my own face flush a little. “He seemed very sure of himself,” I said.
“Being sure of himself is one of his damnable flaws. Arrogance, as I said. He has a history of contradicting those in authority, especially the medical men of Littleberry. And he’s often right, I grant you—he’s a good physician. But not in this case.”
“And you swear that if he’d raised a doubt, you wouldn’t have brought in the verdict of accidental death? Supposing he supplied more evidence, even if it were circumstantial?”
Ned took up the cards again, shuffling them rhythmically as he gazed at me thoughtfully. “So you believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe, to be honest. I’m prepared to listen to him. If I don’t, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering whether my failure to act proves I didn’t love Justin as much as I thought I did.” I cleared my throat.
“There’s no question of a failure to act where there is nothing anyone can do.” Ned looked at me from under his brows. “Don’t clutch at straws, my dear. Now do you still want to play?”
I nodded, and from that point onward Ned seemed determined to distract me from anything connected with Justin’s death. I picked out my pairs of cards automatically, thinking back over my encounters with the French physician. Was I clutching at straws? And could I trust Fortier when nobody else seemed to? Perhaps he genuinely believed a wrongheaded theory. Perhaps he was a little unbalanced. Perhaps coming to me was a blow struck in some battle against the well-established medical men of Littleberry, a chance to discredit them and gain an entry into the family of the Earl of Broadmere. Or perhaps he was telling the truth.
7
Susan Hatherall
Blanche left the next morning. My first thought after I’d waved her off was to visit the Hatherall farm. Yet I hesitated. What would I ask them?
The truth was, I didn’t want to face Susan Hatherall. My feelings about her were too complex. I remembered the stab of jealousy I’d felt when my mother brought her home for the first time—“Look at the fairy I found out in the fields!”—and proceeded to make a pet of her. I was fourteen, an awkward age. I knew by then I was not going to grow tall, graceful, and blond-haired like my parents and siblings. I still had the essentially sunny, easy nature that had made my childhood pleasant, so I made no fuss and outwardly accepted my mother’s latest eccentricity. Yet I hadn’t been able to bring myself to dote on the child, beauty though she was.
At six, Susan was an ethereal waif in appearance, with hair of palest blond and clear blue-gray eyes. In character, she was forward and demanding. She was used to being her father’s treasured darling. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and the farmer clung to this last remnant of love like a drowning man clinging to a spar.
Susan’s nature was to take, not to give, and that had irked me. She was one of those people who were never satisfied with what they had. If there were jam tarts or sweetmeats or slices of cake to share around, Susan always managed to have one more than everyone else—and she would look very carefully to ensure she received the largest. I had more than once caught her with a ribbon or sachet in her pocket that belonged to me. These were always such small items I could never really accuse her of stealing, and more often than not I’d let her take them home.
She became a regular visitor, scampering up the hill through the cemetery and slipping through the iron bars of Hyrst’s grand gate to appear in Mama’s herb room with a wide grin. My dislike of the child had perturbed me; after all, she was just a little girl and the daughter of one of our churchwardens. Guilt that I was breaching the aristocratic duty of kindness and care toward the lower orders added to my inclination not to question my mother’s decisions, so I kept silent.
I hadn’t seen Susan since she was thirteen. Eighteen months after Papa died, Mama had driven her from the house one horrible day. My calm, competent mother had been in a screaming rage, shouting incoherently at Susan and quite literally foaming at the mouth. We had never known why. I had avoided Susan since—out of guilt? Awkwardness? Or relief?
I couldn’t deny it was relief that washed over me when my plans for the day were disrupted by Odelia, returning to Whitcombe as abruptly as she’d departed.
“Maidstone was a disaster,” was her reply when I expressed my astonishment at seeing her so soon. “Sometimes I think the bohemian set are the most dreadful, selfish people in existence. It quite pulled me up short. I felt weighed down by guilt that I had left you all alone at a time like this. I knew none of the others would be much comfort to you, and yet there I was, deserting you for the sake of somebody else’s art. So I’m back to do penance. I’m going to send for my dressmaker and ensure you’re fitted out properly for mourning.” She bent down to caress Scotty, whose high-pitched bark had made it difficult to hear each other speak. “Goodness, little dog, you’d think I’d been away for a twelvemonth. Won’t you just love to see your mistress in pretty new clothes?”
I smiled at her. “That would be a tremendous help—your dressmaker’s such a good one. And now that Blanche has gone, we can be comfortable together. Blanche gave me quite a headache this morning, lecturing me on the correct way to grieve with many little tales of how the ‘dear Queen’ sets the example to all British widows.”
“Of course Blanche knows far more about the dear Queen than us ordinary mortals.” Odelia raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You’d think she was invited to those house parties rather than her son. I don’t suppose Dederick tells her much about the goings-on of the Prince of Wales’s set, and I certainly don’t see him supplying tidbits about the Queen.”
“And if Blanche were really so keen to follow the Queen’s example, she’d be in black all the time. As it is, I expect she’ll be out of full mourning for Justin on the very day the four-month period expires.”
“Well, black doesn’t suit her. It does me.” Odelia looked smug.
“She says I should have my carriages repainted and reupholstered in black and put the footmen in black livery.”
“Will you?”
“Probably not.” I gathered Scotty up in my arms and dismissed Blanche from my mind. “What would you like to do today?”
“What were you going to do before I decided to impose myself upon you?”
“Spend an hour or two on my wretched letters. I still haven’t finished replying to all the messages of condolence, which is scandalously rude of me. And then I was thinking of riding down to Dene Farm to call on the Hatheralls.”
“Oh, don’t.” Odelia made a face.
“Why not? Farmer Hatherall is my tenant now after all.”
“And if he has something to discuss regarding his tenancy, the proper thing to do is for him to write for an appointment. Which reminds me—aren’t you going to appoint an agent to oversee the farm? Or are you going to take up Michael’s suggestion of letting him and Brandrick manage your farmland? It’s not all that big a holding after all. You’re fortunate not to have the responsibility of a huge estate. I suppose Justin’s other properties are managed by his solicitors in Hastings.”
“They are.” Putting Scotty down, I shuffled through the papers on my desk. “They sent me a report, something to do with the assessment of death duties. I’m not sure what to do about Dene Farm, to be honest. Justin always managed the farmland himself.”
“The curse of the gentleman farmer,” O groaned. “You need an agent, and a good one, so you can travel around a bit. I always thought it was rather a shame you and Justin never traveled.”
“We were perfectly content at Whitcombe,” I said.
“He for sheep alone, she for God in him?”
“Justin was not my god, and I’ll thank you not to misquote Milton at me. To return to the point, why shouldn’t I visit the Hatheralls? I haven’t seen Susan for years.”
“That horrid child. Why would you want to see her?”
“Did you think she was horrid?” I felt oddly pleased. By the time Susan had attached herself to Hyrst, Odelia had long since decamped to London to be with her artist friends, but then, as now, she would visit Hyrst whenever the spirit moved her. I’d always thought she doted on Susan like the rest of them.
“She was a little sneak. Always hiding around corners listening, and I swear she crept into people’s rooms.” O sighed. “She was a beauty though. I’ve got a sketch of her somewhere. I was thinking about doing a picture of fairy children, and she was perfect. If I’d liked her more, I’d have asked her to sit for me, but I thought her head was quite swollen enough. Why do people pay so much attention to beautiful children? There’s no especial merit in being born good-looking.”
“I just thought it was time I saw her again.”
I felt reluctant to tell O that Susan was pregnant.
“Well, don’t. You simply don’t need to assume any responsibilities at this time in your life. It’s a good thing I decided to come back, Baby. I shall amuse and divert you—in ways appropriate to your newly widowed state, of course. Guttridge and I shall manage the business of your new wardrobe down to its last detail. And I promise not to leave for at least a week.”