by Jane Steen
Not that she wasn’t still pretty. There was something winsomely elfin about her face with its high cheekbones and regular features. She had taken trouble with her appearance, arranging her hair, which had darkened to a honey blond, in small curls around her face and tying it with a bright blue ribbon. She wore earbobs and a ribbon around her neck, from which hung a medallion I remembered Mama giving her.
But her skin was poor, her hands red and chapped, the yellow hair dull and dry-looking, dark shadows under her eyes. She stood a little hunched forward with an air of hangdog resentment that spoiled the efforts she’d made to look attractive. Of course, I told myself, her lot in life was a hard one; and she’d seen enough of the life of her social superiors to understand the distinction. Without Mama’s interference, she might have made a happy marriage to some farmer by now. Instead, she had probably inherited her father’s inability to be content with his lot, compounding her innate thirst to receive more than her fair share.
“Ruby said her ladyship was asking to see me, Father.” She dropped an awkward curtsey in my direction, no doubt remembering the days when she would address me with a cheeky insouciance born of her protected position at Hyrst. The apron she wore over her blue dress was tied a little high, clearly to disguise the pregnancy that was beginning to mold a curve into her still-slender figure.
“I was.” I rose to my feet and held out my hand. “It’s good to see you again, Susan.”
I felt cold, limp fingers press mine for an instant, and then her hand dropped back to her side. “Likewise, I’m sure, m’lady.”
“Her ladyship was asking about the morning I found Sir Justin,” her father said. “I told her how you found me in the river trying to rescue him and how you ran in the wrong direction and were sick.”
His voice was oddly hearty, considering the subject matter. Was he trying to show her he could talk about her condition openly? It was as if he sought her approval.
“Aye, I was sick all right.” Susan glanced downward and then at me. “I suppose you know why. M’lady,” she added reluctantly.
“I do. And if I can help in any way, please let me know.”
Her only answer was a small shrug that said, What help can you be? But these were my people, on my land; the offer had to be made.
“Did Ruby see or hear anything?” it occurred to me to ask. “She was up and about by that time, wasn’t she?”
It was Susan who answered. “Ruby had the range and fires to attend to, the bread to knock down and set to prove, the cleaning up after breakfast, and a dozen other things beside. It’s likely the Last Judgment could have happened without her noticing.”
“And you saw nothing else?”
“I heard Father shouting, and then I did a great deal of running about.” She sounded sulky now. “When I’d found help and seen that Father was still alive, I went back to the house and helped Ruby put the bath in front of the fire and start heating water. I washed the cups and jug we’d used for breakfast and made some more cocoa so that Father and the other men could have something warm inside them. I went to Father’s bedroom and found him some dry clothes and set those to warm by the fire as well.”
Farmer Hatherall was nodding approval. “All just as you should do, my maid—my girl.” He turned to me with a smile that, again, seemed too hearty. “Susan knows her place is inside the house, m’lady. Womenfolk must see to the small concerns and leave matters of life and death to the men.”
I couldn’t help looking at Susan, swelling like the fruit on a summer tree, and think that women had everything to do with life and death.
It was getting dark. I could see Mank outside, a dim vertical shape flanked by the larger bulks of the horses, so I said my good-byes and left. Farmer Hatherall politely followed me out of the front door and assisted me to mount Sandy.
“You’ll forgive Susan if her manners sometimes need mending, won’t you, m’lady? She’s not really herself at the moment.”
I thought she had been very much herself, but I smiled and nodded. I rode home thinking about the young woman, partly as a way to evade the picture of Justin’s wide-open mouth and eyes that the farmer had painted, but partly for her sake. In a small place like Littleberry, a bastard child would be hard to live down, even if decently adopted by Susan’s sister. Perhaps it fell to me to find a solid, practical way to set Susan on a better path than the one she now trod.
8
Family life
“You’re supposed to be in mourning.”
Michael’s handsome face was marred by the ferocious scowl he assumed whenever he decided his role as head of the family was being challenged. He strode up and down in front of the ornate marble fireplace that was the best feature of Hyrst’s drawing room. Julia and I sat at opposite sides of the fire—the day was cold—giving each other looks whenever Michael couldn’t see us.
“I am in mourning.” I indicated the dull black silk of my new mourning dress, which was every bit as fine as O had promised it would be.
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” Michael snarled. “The moment Odelia leaves, you’re paying calls on the Hatheralls. Of all people.”
“I’m doing nothing wrong, Michael. I can’t stay cooped up in the house all day. I need fresh air, and the horses need exercise. Why didn’t you tell me you and Brandrick had already paid a visit to Farmer Hatherall? May I remind you that he’s my tenant?”
Michael looked shifty. “Brandrick thought it best to ensure we had matters in hand at the farm. In case you didn’t want to.”
“Really?” I arched my brows at him. “I suppose it slipped your mind to consult me?”
“It’s no good, Michael.” Julia’s tone had the exact note of decidedness that always worked with her husband. “You can’t bully a widow who has full control of her late husband’s property, you know. Neither in law nor, apparently, in fact. You owe Helena an apology.”
Michael turned to his wife with the odd mixture of bafflement and respect that so often characterized his demeanor toward her.
“I’m not bullying Helena.”
“You should listen to yourself, my dear.” Julia lifted her chin. She was a tall woman with a regal bearing, handsome rather than pretty, perfectly suited to the role of countess that she had assumed without fuss or bother when Michael was still grieving the death of his first wife. At twenty-five, she was two years older than her young husband and was one of the few people capable of standing up to him when he was in one of his rages. “You may not think you’re being a bully, but you’re thundering like Jove himself over nothing at all—a mere visit to a tenant. Don’t forget Mockford is about to bring the children down. You know how they cower when you raise your voice.”
The wind seemed to go out of Michael’s sails all at once. He abandoned his commanding position by the fire to drop into a Louis Quatorze chair that had seen better days. It creaked ominously.
“Don’t worry, Michael, darling.” Julia’s tone was light. “Helena isn’t challenging your role as head of the family. She appreciates your desire to help her—don’t you, Hel?” She lifted her eyebrows at me.
“I do.” I held out a conciliatory hand to my brother. “Come on, Michael, be friends. I do appreciate what help you can give with the estate—I’m not terribly interested in sheep farming—but I’m not such a ninny as to want you to simply walk in and take over. I may be the smallest person in the family and far from a fighter, but I have some pride.”
To my surprise, Michael took my fingers into his and gave them the briefest of shakes before dropping my hand as if it burned him. For Michael, that was effusive affection.
The arrival of the children interrupted our moment of sibling closeness. It was always odd to see Michael abandon his dignity and sink to his knees on the carpet, the better to embrace his offspring. It was as if the fact that children would be affectionate—given the chance—had the power to break through his aversion to touching and being touched. James, his oldest son and heir, came to stand
by his father’s side with his arm around his neck in an almost protective stance. The little ones, three-year-old Quentin and toddling Annabelle Alice, giggled and hugged their father.
Annabelle Alice soon deserted Michael for her mother, demanding to be lifted onto Julia’s lap. The two boys stayed by their father’s side, Quentin chattering about the toy guardsman he had brought down with him. They were a study in contrasts. James resembled his late mother, Cecilia, who had not survived his birth. He was tall and thin for his age, with Michael’s coloring but so delicate and pale in the face that his eyes looked huge. Quentin was clearly Julia’s child, solid and robust, with his mother’s wavy black hair and gray eyes. It was already evident that he was going to be stronger than his older brother.
Michael had married Cecilia just six months after our father’s death. Papa had disapproved of the match, saying, quite rightly as it turned out, that Cecilia’s health wasn’t strong enough for children. I’d had no part in my family’s maneuvering to ensure my grief-stricken brother made a more suitable match as soon as possible, but I liked his second wife more than I’d liked the first.
Julia, who had married Michael primarily to escape spinsterhood, had the misfortune to fall desperately in love with him by the end of their first year of marriage. She bore the situation with a good-natured sense of humor that endeared her to me. She put up so cheerfully with Michael’s faults that their marriage did indeed seem to be turning out rather well. The lively, affectionate children she had borne him seemed to enliven young James, who unfortunately had his mother’s dreamy, rather melancholy disposition.
I moved to sit closer to Julia, the better to play peekaboo with Annabelle Alice. She was an irresistibly mischievous child with strawberry blond curls and eyes of clear gray, like the sea on a misty day. I had always told Justin I was content with our childless existence, but in the presence of Annabelle Alice I had my doubts about how deep that contentment ran. When she climbed into my lap or said, “Auntie, WOOK!” to capture my attention, a strange little flutter of covetousness pierced my heart.
Of course, motherhood had its drawbacks. “She’s going to be a real handful when she gets out of the nursery,” I said, wincing as Annabelle Alice clouted her mother on the nose. The little girl laughed riotously as Julia’s eyes glazed over with tears from the shock of the blow.
Julia turned her daughter around so she couldn’t make a second attempt, blinked, and breathed hard for a moment. “I wonder if we can afford a second nursemaid? Especially since,” she lowered her voice, “there’s going to be another.”
“Oh, Julia. Another child already?” I kept my voice low to match hers. “Does Michael know?”
“He hasn’t said anything, but I imagine he’s guessed. You know Michael. We won’t tell the rest of the family just yet. Although if I keep turning green at the sight of food, they’ll all know before long. I’ve been feeling like I’m on a boat on the Channel for about a month and a half.” She sighed. “I wish Mama-in-Law were still able to concoct her potions. I felt the same way with Quentin—I’m sure it’s a boy this time too, as I didn’t feel nearly so rotten with this little lady—and she gave me the most marvelous remedy. Made of common weeds, she said.”
“She used to wander around the fields early in the morning and come back with armfuls of thistles and dock leaves.” I smiled, but sadness suffused the memory. “I used to go with her, before Daniel.” I frowned as a memory worked its way up to the surface. “Thistles—that was it—something to do with thistles if you feel sick. Clearing the liver.” I remembered Mama’s vibrant voice, deadened by the early morning mist, and the satisfied look on her face as she held up a spiky, gangly plant.
“I don’t know if it’s my liver that needs clearing, but I’d certainly like to stop feeling this way.” Julia bent forward quickly to stop Annabelle Alice from ruining her dress as she slid to the ground, intent on something she’d seen across the room. Monkford, the nursemaid, quickly followed her.
“Perhaps I can take a look through Mama’s journals and see if I can find the recipe,” I said. “I can remember enough about the basic methods of preparation, I think. Mama kept extremely precise notes about dosages and was always cautious. If you’d trust me, that is.” I felt a strange mixture of excitement and dread at the notion of venturing once more along a path I’d long thought to have abandoned.
“Where does she keep her journals?” Julia asked. “I’ve never seen them.”
“They’re in her herb room, I think.”
“Ah.” Julia nodded. “Well, I have a guilty conscience about neglecting that room. You’ll have to forgive me in advance of entering. When Michael and I were first married, I was keen to tidy it up, but Mama-in-Law wouldn’t let anyone touch it. And as she forgot about it, so did we. Just the other day Michael mentioned he’d like it cleared out. He wants a larger estate office for Brandrick.”
“Of course he does,” I answered dryly.
“What are you saying about me?” Michael paused in the act of explaining the rules of cricket to his eldest son. Quentin roared around the room waving his toy above his head. Julia was right, they probably already needed a second nursemaid.
“I’m saying you want your Mama’s herb room cleared out, dearest. Helena wants to find her journals.”
“The whole lot should be thrown out.” Michael caught Quentin around the waist and regarded him sternly. “Quentin, it’s time to be quiet.” He returned his attention to us. “You’d oblige me tremendously by giving me an extra room, you know.”
Julia looked at me, and I shrugged. “Well, when asked so nicely, what can I do but oblige my brother? Leave it to me, Michael. Julia’s got enough to do.”
After all, I thought as I climbed into the brougham to return to Whitcombe, it had been eight years now since Daniel died. Perhaps I’d been wrong to blame myself for being unable to save him. Maybe it was time I took an interest in Mama’s work again.
9
A nascent vocation
I spent Thursday receiving a visit from some old friends of Justin’s who came to console me. In the afternoon, I had a most satisfactory interview with Justin’s Hastings solicitor, who managed his various properties. It seemed I had enough income to keep Whitcombe House going in whatever style I wished.
Of course with Justin gone, I would not be giving dinner parties or having people to stay other than family, so my expenses would be much reduced. But I had no intention of giving up Whitcombe as Michael had suggested. The truth was that I liked my grand baroque house, perched high on its hill overlooking Littleberry, Broadmere, and the marsh between. I was sure I could find a use for all that space.
On Friday, I betook myself to Mama’s herb room at Hyrst to see if I could find her journals. I brought Guttridge with me since Guttridge was showing signs of boredom, and that would not do at all. A good lady’s maid must be kept happy.
“What a mess.” Guttridge stood in the doorway of the herb room and gaped at the cobweb-strewn jumble, lit only by the light filtering through the filthy windows.
“I’d forgotten how bad it was. It’s like the Miss Havisham scene in Great Expectations.”
“I always thought the dowager countess was the most organized of women.” Guttridge picked up a cushion lying in the middle of the floor. It had almost certainly come from the drawing room.
“She was. The changes began so gradually we didn’t notice them at first. She just seemed a little forgetful. She’d have to make an effort to recall the names of plants, and then she began to forget ordinary, everyday words. But she’d suffered a terrible shock with my father’s death, and we all thought she’d eventually recover.”
“I had an aunt went that way. She’d go wandering in her nightdress all over Croydon.”
“Yes, we had one or two excursions in nightclothes. Everything became disordered somehow. I remember once when the dowager came in from the garden with a huge armful of foxgloves, torn out by their roots and shedding dirt all over the hal
l carpet. She dropped them on the dining room table, turned around, and went out for a walk. This room gradually became more and more chaotic—everything in the wrong place.”
Indeed, the herb room was a page on which the disintegration of Mama’s mind was clearly written. It was a jumbled mess of glass beakers, withered plants, torn and strewn pieces of paper, paintbrushes and other painting paraphernalia, and books. Dust was everywhere. The wizened herbs that hung in bunches from hooks in the ceiling were festooned with thick, ropey cobwebs, so smothered in dust that no spider would now want to dwell there. I could hear the rustle of mice in the wainscoting. Michael would do well to bring in a cat or two from the barns on his estate.
“This won’t do at all.” I used the cushion Guttridge had picked up to clear the dust from a portion of the large marble-topped table that took pride of place in the middle of the room.
“My lady, your dress.” Guttridge sounded faintly agonized.
I looked down, noting the smears of dust on my black skirts, and headed to one of the cupboards. Finding an apron on a hook on the inside of the door—at least something was where it was supposed to be—I put it on. Guttridge darted forward and undid the cuffs of my day dress, rolling up the sleeves.
“Why didn’t his lordship have this cleaned up long ago?” she asked. “I thought Lady Alice and Lady Annette ran this house better.”
“Lord Broadmere did order the servants to tidy up after the dowager countess at first. But she started shouting at them. There were several huge rows when she accused one housemaid or another of stealing from her or hiding her things where she couldn’t find them. The staff got terribly upset about it. In the end, Lord and Lady Broadmere decided to leave well alone. Even Lady Alice and Lady Annette agreed it was best left till after Mama was no more.”
“Or so far gone, as she is now . . .” Guttridge let the thought trail away into the dusty air.