by Jane Steen
I could see Mrs. Dermody felt a little more at ease, so I essayed a more personal question.
“Did you move from London to live here?”
She smiled. “I did. I attended an artists’ salon, and there I met an Englishman of Irish extraction who would become my husband. And by marrying a pottery owner, I changed as an artist, finding a passion for the art of ceramics.”
“Did you paint those?” I had been wondering about the two large vases that sat either side of the fireplace. “They’re astonishingly beautiful.” I was starting to realize that here indeed was a woman with a vocation.
“Thank you. Yes, they’re my work.” She smiled as she watched me rise to my feet so I could get a better look at the relief decorations of fuchsias and lilies of the valley, enhanced here and there with gold leaf. “I sell a few pieces from time to time to the Liberty shop in London. But I mostly do these things for my own amusement.”
“Does your brother also work for his own amusement?” The graceful interior of the home and Gabrielle Dermody’s appearance were beginning to convince me that Fortier could indeed be a gentleman.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say amusement comes into it. Armand is quite serious about his life and his work.”
Another slippery answer. Mrs. Dermody was clearly not going to divulge any interesting details about Fortier to me.
I was already standing, so it was undoubtedly time to go. I sought for something to say.
“If you do manage to correspond with your brother, please tell him that I, for one, am trying not to be prejudiced against him. That I am a little ashamed of having, for a short time, believed the worst.”
“And yet you pursued the truth of the matter.”
“It seemed only fair.”
“Ah, the English sense of fair play. I admit my brother is unlikely to make it easy for you—or for anyone—to know him unless there is some trust between you in the first place.”
“I will undertake to communicate my newfound trust in Monsieur Fortier to my family.”
“Thank you. Your family’s good or bad opinion makes a great deal of difference in Littleberry despite the town’s much-vaunted independence from feudalism.”
“Then you have my word I will mention his innocence in the right places.”
“The word of a lady?” She looked hard at me for a moment, her eyes serious but with the faintest curve of amusement on her lips.
“Every word I speak is that of a lady.” I returned her stare with interest. Scott-De Quincys are not easily intimidated by anyone outside the family.
“Very well.” The curve of her lips became more pronounced. “And you have my word I will not hold anything you previously thought about my brother against you.”
We shook hands cordially. I realized I rather liked this woman. Like her brother, she was a mixture of reserve and open passion where her feelings were engaged.
I crossed to the parlor door as Mrs. Dermody rang the bell to summon her servant. The door opened immediately, but the maid wasn’t behind it. I recognized Quinn Dermody from church; close up, he was clearly the sort they called the Black Irish, as lean and swarthy as any Spaniard. He loomed over me with an expression that wasn’t entirely welcoming.
“Lady Helena Whitcombe, my dear,” said Mrs. Dermody by way of introduction.
“I was just leaving,” I said as Mr. Dermody bowed over my hand. He didn’t look particularly pleased to see me. The merchants of Littleberry, even wealthy ones like the Dermodys, generally had little to do with the landed gentry who held the estates in the surrounding countryside. Their belief that we held entirely too much power in relation to our usefulness no doubt intensified each time my brother-in-law was elected mayor.
Mr. Dermody raised one thick black eyebrow, but a glance at my mourning clothes seemed to chasten him. “I’m sorry for the loss of Sir Justin,” he said formally. “He was a good man.”
“I thought so.” I nodded. “Thank you.”
“But I must say I’m a little surprised to see you here.” Clearly, he was not a man who minced his words. “County paying calls on town? And so soon after your husband’s death. It’s a mystery, to be sure.”
“I suggested that Lady Helena call on me.” Mrs. Dermody’s eyes held a warning. “I thought it better this way. I wanted to thank her for helping Armand.”
“And the Hatheralls. I hear you’ve offered Susan work.”
I supposed I should not be astonished at the way news flew around Littleberry, but I always was.
“I thought it the right thing to do.”
“Noblesse oblige?” He seemed to consider the phrase, which he had pronounced in good French, for a moment before continuing. “Do you always look after your people so well?”
“I try to. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with feeling an obligation toward those who make their living on my land. I also find myself under an obligation to Monsieur Fortier for attending my husband before his death and participating in the unpleasant tasks made necessary by the nature of his demise.” I tried to stare him down, difficult since he was a foot taller than me. “Do you find that overly feudal?”
“Quinn.” There was a note of reproach in Gabrielle Dermody’s voice. “Lady Helena is trying to help.”
Mr. Dermody’s glare softened a little. “Well, I suppose Lady Helena can’t help the habits ingrained in her by centuries of—”
He stopped as his wife made a small sound like a squeak of protest and began again. “That is, it’s kind of you, but Armand doesn’t need the protection of the aristocracy. His own innocence in this matter should be protection enough.”
“I’d better go,” I said to Mrs. Dermody, ignoring the insult her husband had just directed against me. If I was, as Mr. Dermody clearly thought, a representative of an outmoded and interfering class, at least I had that class’s ability to hide its feelings. “It was delightful to meet both of you.”
And with that, I proceeded out of the front door, which was held open for me by the Dermodys’ maid. The rain had almost ceased, just a few drops scattering out of a sky that was a vivid mixture of ragged cloud and cerulean blue. Overhead, Littleberry’s ever-present seagulls screamed and swooped.
“Take me home,” I said to the coachman. “I’ve had quite enough visiting for one morning.”
13
Ladies must have their occupations
“The man should take a whip to his daughter.” Michael glared at his wife across the expanse of my drawing room.
“No, he shouldn’t.” Julia linked her arm through mine. “Helena’s quite right that we should all leave the girl be. After all, she may have been forced. And of course we’ll make sure that everyone knows Monsieur Fortier’s innocent of any wrongdoing. A word here and there should discourage gossip. These people aren’t worth losing your temper over.”
“I never lose my temper.” Michael pushed back the skirt of a rather old-fashioned frock coat he always insisted on wearing on ordinary days and rested a fist on his hip. “But it galls me that Hatherall should raise that girl to—to gad about and do what she oughtn’t, and tell lies into the bargain. Lies against a—well, I suppose Fortier’s a gentleman, even if he is a Frenchman. Hatherall may be a churchwarden, but he’s nothing but a tenant farmer after all.”
“Darling, you’re a relic from an earlier age.” Julia went to kiss her husband on his cheek, ignoring his flinch and stare of annoyance. “These are the days of the train and the telegraph. Hatherall’s the coming type of man; he was more of a business partner to Justin than a tenant.”
“Coming? Helena should send him packing.” Michael ground his teeth.
“It’s sweet seeing you so indignant on Monsieur Fortier’s behalf.”
“I am not—”
“Now then, you mustn’t shout at me in my condition.” Julia sent a wink in my direction.
“It’s public knowledge, then?” Catching Julia’s mischievous mood, I also went to kiss Michael. “Congratulations, Michael.”
“Hmph.” But Michael looked almost pleased.
“Since you’re not going to shout, I have some worse news for you.” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to employ Susan Hatherall as a sort of assistant in my workroom.”
It was quite amusing watching Michael controlling the impulse to begin shouting again. He would, of course, take Julia’s warning quite literally. My sister-in-law was extraordinarily adept at keeping the Earl of Broadmere where she wanted him.
“Is there any logical reason for this peculiar decision?” he said at last.
“Yes. Susan needs a fresh start, and I need an assistant. Having her here will prevent the nastier elements of Littleberry from making her life a misery. And perhaps getting her away from Dene Farm will allow her father to make a fresh beginning also.”
“He’ll have to resign as churchwarden,” Julia said, a note of sympathy in her voice.
“I expect he will. Churchwardens are supposed to set a good example after all. I suppose his days as churchwarden were numbered the moment Susan’s pregnancy became known.” I looked at my brother. “But, Michael, could you please talk to the rector? Let them at least allow him to resign quietly? I don’t see it’s the poor man’s fault at all.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Michael muttered.
“That’s all I ask. Now do come and see my workroom. Guttridge has gone above and beyond her role as my lady’s maid and is positively organizing my life. She and Mrs. Eason have found a carpenter to build extra cupboards. The scullery maids have scrubbed all the glass jars and things until they’re gleaming. They’re going to take the wallpaper off the walls and put distemper on. Guttridge says it’s more practical if I’m going to be dragging bits of plants indoors and making a mess. We can just repaint it when it gets too dirty.”
Julia’s cheeks dimpled. “Sounds like the nursery at Hyrst.”
“And they’ve already taken Mama’s big marble-topped table,” Michael remarked. “Brandrick’s going to like the new estate office.”
“Yes, my new table is being repaired and polished up.” I ignored Michael’s remark about Brandrick. Making the dreadful man happy was of little consequence to me.
“They had to take it apart,” Julia said. “As they did when Mama-in-Law first commandeered it, according to Inchkin. He said it was the pastry cook’s table, and the cook up and left in a rage, and when your father heard about it he laughed so hard he was sick.”
“I hadn’t heard that story.” I laughed. We had arrived at my new workroom, and I opened the door with a feeling of pride, even though there was nothing yet to see.
“But that’s Justin’s study.” Michael looked deeply offended.
“He doesn’t need it, Michael,” I said, ignoring the catch in my throat. “He barely used it anyway. He preferred the smoking room off the library for his writing and business conversations. That’s where all his papers are.” Which meant I could put off the heartrending task of going through my late husband’s personal papers for a very long time.
“It’s a lovely big room.” Julia eyed the brighter spots on the wallpaper where pictures had been removed. “It’ll look splendid when it’s painted.”
“Yes, and it overlooks the location where I’m planning to put my herb garden.” I stood aside to allow two of the menservants to pass. “Guttridge and I thought we’d look through the attics to see if there’s any furniture and so on I could use. There’s so much up there.”
“It really is going to be like the nursery at Hyrst.” Julia had a wide grin on her face. “Give the children the old furniture so they can play.”
“Helena’s not a child, Julia.” Michael stood in the middle of the room, his arms folded, looking out through the window to where the distinctive tower of Littleberry’s church could be seen in the distance. “She wants to be useful, like Mama.”
“Well for heaven’s sake, my brother’s defending me,” I murmured. “So you’re not going to try to force me to move out and rent Whitcombe to strangers?”
“Brandrick said I am being too hasty.” Michael looked down his nose at me.
“Brandrick defended me?” I went to the window. “Is the sun going to set in the east today, do you think?”
“The news that I’m going to employ Susan went over better than I thought,” I said to Guttridge once we were alone again. “Lord Broadmere’s color barely reached vermilion.”
“Mrs. Eason’s ready to take the girl in hand. She’ll stop the other maids from bullying her. You’re very kind to do this, my lady.”
“Do you disapprove?”
“It’s not my place to approve or disapprove. I don’t know the girl anyway.” We had hired Guttridge to be my lady’s maid after my marriage; before that, I had shared a maid with my twin sisters. So she had never known much about my life at Hyrst.
“I hope the farmer doesn’t mind losing his daughter,” I mused.
Guttridge tutted. “He can easily get another woman in to help Ruby with the house. Sooner or later you lose your daughters to marriage. A son can stay and work on the farm, but girls are more trouble than they’re worth sometimes.”
“What a devastatingly practical mind you have, Guttridge. Am I more trouble than I’m worth?”
“A lady is a different matter, my lady. Ladies provide employment and make themselves useful in society—leastways, some do. They’re useful to their husbands once they’re married and ornamental when they’re young.”
“And they breed the next generation of the country’s generals, archbishops, and judges?” I rolled my eyes at Guttridge. “If they do breed, that is.”
“I’ve always thought it a great shame your union wasn’t blessed with children,” Guttridge said impassively.
“Yes, well, it wasn’t. Now this Savonnerie carpet should go, shouldn’t it? I’ll spill things on it.”
Guttridge folded her arms and contemplated my future workroom, lips pursed. “There’s some old Indian rugs in the attic, in a pretty sort of blue. If we used gray distemper on the walls and maybe painted the cupboards and things dark blue, the whole would look quite nice.”
“It would.” I was pleased Guttridge was taking such an interest in my workroom. It was amusing to have someone to plan with. “Guttridge, do you think I’m entering my second childhood? Lady Broadmere seems to think so.”
Guttridge looked arch. “Ladies must have their occupations, my lady. I hear the dowager countess was a great deal of help in the county with her remedies.” She waved an arm, indicating a corner of the room. “A couple of Morris chairs would look well in that corner. You can write to Morris & Company to order them.”
“You’re enjoying this. And there I was thinking that all you ever wanted to do was look after my clothes.”
The shrug Guttridge was unable to hide was expressive. “There’s not much to do with you in mourning, my lady. I won’t be sorry when we’re able to entertain again.”
“Entertain! That’s what I wanted to talk to Mrs. Eason about. We should settle on a day for our family dinner.”
“How about the twentieth? Mrs. Eason was saying she was hoping we’d have a Christmas tree this year, even with Sir Justin gone. She can get one brought in the Saturday before. She’s already had Mary dust those fancy glass ornaments Sir Justin liked.”
“Christmas.” A strange, yearning feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. This would be my first Christmas without Justin.
“Of course we must have a tree,” I said, dismissing my sadness. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Eason about it. The twentieth it is, then. We’ll have a tea and a puppet show for the children and then a late dinner after they’re all in bed. Mourning or not, I’m going to enjoy Christmas, just as Sir Justin would want me to do.”
14
Fortier returns
“Very nice, Baby. You have been busy.”
Blanche and I were standing in the middle of my workroom, now almost ready. Mama’s bottles and jars, gleaming softly in the gaslight I’d had instal
led, were lined up on the cupboard shelves. Her paraffin stove stood near the fire, the large copper kettle on top cleaner and brighter than I’d ever seen it.
“Are you actually making anything?” Blanche surveyed a line of beakers and retorts, all perfectly clean.
“We’re almost ready to start making things,” I said. “Of course it’s winter, and I don’t have many herbs yet. I’ve been preparing some ingredients for later use.” I bent to open the door of a low tin cupboard that sat on the other side of the fireplace from the paraffin stove. “See? This little cupboard is for drying things, don’t you remember?”
Blanche sniffed. “As if you think I ever concerned myself with Mama’s hobby. Needlework would have been much more dignified.”
“Mama was probably just as bad at embroidery as I am.” I pulled out a shelf from the drying cupboard. “Smell these.” I sniffed appreciatively at the slices of ginger root and orange peel. “I found a recipe of Mama’s for sore throats, the one I always liked because it had lots of honey in it. I thought she made it that way because it tasted nice, but according to her journals the antiseptic properties of honey—”
“Are you really spending all that time and energy just to doctor your household’s sore throats? Littleberry has an apothecary, does it not? And any cottage dweller can brew up a tisane from her garden.”
Blanche’s brow contracted under her mass of flaxen hair as she gazed at the drying ingredients. A small diamond tiara perched atop her coiffure sent back the light in dazzling little flashes. I had been pleased when, during the family dinner, she’d expressed an interest in seeing my workroom, but I should have known her purpose was to criticize, not to encourage. Her next words confirmed her motive.
“It must be nice to have so much money that you can fritter it away on a hobby.”
I sighed. The money other people had—and spent—was one of Blanche’s favorite topics. With my large house and comfortable income and with my husband no longer present to protect me, she was becoming ever more acidic in her remarks. As she stayed at Whitcombe nearly every time she came to see the family and considered the room known as Early July—Whitcombe’s twenty-four bedrooms were named after the months, a quirk of Justin’s father’s—to be almost hers by right, she was biting the hand that fed. But to point that out would have been ungracious. I kept my voice even as I replied.