by Jane Steen
“We can go through the list together,” I said, feeling a rush of relief at the thought I could actually help someone.
“I’ll write down some instructions for you and give you something for her fever.” Fortier returned his stethoscope to his bag. “The nurse will administer the tisanes. I’d rather you don’t come into intimate contact with her until I’m quite sure there is no rash or chancre. Now let’s look at that workroom of yours.” He grinned. “According to my sister, your eccentricities are being much discussed in Littleberry.”
It took us a few minutes to ensure a message was dispatched to the nurse. By the time we’d finished, Guttridge had joined us, hovering in the background like a guardian angel as Fortier inspected the workroom. He praised some arrangements and made a few practical suggestions. He then asked for a sheet of paper and wrote down a list of ingredients.
“None of these will harm Susan or the baby, so you can experiment with proportions at your leisure and taste the tisane yourself. Try to come up with a light tisane, sweetened with just a little honey, and see the nurse gets Susan to sip it as often as possible. When it begins working, her urine will be of a light color and plenteous.”
I nodded, pleased that Fortier was taking my willingness to help so seriously.
“And this is powdered willow bark.” He produced a white packet. “The proportions for preparation and the dosage are written on the paper. Don’t give her any more than it says here.”
“I’ll make that while you prepare the other potion,” said Guttridge, coming forward and holding out her hand.
“When do you think she will emerge from her delirium?” I asked.
Fortier shook his head. “The acute phase of the fever may last for a while yet. I don’t think she’s in any mortal danger, but you must be prepared—a fever is always risky. She could lose the child or her own life.”
“I see.” We all knew the danger of any kind of fever or infection. Papa’s death had followed just days after he’d begun to recover from a bout of pleurisy. The general consensus of the medical men had been that the infection had weakened his heart.
Fortier smiled reassuringly. “She’s young. She may take days to recover though. I’ll come back and see her often, but good and careful nursing is what she really needs. Her father should be told.”
“I’ll write a note to Sir Edward immediately.” I picked up my pen and dipped the nib in the inkpot. “He sent word to me this morning that he’s planning to go see the farmer at lunchtime.”
“In the course of his mayoral duties?” Fortier looked surprised.
“He’s a good mayor because he really cares about people. It bothers him that Farmer Hatherall is so very upset about Susan. Sir Edward heard from the rector that he broke down again, during a meeting between the two of them this time. The rector’s done what he can to comfort the poor man, but apparently he’s quite inconsolable—all the more now that he’s lost his position as churchwarden. Ned said he must feel as if the world’s coming to an end. He—Ned, I mean—feels that Farmer Hatherall needs to hear from a man in a position of authority that it’s not. Ned’s heard more stories of disgrace and recovery than he can count.”
“I can understand his sense of disgrace.” Fortier watched as I crossed to the bellpull. “The common people are good at closing ranks and keeping quiet about any kind of trouble, and the gentry can send a girl abroad for a while to avoid a scandal. It’s those who are desperate to be respectable, climb the ladder, as you might say, who panic and fear they’ll never be able to hold their heads up again.”
“Please have this sent to Sir Edward’s offices immediately.” I handed the folded piece of paper to the footman who’d answered the bell. “Sir Edward will know just how to speak to him,” I said to both Fortier and Guttridge. Despite Guttridge’s well-trained silence, Fortier’s words had earned a nod of approval from her, and I could see the light of interest in her eyes.
“Good.” Fortier picked up his bag. “I’ll come back this afternoon to see how Susan does. If she should happen to be much worse, I’ll ride past Dene Farm on my way back to Littleberry and let the farmer know. Perhaps this illness will make him feel more charitably toward his daughter.”
“You’re very good, considering the trouble she’s caused you.”
He shrugged. “I’ve learned one can survive much, and I am not one of the seekers of respectability I referred to. Lady Helena,” he bowed briefly over my hand, “I look forward to seeing you this afternoon.”
Guttridge waited until Fortier had left before speaking. “Perceptive, isn’t he? I don’t know many gentlemen who understand the lower orders so well.”
“Do I detect a little warming toward Monsieur Fortier, Guttridge?”
“Oh no, my lady.” Guttridge held up the beaker she was using, ensuring that the powder was properly dissolved. “He’s still an interfering Frenchman. But fair in his opinions, I’ll say that for him.”
I heard the result of Ned’s visit firsthand, as it happened. Guttridge disappeared upstairs to deliver the febrifuge and lay out my evening dress, and I decided to work on some of the recipes Fortier had given me. We had enough ingredients for me to begin, and I sent to the apothecary for the rest. The ginger root I’d had drying in the tin cupboard was sufficiently desiccated to use, and by the time the hall boy returned with the licorice root and lemon leaf, I had carefully ground some of the other ingredients in Mama’s brass spice grinder, put them in jars, and labeled them. At the same time, I put some larger pieces of spice into a pot of water to boil slowly on the paraffin stove. I wasn’t sure whether whole spices or ground would be most efficacious.
I had my luncheon delivered to the workroom on a tray and picked at it while I worked. I rather enjoyed the informality of this arrangement. I worked slowly, of course, due to my inexperience and the fact that I didn’t have Susan to help me, but by two o’clock I felt I’d made real progress. I was able to deliver a large pot of fairly pleasant-tasting tisane to the hired nurse who’d come to replace Mrs. Eason.
Susan was no better—if anything, I thought she looked worse. This was all the motivation I needed to work harder. The spice grinder had to be dismantled, carefully washed, and dried before each new ingredient was ground. I realized I probably needed some kind of scullery next to my workroom, as going down to the stillroom disrupted the servants’ work.
I’d been furiously scribbling in my notebook, noting down the proportions I’d used and sketching a plan for a scullery in one corner, when I realized someone else was in the room.
“My dear.”
I looked up to see Ned smiling at me.
“I’ve said hello twice.” He still wore his coat. From the mud on his shoes, I surmised he’d walked to Whitcombe rather than bother with a carriage.
“I’m so sorry, Ned. How rude of me.”
I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, enjoying the mingled scents of cologne and the outdoors that clung around him.
“Susan is still very poorly, and I’m trying to follow Monsieur Fortier’s recipes for tisanes that will help her. I’m expecting Fortier at any moment, in fact. Did you get a chance to see Farmer Hatherall?”
“I did.” He unbuttoned his coat but didn’t shed it. “I’m glad I got your note—it arrived just as I was leaving. I thought I’d call on you before I did anything else. It’s on my way since I have to go to the workhouse about a matter of more room needed for burials. Then I’m due to talk to one of the brickyard owners, then I have to go to the police station to chat about a case of theft. A mayor’s life isn’t all ceremony, you know.” He eyed the cold chicken and buttered bread left on my tray, and his stomach gave an audible growl. “Is that . . .”
“Of course you can have it. I’ll ring for more, if you like.”
“Not at all, my dear. This will keep body and soul together for the moment, and they always give me cake at the workhouse.” He took large bites and talked with his mouth full. “I’m sure most people think I attend
banquets every day, wearing my golden chain. If only they knew.”
It took Ned about three minutes to dispose of what was left on my tray. “Now then,” he said, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, “to our business. I told Hatherall his daughter was ill, as you asked, but he says he won’t come to see her. He was very difficult to talk to, if I’m being honest. More angry than upset, and he’s directing some of that anger at you. Says Susan should have stayed at home with him and not flaunt her belly in a big house where there’s impressionable young men and women. I suspect that if you weren’t the lady of the manor, he’d drag Susan home.”
“I didn’t mean to cause a rift between them,” I said, surprised. “Susan said she’d talked with her father and he’d agreed to the change.”
“He might have done, at that. He didn’t say what he thought as directly as I’ve relayed it to you—I’m translating the gist of it. He’s a clever man, that one. Talked around and around his true thoughts like a Member of Parliament, and if I asked him a question, I never got a straight answer. Made me think of Shakespeare: ‘Meet it is I set it down that one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.’ He’s wasted as a farmer.”
I frowned. “He seemed simple and direct enough to me.”
“I always thought he was. But it was as if he’d discarded the persona of the humble churchwarden and honest tenant farmer and clothed himself in a more prickly skin. We went into his study—have you seen it?”
“I’ve never been anywhere but the parlor.”
“Crammed with books on self-improvement, with Samuel Smiles’s Self Help given pride of place. A copy of Debrett’s too, well-thumbed.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I wonder if he encouraged Susan to go to Hyrst as a little girl, then. But how can he be both angry at me and so eager to get on? Usually, people either want to toady up to us or they reject us utterly and let the world know we should all be put to the guillotine like the French aristos.” I shivered.
“Perhaps it’s ambition that’s at the root of his behavior,” Ned suggested. “Resenting you for not helping him hide Susan’s disgrace?”
I sighed. “Justin thought so highly of him. He would have known the key to the conundrum. He spent countless hours with Hatherall and must know—must have known the man better than anyone else except his daughter.”
Ned was buttoning up his coat again. “I wonder—do we ever really know other people? Even those you see daily can have hidden lives. Not that I think Hatherall is running a house of ill repute on the sly or anything like that. I mean his inner life. Are you going to spend the rest of the day making potions?” He planted a farewell kiss, tickly with beard and mustache, on my cheek.
I rolled my shoulder blades against the cut of my bodice to ease my back as much as I could. “Only until Monsieur Fortier has been and gone. I’d really like a walk or even a ride. I’ve been working hard today.”
Fortier turned up about twenty minutes after Ned had left and by my instructions was shown straight upstairs to the servants’ bedrooms. By the time I made my way upstairs, he was packing his bag.
“I don’t have any encouraging news,” he said when he saw me. “She’s in an utter stupor. Did Sir Edward speak with her father?”
“Yes. He didn’t want to visit her here.”
Fortier frowned. “That’s unfortunate. I wish he would. I suppose I will ride by the farm, then.”
“Can you wait a few minutes?” I glanced out of the window, where the sun was already quite low. It was the shortest day of the year. “I’m quite desperate to get outdoors. It’ll only take me five minutes to get into my riding habit. I’ve already sent word to Mank that he should have the horses ready. I can see you’re on horseback.” Fortier was indeed dressed in his everyday riding clothes, looking for all the world as if he’d never left Littleberry.
“Of course I’ll wait. Do you mean you wish to call on Farmer Hatherall as well?”
“Not exactly call. Ned said his behavior was rather odd. Riding down to the farm will kill two birds with one stone. I’ll get some fresh air, and I’ll lend your visit a little more weight by my presence. I agree with you—he should come to see his daughter.”
Fifteen minutes later I was in the stable yard, Mank assisting me into the saddle while Fortier swung himself up onto his huge black horse. The air was tinged with frost yet damp with approaching nightfall, the sun slanting low and bathing everything in golden light. I breathed deep; after the work of the day, the ride would set me up marvelously well for dinner and a good night’s sleep. If only I didn’t have a sick servant to worry about, I might be able to enjoy such a day despite the grief of Justin’s absence.
We picked our way carefully downhill, but once we reached the river path we urged our horses into a fast trot. Given that our ride would be short, Mank didn’t ask to gallop Puck, so the gelding was inclined to frisk about. Sandy’s gait was smooth and steady, her ears pricked well forward.
We passed Ruby on the way and slowed to speak to her. She carried a small basket, which she uncovered to show four jars covered in squares of bright fabric.
“For the rector,” she said. “The master asked me to take three jars over as a sign he don’t hold nothing against him for losing his place as churchwarden. How’s Miss Susan?”
“She has a nasty fever,” I said. “Didn’t Mr. Hatherall say anything about her?”
Ruby shook her head. “I’m sorry to hear that. No, he just said to take the raspberry jam to the rector and wish him well, then stop at my sister Sally’s for the night. The fourth jar’s for her.”
I looked at Fortier and shook my head sadly. What kind of father wouldn’t come to see his sick child? But I didn’t want to labor the point with Ruby, who was clearly in a cheerful mood at the prospect of spending time with her sister.
“So your master’s in?” Fortier asked her.
“He was when I left.” Ruby’s carefree smile brightened her face again as she moved off.
Dene Farm was soon visible, its red brick lit invitingly by the golden rays of the fast-declining sun. A wisp of smoke drifted up from its tall chimney stack. Even so near Christmas there were one or two roses on the vine that clambered over the porch, their petals withered but still bright. Behind the farmhouse, the slope of Whitcombe Hill was bright green and fresh-looking, dotted with the silently munching shapes of ewes.
We dismounted, leaving the horses with Mank. Fortier rang the heavy bell by the front door.
“He may forget he has to answer his own bell,” said Fortier after we’d waited in silence for two minutes.
“Or he could be out in the fields taking one last look at the sheep. It’s the sort of thing Justin always did.”
Fortier reached for the door handle, which turned easily. “Unless he’s hiding somewhere, hoping we’ll go away.” He grinned briefly. “Come along.”
Used as I was to the ceremonial of being admitted by servants, it was strange to simply step over someone’s threshold. Fortier seemed quite at home. No doubt he was accustomed to visiting the houses of sick people who didn’t have servants and probably often let himself in.
“If he’s anywhere, I imagine he’ll be in the kitchen. I saw no lights upstairs.” Fortier moved easily through the darkened hallway toward a door at the rear, under which a strip of glowing light showed clearly. It took him a moment to locate the handle, almost invisible in the gloom.
“Hatherall?” he called as he stepped inside the room. “Hath—”
He backed out so quickly he trod on my toes.
“Fils de putain!”
He whirled around and steadied me as I danced on one foot.
“You can’t go in there.”
“Why not? Ow.” I put the throbbing foot gingerly back on the ground. “What did you just say? It sounded very vulgar.”
“It was, and I apologize for swearing in front of a lady. Hatherall’s hanged himself.”
“What?”
I sniffed the air, which was redolent o
f something stronger than cooking.
“What’s that smell?”
Fortier sighed. “He voided his bowels at the point of death. Hanged men generally do.”
“Oh, heavens.” I put a hand to my nose. “So you’re quite sure he’s dead?” The reality of what lay beyond the door was beginning to impinge on my senses, and I felt cold and dizzy.
“Very sure. The room is well lit.” He gave me a little push in the direction of the front door. “Can you go find your groom and tell him to ride for help? Or you could undertake the ride if you don’t mind going alone—head for the bridge. I need assistance getting him down and another witness that I found him hanging.”
“Oh no.” I faced him squarely; he was in shadow, the light from the kitchen outlining him and gleaming on his dark hair. “I’m going to witness this death and make sure nobody can make any more wild accusations against you. They won’t question my word.”
“But it’s unsightly. It’s unfit for a lady’s eyes.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” I pushed past Fortier before he thought to stop me—and before I had a chance to change my mind.
It was indeed unsightly—ghastly might be a better word—but I was forewarned. After the initial, heart-pounding shock of seeing him I was able to look at the swollen black tongue and protruding bloodshot eyes with surprising detachment. The farmer had hanged himself from a stout hook driven well into a beam near the fireplace, its original purpose amply suggested by the huge smoked ham placed carefully on the table. The ceiling was not terribly high; he’d used a very short length of fairly thin rope, and his feet dangled perhaps a mere twelve inches off the floor. This meant the gruesome face wasn’t so very far above me, and the distasteful aspects Fortier warned me about were all too near my nose. I removed myself to the other side of the room, feeling sick.
“What do you think he was standing on?” I asked faintly.
“That.” Fortier indicated a stool lying on its side by the dresser. “He probably kicked it all the way over there as he flailed about.” His face was solemn. “He may even have been trying to find his footing. He wouldn’t be the first suicide to have regrets.”