by Jane Steen
“How awful.” I looked around the room, recovering myself now that I wasn’t looking directly at Hatherall. “Shouldn’t we look for a—a note or something? Aren’t suicides supposed to leave a note?”
“In novels.” Fortier raised his eyebrows and slipped his hand under my elbow. “Come now, Lady Helena. Let’s prove my complete innocence by finding your groom and sending him to raise the alarm. I suppose I’d better leave him up there after all; he’s very definitely dead.”
16
In the doves’ nest
“In the circumstances, I’m truly not expecting anyone to worry about providing for my comforts,” I said.
I watched as Fortier replaced the glass chimney on the lamp he’d just lit. He’d brought me into the Hatheralls’ parlor, cold and cheerless now. Cold indeed—it was, after all, December, and the sun had sunk below the horizon. I shivered.
“You need a fire.” Fortier moved swiftly toward the fireplace. It had been laid with fresh kindling atop a few crumpled pieces of paper, with larger logs ready on the hearth. But before he could light the fire, a disturbance at the front door heralded the return of Mank, and he had someone with him.
“Never mind that.” I flapped a hand at Fortier. “I’m warmly dressed, and I daresay I can start a fire myself if need be. Let’s see who’s come.”
Providentially, the new arrival turned out to be one of the borough constables. He removed his regulation helmet with a respectful “m’lady” and eyed Fortier, whom he evidently knew, with a wary stare before making his way to the kitchen. Fortier followed. When they returned a few minutes later, the constable looking somewhat green in the face, we embarked upon a brief conference during which I made it crystal clear that Fortier and I had found Hatherall’s body together.
During this time, poor Mank had ridden back in the direction of Littleberry. He soon returned to report that he had reached the nearest public house this time and that several Littleberry men were on their way to lend assistance. He looked chilled to the bone and swayed slightly as he spoke to us.
“You’d oblige me by taking the horses back to Whitcombe.” I spoke as crisply as possible to disguise my concern for my groom. “Monsieur Fortier’s horse, too, if you can manage it. Do you mind if we stable your animal for the night?” I turned to the Frenchman. “It’s not good for them to stay out in the cold much longer.”
“I don’t mind at all.” Fortier blew into his hands to warm them. “It’s very good of you, Lady Helena.”
“Nonsense. Mank, see you get something hot to eat while the stablehands look to the horses. I’d appreciate it if you could return for me later on foot. We can take the short cut up the hill and not bother with the carriage.”
“You’re not staying, m’lady?” The constable, whose name escaped me, looked as disapproving as he could manage.
I stiffened my back and gave the man a good, hard stare. “I will remain until Mr. Hatherall is removed from the premises. He is my tenant.”
I watched the constable’s face as his thought processes clearly staged a battle between arguing with the aristocracy and allowing a woman to remain in the house. The arrival of a large group of men put an end to the discussion, and—since I was clearly not welcome anywhere near the scene of the tragedy—I retreated back into the parlor, leaving the door half-open. The sounds of the constable trying to gain control of the situation while Fortier insisted a search be made for a suicide note and the men all expressed varying degrees of dismay reverberated down the hallway as I stared around the room.
It really was cold. Well, lighting a fire wouldn’t be too difficult, particularly since Fortier had left a box of Flaming Fusees on the hearth. I was preparing to strike a match when something caught my eye.
It was my own name, written in dark blue ink on one of the crumpled pieces of paper on which the kindling lay. No doubt Ruby, or perhaps the farmer himself, had used the contents of the wastepaper basket for the fire; I had seen my own servants do as much.
I put the match carefully back in the box and removed the kindling that lay atop the paper waste. It didn’t seem right to read someone else’s private papers, but that person was dead, and it was, after all, my name. I flattened out the paper, which was of reasonably good quality, and carried it to the pool of light shed by the lamp.
After a moment’s consideration, I realized that what I had was two different drafts. On one side of the paper there were notes concerning spring lambing, marred by a huge blot where the writer’s pen had clearly failed. I guessed that the farmer had thriftily put the spoiled paper aside for future use; he had always struck me as a careful kind of man.
I turned the paper over, and the words “Lady Helena” jumped out at me. So it was about me. Seeing my own name in what I presumed was Hatherall’s writing gave me an odd feeling, but as I read on I could see nothing startling in the few lines of neat, slanting script.
* * *
My own dear daughter I cannot approve I cannot see why you understand fully understand why you forsake our own doves’ nest where you have been so happy. You are not Poor Susan [the next part was illegible, being heavily scratched out] you are not outcast and never will be. Lady Helena will have her whims and fancies as she is entitled to do being a lady and as it has always been thus with the family. The great house is not your place [another illegible passage] but your loving father waits ever for you in hope [here the writing ended, without punctuation.]
* * *
I returned to the fireplace, removing the rest of the kindling and inspecting the other pieces of paper carefully. There was nothing of any interest on them; nevertheless, I smoothed them out and tucked them into the pocket of my riding habit, reluctant to dispose of them until Fortier had seen them.
A noise in the hallway brought me to the half-open door. Four men were carrying in what looked like an old door. It seemed plain to me that their purpose was to transport Hatherall to wherever they had decided to take him. Was this how Justin had been taken to Fortier’s rooms at the pottery? I stepped into the hallway as soon as the men had passed my door.
At a shout from one of them, the kitchen door opened. I had a glimpse of a still, heavy form lying on the kitchen table before Fortier emerged and shut the door behind him.
“You’re freezing,” was what he said as soon as his eyes focused on me. I realized he was right. I hadn’t noticed till that moment that my teeth were chattering.
“I’m a-all right,” I forced out through a stiff jaw. “H-have they found any kind of note?”
“No, and we’ve had a fairly thorough look through all the rooms except the one you were in. Why didn’t you light the fire? You could have called me to help you.”
“I don’t need help lighting a fire.” It stung me that Fortier could think I was so helpless. “I found something. I don’t think it’s significant.”
I was sorry to quench the flame of excitement that had leapt, momentarily, into Fortier’s eyes, but the next second he had hold of my hands and was pulling me into the parlor again. The reason for his action was made amply clear by the noise and movement in the hallway as the men—complaining somewhat since the passage was not wide and they had difficulty maneuvering the door with its burden—carried the farmer out of the house.
“Now may I take you home?” Fortier asked. “The moment your groom arrives at least. I suppose the proprieties must be observed.”
“They must. Look at this.”
My hands were stiff with cold, but I managed to unfold the sheets of paper and hand them to Fortier. “Only the top one. The rest don’t seem to mean anything.”
Fortier was silent for a few moments, reading. He held the paper up to the light, clearly trying to see if he could make out the obliterated words, but I knew he’d have no more luck than me.
“‘Doves’ nest’ is somewhat poetic for a farmer,” Fortier said eventually. “Almost lover-like. But the rest—kind and fatherly, as we’d all certainly believed.”
Naturall
y, I seized on the most damning remark. “Lover-like? You’re not suggesting—Fortier, that’s disgusting. I refuse to believe it.”
“Hadn’t it occurred to you?” Fortier’s tone was dry.
“Of course it hadn’t. He’s—he was—our churchwarden, for heaven’s sake. Look at what’s he’s written—was trying to write—that he forgives his daughter and would welcome her home.” I wrinkled my brow for a moment as my own words stirred some memory, but the fleeting thought was immediately gone. “Those are the words of a good man, Fortier. And besides,” I added more practically, “even if your revolting theory were true, Susan would never admit to it.”
17
A shocking accusation
Our conversation had ended there, interrupted by Mank’s arrival. Twenty minutes later Fortier and I were walking slowly up Whitcombe Hill in the dark, Mank plodding ahead of us with a lantern. The night was the coldest we’d yet had. I could feel the slippery crunch of frosty grass under my feet and was glad for Justin’s old walking stick, which Mank had thought to bring back for me. There was no moon, but above us the thickly clustered stars served as a backdrop for the brighter constellations. Yelping cries in the dark line of trees to our left indicated the presence of foxes. Occasionally a short, sleepy bleat could be heard from the night-bound sheep.
Neither of us spoke much. We were both in a subdued mood and, in my case at least, very hungry.
In the end, it was I who broke the silence. “You’ll stay and eat some supper, I hope? It’s the least I can do.”
Fortier shook his head. “I wanted to see you home and look in on Susan, but after that I must get back to the body. They’re waiting for me at the pottery.”
“I’ll have sandwiches and coffee sent down for all of you.” And I would abandon formality and eat by the fire, then soak in a hot bath for a long time. At least the physical exertion of walking up the hill had brought some life back into my cold limbs.
“That’s kind. I’ve sent for Sir Edward.”
“Poor Ned. I expect he was looking forward to a quiet evening after such a busy day.”
I saw the gleam of teeth as Fortier smiled. “I expect he was. So was I.”
“Poor you too, then.”
“I’m used to it. I really will be most grateful for the food and coffee.”
We walked on in silence for a few moments. The hill was steep, and Fortier offered me his arm to keep me from slipping.
“You won’t say anything to Susan until she’s on the mend, will you?” he asked me. “If she survives . . . and perhaps it’s better if she doesn’t.”
I dragged my sluggish senses away from the contemplation of the feel of Fortier’s arm under the broadcloth of his jacket and focused my mind on what he’d just said.
“That’s a horrible thing to say. Is it because of what you think?” I let go of Fortier’s arm momentarily but grabbed it again as my left foot slipped. I felt, rather than saw, Fortier staring at me.
“I don’t necessarily think it—call it a cynical notion if you will. I can hardly build a theory of incest on two words, so let’s leave it aside. But don’t you realize what Hatherall has done, whatever his motive? As a suicide, his estate is forfeit. His children will inherit nothing. Susan is destitute—a candidate for the workhouse—her only hope now is the charity of others.”
The truth of his words struck me like a physical blow. “Susan and her baby have a home at Whitcombe House as long as they need one,” I retorted. “As if I’d let one of our people go to the workhouse.”
But he was right; that was charity—the start of a lifelong dependence on the whims of others unless Susan could find a husband. Or unless my plan of providing her with training for the future succeeded.
Fortier’s words also had deeper implications, I realized. “This is going to be terrible for her, isn’t it?” I asked. “They won’t want to bury her father in the cemetery either. And him a churchwarden . . . Dear God, Fortier, I wish you hadn’t raised the possibility of . . . that. But if I refuse to believe it, and I do, why would a respectable man like Farmer Hatherall take his own life? Why commit such a crime against God, his family, himself—and with no explanation?”
I felt Fortier shrug. “There are other plausible theories, of course. Despair over his daughter’s disgrace. Some knowledge, perhaps, of the father’s identity that made him afraid. Fear of the child’s paternity being betrayed by a physical resemblance. Or, at the most fundamental level, simple fear of the future.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. An ambitious man loses his patron; Hatherall must have been anxious about his future now that Sir Justin is gone. A man who lays great store by his respectability loses his standing in the community; he would never have been churchwarden again, that’s for sure. Your people may lose their money or their health or their possessions or their sanity, but they never lose what makes them fundamentally themselves—the name that ties them fast to a position in society. But for a working man, status is a fragile thing. It’s tied up with what you do—what you are seen to do every day. The workhouse or, less drastically, a slide into a life where you lose your comforts and must spend your old age struggling against poverty is a frightening abyss beneath your feet.”
We had mostly spoken in near-whispers, mindful of Mank’s presence, but Fortier’s voice strengthened on the last few sentences. I could have sworn I heard Mank grunt assent to those last words.
“He should have trusted me more,” I said loudly—for Mank’s benefit as much as for anything else. “I could have helped him. I’d never let any of my people suffer poverty in their old age.”
“Yes, I’ve no doubt you would want to help. But you may remarry.”
I bit my lip. I was not going to discuss my prospects with Fortier—I didn’t know him well enough for that. And I certainly wasn’t going to talk about them with Mank listening. But it seemed to me that his words hung in the frosty air like a threat, and I understood what he meant.
We reached the top of the hill, and the tall windows of Whitcombe House came into view, hidden till now by the slope of the land. I had a sudden picture of my house holding its breath, waiting to see what I would do next. For the day I put my hand into a man’s—out of love, out of loneliness, or simply to please my family—the property that had once been Justin’s and was now mine, and the lives of those who had worked for us, would pass into the keeping of my new husband. For a second, I understood what Fortier meant by fear of the future.
Fortier turned back when we reached Whitcombe. My first act when I walked into the warmth and brightness of my home was to order food and hot drinks to be sent down to the men working at Dene Farm and the pottery. I surmised from the subdued, wary faces of my servants that the news of Farmer Hatherall’s suicide, brought back no doubt by Mank with the horses, had been the evening’s main topic of discussion.
My second act was to open a missive from Gerry that was waiting for me on the silver tray in the hallway. She stated she’d persuaded Ned to go to bed early as he’d looked unwell and refused to awaken him—and she’d sent a note to Fortier to say as much. And did I really think Ned should turn out on such a cold night, suicide or not? And what was I doing dabbling in such unpleasant events, getting in the way of the men? “Really, Baby, I think Michael may have a point—you can’t be trusted on your own.” From which I deduced that the news of the suicide had flown to Littleberry just as quickly as it had climbed the hill to Whitcombe.
I trudged wearily up the servants’ stair to look in on Susan. I was relieved when the nurse informed me she’d drunk a reasonable amount of the tisane. But she was sunk in a deep slumber, her skin hot and dry, and clearly far from out of danger.
Only with these necessities completed did I allow myself to collapse into an armchair by the fire in the small library. I barely had the energy to touch the food brought to me. Guttridge had to rouse me from the doze into which I’d fallen to get me up to bed.
Susan was m
y first thought the next morning, and I visited her room before dressing. She was still sleeping, but her color was better. I reiterated my instructions to keep all news of her father’s suicide away from her and returned to my room wondering if Fortier would come by to see his patient and collect his horse.
An hour later I was dressed and seated at my desk in the morning room, trying to apply my mind to my correspondence. I should write a letter to Justin’s—now my—lawyer about Dene Farm. The tenancy had lapsed with Farmer Hatherall’s death; should I look for a new tenant farmer? What about the blessed sheep, Justin’s pride and joy? I knew Justin and Farmer Hatherall had employed shepherds, but I had a feeling that was casual labor. Somebody would have to look after the animals. Was I really going to have to give in to Michael and appoint the odious Brandrick? Much as I disliked him, I could think of nobody more knowledgeable or capable.
“What’s the most responsible action?” I asked myself out loud. “Does a well-regulated landowner take a personal interest in all matters pertaining to her land, even when she has neither competence nor inclination?” For in truth, my interest in my fields and streams, pathways and copses was mostly the enjoyment I took in riding around them.
I dipped the nib of my pen in the inkwell, watching a shiny black drop fall back into the liquid. “Or does she let her annoying, interfering, but quite possibly correct brother take over and have his nasty steward run her estate?” Another drop of ink fell. “Does not knowing the answer make her an empty-headed female not capable of looking after her land?”
A prickling behind my eyes heralded the fall of a drop that wasn’t ink, a salty warmth sliding down my cheek and tickling the sensitive skin of my chin. “Drat you, Justin, why did you have to die?”