by Jane Steen
I heard them all say, “Amen,” and then the light of the lanterns went in three separate directions. One stayed by the grave as the two men with shovels began vigorously throwing earth on top of the coffin. By the hollow sound of the wood, it was a very plain one. Another light departed in the direction of the chapels, and with it the white surplice of the priest and a solid knot of black-clad men.
The third light came straight toward me. I couldn’t run—what would be the point? I couldn’t see where I was running, and they could see me.
It was Ned and Fortier, of course. They were moving casually, no doubt in order not to alert the others, but they moved with purpose and were soon close enough to see who I was.
“I told you I saw somebody.” Ned spoke in an undertone. “Helena, for heaven’s sake. What kind of insane behavior is this?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said defensively. “I just—I don’t know. I didn’t want him to be buried with none of us there. If you’d just told me you intended to be present—”
“Are you all right, Lady Helena?” Fortier sounded concerned. “You must be frozen.”
I realized my teeth were chattering. “I’m a little chilled, but no harm done. I stepped into a rabbit hole—no, it’s quite all right; it’s not sprained or anything.” Fortier, who was carrying the lantern, had lowered it to the level of my feet.
“Home. Now.” Ned had swiftly unbuttoned his overcoat while Fortier and I had been talking and now dropped it over my shoulders. “If we stand here talking, some of the others might realize there’s something up. Fortier, lead the way.”
Our progress toward the cemetery entrance was complicated somewhat by the need to avoid running into the other group of men, who were saying good night to one another. The priest had shed his surplice and was climbing into a four-wheeled dogcart driven by a man swathed in a scarf that must have been ten feet long. He offered to take the other men home; the two churchwardens readily assented, while the third man explained that he was going down the hill to the King’s Head. It was Maggie’s husband, I was sure of it now.
“Don’t you have a carriage?” I asked Ned when the cart had gone.
“I didn’t think it necessary to make my driver wait, my dear. Fortier and I walked up from Littleberry together, and we’ll walk back. It’s a good night for a walk.”
“But now you’re going to insist on seeing me home, aren’t you?” I asked. “Won’t you at least stay the night at Whitcombe?”
“And make it obvious to everyone you’ve been out of the house?” Ned huffed into his beard. “We’ll see you in as quietly as you left. Through the conservatory, I’ll be bound.”
“How do you know?”
“That was how Justin and I got in.” I saw Ned grin. “Once not long after you were married—d’you remember that badger hunt old Fortescue got up? And then there was the time you were laid up with influenza.” He coughed. “On both occasions we’d had rather a lot to drink and thought we’d better not disturb anyone.”
“Hmph. So you’re bent on keeping the secret of my derring-do?”
I saw Fortier smile, and for a moment felt the coolness between us melt a little. He and Ned seemed to like each other, I’d noticed.
“Up to a point.”
Ned’s answer to my question made me look at him in surprise.
“Look, Helena, old girl.” Ned squeezed my arm, which was looped under his, more firmly against his side. “I love you dearly—almost like another daughter—and I’m most dreadfully sorry about Justin. But this,” he waved a hand around to encompass the night, the cemetery, even Fortier, “has to stop. People will talk. People are talking already. You’re dashed lucky you didn’t break a leg out there and die of exposure.”
I ground my teeth for a moment or two before replying.
“So what exactly are you going to do?”
“Nothing much. Just mention to Michael, in a general sort of way, that you might benefit from a more constant companion. A female companion.” He looked sideways at Fortier.
“A jailer?”
“A friend. You need a friend.”
20
An invitation
When Odelia arrived four days later, I strongly suspected Ned was behind her visit. She denied it outright.
“Town’s unbearable at times,” was all she said. “One’s friends have the most perverse way of deciding to leave just when one needs them. So I thought I’d come to see the most restful person I know.”
“Restful? Me?” If only O knew how very un-restful my life had been lately.
“Oh, believe me, compared to everyone I know you’re a haven of peace and quiet.”
“Why didn’t you come and see in the New Year with us if you’re so tired of London?” I asked. “You seem to like it one minute and hate it the next.”
“Oh, I was quite busy over the New Year. Parties and things. You know artists.”
“I don’t know artists at all. I know nothing about your life in London.”
“Maybe it’s about time you did. How’s the delectable Frenchman?”
“Fortier? Annoying. And I’d hardly call him delectable.”
“No? I’d like to paint him.” O narrowed her eyes as if Fortier were in the room and she were studying him for a portrait. “He has nice, clean lines. He’d look good as a medieval knight.”
“Like that dreadful engraving of the late Prince Consort? A medieval knight with side-whiskers?” I tossed my head. “If you like him so much, you have my permission to invite him to Scott House, where you can paint him at your leisure.”
“I don’t like him in that way. I hear he’s been at Whitcombe quite often of late.”
“I’ve had a sick servant. Susan Hatherall—you remember her, of course. Her father died.”
“By his own hand. I know. And you’re determined to make it up to her. Although why you should bother at all with that horrid girl is beyond me. And you and the Frenchman actually found Farmer Hatherall hanging in his kitchen—positively gruesome. Although, if you’re as hardhearted about it as Gerry says, could you give me some details? Not for me. I have a friend who’s rather daring with what he paints—and we’ve all heard that Claude Monet painted his wife on her deathbed.” She made a face. “I don’t like this new vogue for half-finished paintings, do you?”
“Has the whole family been talking about me?” I refused to be drawn into a discussion about painting, about which I knew very little.
“They have, rather. The impression is that you’re going a little off the rails.” O studied the bright jewels in her rings critically. “Nervous exhaustion, perhaps. Maybe you’ve had too much excitement—for a restful person. Come to think of it, why don’t you come up to Town with me—stay for a while?”
The invitation was so uncharacteristic, and delivered with so much studied casualness, that I stopped short and stared at O, suspicion growing in my breast. “You’ve never invited me to stay at Scott House. The only time I see the inside of the place is when Julia is there with Michael, and that doesn’t happen often. Have the family put you up to this?” I was beginning to imagine the flurry of letters that might have been passing to and fro behind my back.
“Put me up to what?” O did her best to look innocent, but she had entirely the wrong sort of face for the endeavor.
“Getting me away from Sussex. Did Michael summon you down here, then, if it wasn’t Ned? Oh, he did.” O was definitely avoiding my eyes. “What’s your side of the bargain? I can’t imagine Michael can afford to increase your allowance.”
O looked decidedly shifty. “I owe Michael a favor,” she said, “and I can’t help how he called it in. He won’t give me the details, but apparently he—and others—feel a trip to Town would be a nice change for you. The company of . . . well, of different people.”
I could definitely detect Ned somewhere behind this. “Won’t Michael need to stay at Scott House himself when the parliamentary session opens?”
“Oh, that’s not u
ntil February. And most of the time he stays at his club. He says it’s cheaper.”
A thought struck me. “I hope Michael’s not thinking of sending a string of potential husbands along. Is that what you meant by ‘different people’?” I studied my sister’s face. “O, you can’t be serious. I’ve been a widow for just over two months.”
O held up her hands in a placatory gesture. “Obviously, there won’t be any actual wooing involved. But apparently several London acquaintances have written to Michael that they’d like to communicate their condolences in person.”
“Vultures.” I stamped my foot. “Men who espy a fortune. Hags of mothers and sisters who’d like nothing better than to winkle their way into my confidence with a view to making an introduction at an opportune moment.”
“What a dim view you take of London society. All you have to do is say no.” O smiled, a little secretively. “As I do.”
“Haven’t you ever wanted to marry?”
My sister shrugged. “All the ones I like are taken. Baby, do come to London. Please do. It’ll be tremendous fun, and it’ll arrange things nicely between me and Michael into the bargain. It’s positively an act of charity.”
“But what about my workroom?” I asked. “My herbalism studies?”
“Surely, you’re not going to turn a hobby into a reason for never leaving Littleberry. That’s what Mama always did, and you know how it infuriated Papa.”
“I don’t know anything of the kind. And there’s Susan; she’s not well—”
O rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake. Whitcombe will run itself perfectly well without you. Your Mrs. Eason’s quite the treasure. Susan will survive your absence, and she can complete any little tasks for the workroom that can’t wait until your return. And I’ll get you a reader’s ticket for the Museum Library—how about that? You can positively wallow in musty old books about herbs. You can become the most complete bluestocking, and then no man of sense will want to marry you anyway.”
I heard Blanche’s voice in that last sentence—well, it was inevitable that she’d have written her opinions of me to O.
“I don’t know.” I was beginning to waver a little. My nerves were a bit frayed after all.
“And winter in Littleberry is so dull unless you can dine at other people’s homes several times a week.” O slipped her arm through mine. “Not at all suited to a widow’s seclusion. In Town, you can bend the rules a little. You’re not known the way you are here, with everybody gossiping about your every move. And it’s easier to get about when the weather’s bad. Here it’ll rain and blow sou’westers endlessly, as it always does, and you’ll hardly be able to ride at all.”
She was right about that. With Justin, winters had been different—friends to dine with and long, delightful evenings together by a bright fire.
“I suppose Guttridge would like a change of scene.”
“There you are, then. And from her vowels, I’d say she was London-born; although she speaks well, I’ll give her that.”
“But what about Dene Farm? I need to find a tenant.”
“Talk to Michael.”
“I’ll think about it, O. And that’s all you’re getting from me for the moment.”
“How is Mama?” Michael’s harsh voice came from directly behind me and made me jump. As I often did, I’d dropped in on Mama before proceeding to my business at Hyrst, which was Michael.
“Difficult, and I wish you wouldn’t creep up behind me like that.”
“I don’t creep. You wander around with your head in the clouds.”
I led the way into Hyrst’s library, which was far shabbier and mustier than either of Whitcombe’s but just as welcoming. I had warm memories of sitting on Papa’s knee in his great leather armchair while Mama bustled in and out issuing brisk instructions to the servants. She would pause a moment to drop a kiss on my head and then on Michael’s—in my memories he was always sitting on the rug, paying no attention to anything except what was going on in his own head. If he wasn’t screaming, that is.
I smiled at my memories as I crossed the room. How fond my parents had been of one another. I remembered Papa saying, “Your Mama is a wonder, isn’t she, Baby? No woman can match her.”
“Many have tried,” said the Mama of that particular memory. Papa had laughed, but the expression on Mama’s face had not been jocular.
I dropped into Papa’s chair, noting with displeasure that there was a crack in the leather over the curve of the chair’s broad arm.
“If I seemed preoccupied,” I said pointedly to Michael, “it was due to concern for Mama. If you visited her more often, you’d understand why. The long nights seem to be having a bad effect on her this winter. She’s been crying a great deal and telling Belming she doesn’t want to stay in this house anymore.”
I was gratified to see Michael look surprised. “Where does she want to go?”
“That’s just the thing—if you ask her that, she starts talking about her bedroom in the house where she grew up and insisting she could go there. It’s no use telling her the house passed into new ownership thirty years ago. It’s as if she longs for the time when she was a girl, before she married—before any of us existed. And she’s being difficult about food.”
“Why? It’s always the same five dishes.” Michael looked wistful—he, too, would be content eating the same dishes in a predictable rotation. “If she wants to change them, Belming only has to tell Inchkin or Cook.”
“It’s not that. She keeps insisting the food’s been poisoned. Belming has to go through a whole rigmarole of tasting each dish and saying how delicious it is. Like with a little child.”
“I would go to her rooms more often if she didn’t behave like that.” Michael looked uneasy. He saw eating as a necessity rather than an enjoyment and was a little squeamish about food. He settled himself more firmly into his armchair and fixed me with a stare, clearly dismissing the subject of Mama from his mind.
“Have you come to discuss going to London? I suppose Odelia’s had time to talk to you.” He looked hopeful.
“She couldn’t wait. Whatever it is she owes you or you’ve promised to do for her must be significant.”
I would almost have preferred it if Michael had looked smug, which was what most men would have done. But his handsome countenance remained impassive, only altering as he looked toward the open doorway.
“Ah, Brandrick. Anticipating my wishes, as always. Lady Helena is going up to London for a few weeks—”
“—I didn’t say that,” I interrupted.
“—is going up to London for a few weeks, if she has any sense at all.” Michael’s voice drowned out my words. “It is my strongest recommendation as the head of the family—”
“—if you try to bully me, Michael, I’ll simply leave.”
“But people are talking about you.” Michael used the slow speech one might adopt when talking to a backward child.
“What people?”
“People who count. Your behavior has become most eccentric. Insisting on staying after you and the French physician found Hatherall hanging by the neck—”
“Do we have to discuss this in front of Brandrick?” I asked coolly. “The man was my tenant. I felt a sense of obligation.”
“Do you think you have an obligation to keep his daughter too?”
“In a sense, yes.”
“Ask Brandrick what people in Littleberry have been saying about that.”
“Well?” I fixed Brandrick with a cold stare, which seemed to bother him not one whit.
“The common people have what you might call a talent for invention, m’lady.” His tone was pleasant and even. “They don’t like the Hatherall girl being singled out for special treatment when she should, as a matter of customary practice, be sent to the workhouse. They’re drawing the worst kind of conclusions.”
I didn’t want to ask what those conclusions were. “I have not singled her out for special treatment,” I said to Michael rather th
an to Brandrick. “Don’t forget she has a longstanding connection with this family.”
“Connection!” Michael barked. “She wormed her way into Mama’s affections for a few years. She’s a slut.”
I was shocked by Michael’s use of the word. “Her father was a good and respectable man who served Justin and the town of Littleberry well for nigh on twenty years. I’m sorry, Michael, but my decision in this matter is final. Susan stays. Why should we care what Littleberry thinks?”
Brandrick coughed. “The opinion of the townspeople carries more weight than it used to, m’lady. The middle classes have far more wealth and power than they did fifty years ago—and a stricter view of morality. Your actions could be misinterpreted.”
I was starting to feel I was losing the argument. Those of us who lived in the great houses of the county were the objects of intense interest—and occasionally a species of malice that would spring up even among those who professed to admire and like us. I was aware that there were many in the country calling for our hereditary powers to be reduced and our wealth to be more heavily taxed. It was time to sacrifice a pawn or two in this conversational game of chess.
“If I agree to go to London for a while,” I said as calmly as I could, “I would like your undertaking that Susan will not be sent away in my absence.”
Michael leaned back in his chair, and I saw Brandrick’s gaze sharpen. A minute glance passed between them.
“And what of Dene Farm, m’lady?” Brandrick asked. “There’s the matter of the tenancy to be settled.”
I sighed. “I have the distinct feeling that a proposed solution is looming on the horizon.”
“It’s always the same solution.” Michael’s jaw tightened as he watched me run a finger over the crack in Papa’s chair. Other people’s fidgeting always irritated him. “Logically, it would be in your best interest to run your farmland alongside mine.”
“We could put the flocks and grazing land together, m’lady,” Brandrick said. “Expand a little, if you’re willing to make the investment. The whole thing could be run more efficiently on a larger scale. We could move Farmer Geddings out of that house on the marsh—it’s got terrible rising damp, and I think it should be torn down and a new one built. That way you’d have a really solid man looking after the Whitcombe end of things, and we could get a much better rent for a better house at Marsh Farm. If you like, m’lady, I’ll bring round my accounts ledger and explain how it could be done.”