by Jane Steen
“I refuse to believe our lives are in any way futile.” Having buttoned my bodice, Guttridge made a twirling gesture with her finger to indicate I should turn around, then nodded in satisfaction at my appearance. “We all have our place and our part to play. It’s not for us to question the Almighty if He decides to end our time on this earth by a slip or trip. It’s quick, at any rate. Better than getting so old and feeble there’s nowhere for you but the workhouse.”
“Good heavens, Guttridge,” I murmured. “It’s a good thing I have you here to put me right about everything.”
“Happy to oblige, my lady.” Guttridge’s expression didn’t alter. “Now will you be needing me for anything in particular this morning?”
“Probably not. I have letters to write, then there’s the herb garden. After that, I’ll probably read Mama’s journals until it’s time to visit her. I’m having luncheon with the dowager and Lady Broadmere.”
Guttridge nodded in approval. “The journals will cheer you up, my lady.”
“No doubt. I must write to Lady Odelia and tell her how prominently she figures in the latest one. I had no idea she was such a naughty child.”
“I’m sorry, Helena. I know you wanted to have luncheon in Mama-in-Law’s rooms, but I did warn you how much worse she is at the moment. You’ll have to make do with me.”
Julia rubbed carefully at the damp spot on her dark red velvet dress. Like the other women in the family—myself excluded, of course—she was now out of mourning. My sisters had decided that four months with no half mourning was sufficient. Blanche, despite her injunctions to me to observe the deepest mourning possible after the example of “the dear Queen,” had been particularly insistent that she could not afford six months of mourning and one month of half mourning. Besides, she’d claimed, purple was death to her complexion.
I settled myself in my seat at the small table laid for two in Hyrst’s library. “It is rather shocking to see one’s own mother spitting and drooling her food out of her mouth like a small child,” I said. “Poor Belming. She’s an absolute saint.”
“Your offer to pay for a night nurse has been a godsend.” Julia took her own seat. “And I’ve made sure one of the under-housemaids—Mary, that little one with the wen on her face—reports to Belming twice a day now that there’s so much more cleaning and laundry to do. I won’t risk Belming giving notice, and your Mama’s getting far too difficult for one woman to manage. I’m going to be much less useful myself once this little one arrives.”
She smoothed a hand over the curve that had become more apparent once she was seated. I suppressed the tiny pang of envy that shot through me.
“Now what were you telling me about Odelia and your mother’s journals?” Julia nodded at the footman to begin serving the luncheon.
“Ah yes. I wrote to O this morning.” I smiled my thanks at the footman who was pouring barley water into my glass. “I’m almost jealous. O seems to have engaged Mama’s attention more than any of her children, except possibly Gerry when she was very small. ‘Wayward, mischievous, highly intelligent, and consummately charming’ is how Mama describes her. She often notes how like Papa O was. And still is—she’s so much warmer than the others, isn’t she? Papa was like that. People were drawn to him.”
“If only Michael had a little of that particular trait.” Julia raised an eyebrow. “People are drawn to you too, Helena. You have an innate seriousness that never takes itself seriously, if you see what I mean, and you care about people. You’ve always been the most wonderful hostess, and you’re never a difficult guest. Talking of which, I hope you don’t mind barley water and scrambled eggs—you must feel you’re back in the nursery. I can’t seem to get enough of either.”
“I adore barley water and scrambled eggs.” I took a bite of the creamy yellow food, which in my case was augmented by a serving of kedgeree. Julia, I noted, took her eggs plain.
“See what I mean? Always a smile and never a complaint.” Julia attacked her own eggs with evident appetite.
“I bicker all the time with Michael,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but Michael is Michael. He may be named after a saint, but I’m sure all the saints bite their lips to avoid cursing when he gets up to his aggravating tricks.”
I laughed at that, and Julia smiled broadly. Dismissing the footman, she waited until the door shut behind him to continue the conversation.
“So you’re reading the journals to cheer you up? You do seem a little brighter lately.”
“Life seems more precious somehow after what happened.” I paused to drink some of the barley water. “Naturally, I’m reading Mama’s journals mainly for their instructive value. Yet there’s something irresistible about witnessing the time before I was born. After all, half my family’s history happened before Michael and I made an appearance. And this particular volume contains so much family life.” I knew I sounded a little wistful, and Julia clearly understood my tone of voice.
“Yes, your sisters got so much more out of your mother and father, so to speak. So you’ve got to where O was a tiny child? That means the twins and Blanche were still in the schoolroom. Gerry must have been a young lady making her debut.”
“Mama mentions the preparations for Gerry’s first Season. It seems the late ’40s were an especially happy time, with Papa home for long stretches. Not in Town and not at those house parties he clearly liked so much.”
“And your parents were in a state of domestic bliss?”
“So it would seem. Mama is far more concerned than before with entertaining. There are pages of notes about exciting ways to use herbs and spices in food. There’s a recipe for pear cake with rosemary syrup that I passed straight on to my own cook; you’ll have to come and sample it.”
“With pleasure.” Julia grinned—she and I shared a love of trying out new cake recipes.
“There are some hints Mama was facing opposition from the physicians of Littleberry over her doctoring,” I continued. “I wonder if that also contributed to her newfound interest in domestic affairs.”
Julia shrugged. “Knowing the dowager, I would have thought opposition would have made her more determined. At the very least, such antagonism would have been a sign she was becoming successful, wouldn’t it?”
“It must have been something fairly serious,” I laid my knife and fork carefully down on my now-empty plate and contemplated the scratched but gleaming silver with its family crest, “for people to have stood up to a countess.”
Julia snorted. “I know from bitter experience that the style and dignity of ‘countess’ doesn’t stop men from looking down on you as a little woman.”
I had several occasions to remember Julia’s words about being viewed as a little woman in the month that followed our luncheon. In the time left after dealing with correspondence, visits, household matters, supervising the confection of my herb garden, and taking exercise on Sandy, I worked doggedly at my herbal studies but often found myself sighing over the slow progress of my skills and knowledge. I had done nothing about hiring a new assistant, so I only had time for a limited number of tasks every day. It was surprising how much time each task took even with the new stillroom I’d had installed next to my workroom.
As March sobbed and gusted its way toward April, I occasionally found myself in a low mood. I fought it, of course. But left to my own feeble efforts amid the isolation of my widowhood, I felt small—which I was quite literally. I compared myself to Mama as she had been and found myself wanting.
My sister Blanche was particularly good at making me feel insignificant, so given my mood it was perhaps not the best of circumstances that she came to stay. She was at Whitcombe for the greater part of March and into April for one of her regular rounds of “seeing the family.” I chafed under Blanche’s critical gaze; her blue eyes were paler and colder than my other siblings’, and even Michael’s stony expression couldn’t beat Blanche for the degree of calculation with which she considered the world around her.
My favorite tactic for diverting Blanche from her outspoken contemplation of other people’s faults was to talk about her son.
“Have you heard from Dederick this week?” I asked now as we sat at tea together. “Heavens, it must be two years since I’ve seen him.”
Waiting for her to finish eating and reply, I suppressed a sigh as I glanced out of the window. It was a perfectly splendid early April day, and I was itching to ride out on Sandy. My occasional glumness had in part been due to the necessity of selling Puck. Justin’s horse, used to being ridden hard all day and every day, had become quite ungovernable despite Mank’s best efforts. But we had other horses in our stables, and Mank, I think, was rather relieved to ride out with me on a serviceable but dull gelding and not have to spend every outing galloping Puck in an attempt to tire him. Mank was getting on a bit, and exercising an overly fidgety horse was tiring for an older man.
“He’s quite well as far as I know.” Blanche closed her eyes in bliss as she popped another tiny cream-filled choux bun into her mouth. “I must say, Baby, your cook’s quite marvelous. My son is in Town, I believe—at least the last note I had from him was on his club’s paper. He seems to be keeping himself busy. Of course, His Royal Highness’s whims and wants absolutely rule Rawdon’s life.” She sighed, eyeing the cake stand in a clear struggle between her greed and her figure—she was tall but rather stout.
“Still,” she added, giving up the fight and selecting a cream-filled brandy snap, “he will certainly meet the right sort of woman moving in such exalted circles. At least he doesn’t seem interested in other people’s wives, which is such a complication for the dear Prince.” This cryptic statement was accompanied by a sly smile that clearly stated Blanche knew much more about royal goings-on than I did.
“Heavens.” I put down my teacup. “I should jolly well hope Deddy’s not interested in other people’s wives. Aren’t you a bit shocked he should be in such fast company? He’s only twenty-two.”
“What can one do?” Blanche’s strong white teeth crunched into the sweet confection. “He’s been his own master for four years, don’t forget. Once my darling Francis passed away, I couldn’t control Rawdon at all, even when he was up at Oxford. I certainly can’t control him now. He has far more money than I do, for one thing.”
I pressed my upper teeth into my tongue so I wouldn’t sigh or yawn. Blanche’s lack of money was her favorite subject, and I could see what was coming.
“You wouldn’t understand, Baby.” Blanche’s eyes took on the particularly calculating look that preceded an appeal for funds. At least that meant she was planning to go home soon. “You’re really quite wealthy, aren’t you? Such a fortunate girl.” She tilted her head to one side in what was supposed to be a winsome expression of sisterly love but instead resembled a tiger contemplating its prey.
“I suppose I am wealthy,” I replied as briefly as possible. “The sheep are certainly doing well under the new farmer Michael put in.”
“My dear Baby, I don’t need details of how you get your money. How vulgar sheep are.” Blanche’s smile slipped a little, but she went gamely on. “And of course you are so fortunate to own so many properties.”
I couldn’t argue with that, so I nodded.
“You don’t have to cut corners, I can see,” Blanche went on, looking around the room. “Your Mrs. Eason plainly has repairs done as soon as needed. I have rarely seen a better kept house, and, my dear, I have been a guest in the houses of the very greatest in the land. Whereas I, in such straitened circumstances, have to be positively calculating. My conversations with my housekeeper are about how we can hide what we can’t afford to renew.”
“Why don’t you move to a less expensive house?”
“The very idea. Don’t be ridiculous, Baby.”
This time I sighed out loud. “I don’t think it’s ridiculous to suggest you cut your coat according to your cloth.”
“Then you clearly have no notion of the style in which a marchioness should live.” Blanche softened the retort with another fetching smile. I could feel the weight of a forthcoming demand settle between us. “Clothes, for example. Coming out of mourning is so complicated when one is forced to make do and mend.”
I felt a momentary sense of relief. Given Blanche’s complaints about the state of her house, I’d been worried she was about to present me with a bill for a new roof.
“I can see how that must be,” I murmured, instantly ready for complete and utter capitulation in the matter of clothes. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you let me help since, in a sense, I’ve put you into this situation? Why don’t you ask your dressmaker to send me the bill for, say, three new outfits?”
I knew Blanche would stretch the point to include boots, hats, slippers, and probably a new fur-trimmed cape. Still, it would be a while before I was able to vary my own wardrobe, and I wasn’t entertaining much, so my expenses were very low. And I could easily afford it.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly.” But the gleam in Blanche’s eyes told me that yes, she could.
“Of course you could.” I smiled as brilliantly as I knew how. “After all, you represent our family at the highest levels of society.” She was almost never invited to anything really grand, but it didn’t do to let on I knew that. “It’s the least I can do after forcing you into mourning for four months.”
“Well, it has been challenging.” Blanche contrived to look grave. “I suppose I should accept for your sake, Baby. And for dear, dear Justin’s.”
“That’s the spirit.” I’d given in very quickly, of course, but at least Blanche would stop hinting now. I was quite sure she decided in advance of her visits on the monetary limit of her demands.
Once the kill had been made, there was only one more ritual to observe. I waited for her to launch into it.
“It must be nice to be so powerful.” Here it was. Blanche was about to find a way to make me feel entirely powerless, lest I should come to believe I could exert any influence over her in return for my generosity. Having demanded and received that generosity, she must now regain the upper hand. No wonder I struggled with feelings of worthlessness.
“Of course, Whitcombe House is going to be rather left out of everything in the county now that there’s no man in it.” Blanche looked pointedly at the teapot until I remembered to pour her another cup. “Rawdon may not spend an awful lot of time with his Mama, but he does give a certain cachet to my little establishment. I still receive floods of visitors, my dear. I find this house terribly quiet by comparison.”
“I have just as many visitors as I want, thank you, Blanche. And don’t forget I’m still in deep mourning.”
I didn’t mention that several of my regular visitors, hearing of Blanche’s presence, would delay their next visit until she was gone. Blanche’s little assertions of superiority and gripes about money tended to put people off.
“I feel sorry for you, Baby, stuck here alone in this huge house. And I’m sure the nasty business of a servant dying in your attic, awash in blood from what I’ve heard, is quite the social setback. You must be very careful to ensure there’s no more scandal of any kind attached to your name.” Blanche dabbed at her plump lips with her napkin before depositing the linen at the side of her plate. “Above all, no more visits from that nasty French physician. He’s caused you quite enough trouble.”
I felt the warmth rising to my face. “Monsieur Fortier is a perfectly respectable medical man. His sister is married to one of the town’s leading merchants.”
“A pottery owner.”
“A wealthy pottery owner. Money has to come from somewhere.”
“Well, for that sort of person it does.” Blanche, seeing me about to reply, rolled smoothly on. “In any case, he is a physician and thus belongs to the lower orders of society—not our kind at all.”
I pursed my lips, knowing I couldn’t really argue with that assertion either. Discussion of who was or wasn’t our sort of person had pervaded my life eve
r since I could remember. I had had the importance of social distinctions drummed thoroughly into me before I was old enough to argue. And despite my conviction that Fortier was a gentleman by birth, I had no proof to offer.
“I have no reason to summon Monsieur Fortier here in any case,” was my somewhat feeble reply.
“Mind you keep it that way.” Blanche, having performed the task of worming a present out of me, was rewarding herself with a little righteous wrath. “I shall speak to Michael about ensuring you get a few invitations of the right sort in a month or two. You must be assiduous about entertaining in your turn and not doing anything more out of the ordinary.”
“But my mourning—”
“It’s true that you haven’t exactly kept to the seclusion that’s proper for a new widow.” Blanche had clearly decided to brook no argument. “But we can work with that. A woman with an active nature is attractive to a certain sort of country gentleman. You may ride out with your groom or walk with your lady’s maid as much as you like. It’ll keep your figure trim.” Blanche, no sylph herself, eyed my slightly plump form. “And that herb garden and workshop of yours are acceptable, I suppose. The garden will be quite pretty, and many country ladies are known for their gardens. As long as you keep things in proportion—a ladylike hobby, a few salves and potions for the poor and so on. By the time your year and a day is over, the events of the past few months will be almost forgotten, and you’ll simply be charmingly eccentric. Just like Mama.”
“But Mama did so much more than produce a few salves and potions, didn’t she? At least that’s how I remember it.”
An expression of annoyance—or something stronger—passed over Blanche’s face. “When I was at home, Mama behaved with a fair amount of decorum. Of course I married at sixteen, my dear, straight out of my first Season.” Blanche permitted herself a triumphant smirk. “I’ll admit Mama became rather strident once you and Michael were born, but one can attribute that to her change of life, I imagine.” She sighed wistfully. “I didn’t pay much attention. Those were such happy days for me. Imagine, at just seventeen I became the mother of such a darling little boy, and my beloved Francis doted on us both.”