by Jane Steen
I would reach Blanche’s Season and marriage in the journals before too long, I thought. “Strident?” I asked. “In my memories, Mama managed to combine an active and useful life as a healer with her role as countess rather well. She always seemed to manage everything splendidly.”
“Do you think so?” Blanche gave me a rather odd look out of the corners of her eyes. “Well, you were always rather wrapped up in your own little world, Baby. And everyone petted you so.”
I frowned at that and opened my mouth to make further inquiries, but Blanche did not give me the opportunity to pursue the matter. She put down her teacup, patted her hair, and said brightly, “Now—who do you think came to visit me in Tunbridge Wells and asked especially after you?”
And by the time I had endured a detailed account of the interest shown in me by a certain extremely eligible widower—whom I knew to be silver-haired and gouty—I had entirely forgotten to ask Blanche more about Mama.
“Well, that’s a mercy.”
Hearing the voice behind me, I turned to see Guttridge descending the front steps of Whitcombe House. Her ostensible excuse for using the front entrance was the manteau she held draped over one arm, but I suspected she was giving herself the satisfaction of watching the carriage carrying Blanche and her lady’s maid rattle around the corner of the house. Having seen the family, Blanche had accepted an invitation to stay at Hawthorn Hall in Broadmere. That house had seen better days but had the advantage of being at the center of a social circle considered, by itself, to be the most select in Sussex. Its denizens and visitors showered Blanche with deference and reacted to every word about the Prince of Wales’s set and her son’s role in it with breathless admiration.
“Are you quite warm enough, my lady?”
“Perfectly so, thank you, Guttridge.”
We fell silent, listening to the crunch of the horses’ hooves on gravel, then the creak as the gate was swung open, and finally the clatter of stones and the driver’s encouragement as he urged the horses into a trot along Whitcombe Lane.
“Well.” I sighed out the word, feeling my shoulders slump a little with the relief of Blanche’s departure. From Broadmere, she would travel straight back to Tunbridge Wells, where Dederick planned to join her.
“Well, my lady.” Guttridge grinned. “Might I suggest a walk to work up an appetite for luncheon? I could have you in your walking dress and boots in a trice.”
“A walk.” I almost groaned out the word. “The perfect suggestion. Yes, Guttridge, I think I’ll walk a very long way rather fast to burn off my aggravation at my sister. I hope that scheme is agreeable to you.”
“Most agreeable, especially on a morning like this.” Guttridge sniffed the sweet, fresh spring air appreciatively. “That lady’s maid of Lady Hastings talked my ear off this morning. I wasn’t sorry to see her go.”
I laughed but said nothing as we made our way indoors and upstairs. Family loyalty prevented me from remarking that I felt exactly the same about Blanche, who had been even more full of herself than usual since receiving the news of Deddy’s visit. With her son in residence, Blanche would be able to live as expensively as she liked for a few days. My nephew never stinted on his comforts, and the understanding between them was that he would foot the bill while he stayed with his Mama. Or at least he would order the bills to be sent to him. How long the purveyors of Tunbridge Wells had to wait for their money was another matter, but Deddy was a marquess, and they could hardly refuse his custom. And Blanche would summon her dressmaker immediately upon her return, at my expense. No wonder she had taken her leave in the manner of a cat who’d just polished off an entire bowl of cream.
Within half an hour, we were proceeding down Whitcombe Lane through a perfect spring morning. Guttridge easily adjusted her long stride to my quick, impatient steps. Around us, the sweet, liquid tones of the smaller birds were occasionally interrupted by the cawing of rooks in the high trees or the far-off mewing of the seagulls that constantly circled Littleberry. The daffodils, planted years ago at Justin’s behest, that had brightened the lane a few weeks earlier were now withered, their heavy seed-heads bent to the ground. There were still plenty of violets, dandelions, and fritillaries in the hedgerows. The salty scent of hawthorn blossoms was carried on the breeze, and the new leaves on the trees showed semi-transparent in the sunlight. A few ewes with early lambs wandered the high field, keeping to the shade of the huge oak that had somehow withstood the wind for centuries. Their tiny offspring explored their new world on uncertain legs, never straying far from their mothers and returning often to butt their heads vigorously into their source of nourishment.
We turned onto the main road and headed inland. There would be time enough, as the weather grew warmer, to walk out over the marsh to the shingle beaches where sea kale and samphire grew. For now, our delight was in the fresh green of the trees and the cool dampness beneath them, the smell of new growth alongside the straggling footpath atop the road’s high bank. A vigorous and easy walk downhill would bring us to a farm in the valley where the farmer’s wife would oblige with a glass of fresh milk and perhaps a small jam tart for a few pennies. Thus refreshed, we could tackle the harder walk over the fields and the steep climb back up the hill to home.
It was I who finally broke our companionable silence, which hitherto had only been interrupted by casual remarks about the beauty of the day and the plants we came across.
“Now that Lady Hastings has gone, I’m going to tackle my workroom properly. I want to ask Taylor about building a separate shed for drying herbs so that they won’t create too much clutter.”
“Wouldn’t the conservatory do?”
“Some herbs are better dried in the dark—although now you mention it, Taylor might let me have a little space in his hothouses as well.”
“Or you could have a—well, I suppose you’d call it an arbor, on the sunny side of the shed.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” For a few moments, I was heedless of the day’s magnificence as I sketched a plan in my mind. “And I suppose I’ll have to set about finding a new assistant. How does one find such a person? Put an advertisement in The Lady?”
Guttridge had removed her hat to neaten her hair, and now repinned it with an economical movement. “I can think of someone who’d be excellently suited.”
“Who?” Puzzled, I stopped in my tracks and stared at my lady’s maid.
“She stands before you.”
I almost laughed. Guttridge’s manner of speaking was always very proper, as befitted a superior servant, even if the traces of a Cockney accent lingered beneath her refined speech. But she delivered this line in the grand manner of Ellen Terry in one of her more dignified roles.
And yet I didn’t laugh. That would have been cruel, and besides, the notion of Guttridge working beside me was appealing. All the more so after our joint travails in Susan’s bedroom, where we had labored together in perfect harmony. There was one worrying aspect to her proposal, however.
“Do you mean you want to cease being my lady’s maid?” I reflected that I would probably survive the experience, but hiring a new lady’s maid was a task every lady naturally dreaded. “Wouldn’t that be a step down for you?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of additional duties. I’m not afraid of a bit more work. I sleep better when I’ve had a busy day.”
“So do I.” I smiled at Guttridge. “So you’d be my—my right-hand woman? Almost like a lady’s companion.”
“I’m not genteel enough for that.” Guttridge looked alarmed. “A companion eats upstairs instead of in the servants’ hall, and I’d miss the chatter below stairs. My young man would think I’m too grand to walk out with him.”
“Not a companion, then. So I wouldn’t have to call you by your first name.” I couldn’t resist a giggle.
“Heaven forbid.”
“Just as well, really, because ‘Albertina’ doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue.”
“It’s not my
fault my parents worshipped the Prince Consort.” There was laughter in Guttridge’s voice. Of course, she knew that I knew very well that she was called “Bertie” by her intimates—but that wouldn’t do at all upstairs.
“I suppose you’d want higher wages?” I raised my eyebrows at Guttridge.
“For more duties, of course I would.” Guttridge threw back her shoulders. “And Tilda Brenzett would like to move from Hyrst to work at Whitcombe instead of Julie Pococke who wants to work at Hyrst because she’s walking out with that dark-haired footman of his lordship’s, although I hope they hurry and put the banns up before something happens. Anyway, Tilda would be happy to oblige in the workroom from time to time when there’s dirty or heavy work—she says she likes all the bottles and smells. So I’d be doing the preparations and keeping records, that kind of thing. Nothing that would make me look like an under-servant.”
I nodded as gravely as I could manage. It was odd how servants loved to weigh their own status and that of others by the ounce. They were far worse than most of the gentry with, perhaps, the exception of Blanche.
“I agree to all points of your well-thought-out scheme, Guttridge. Name your price.”
She did, and I suppressed a grin. Guttridge clearly knew how much I paid Dunnam and Mrs. Eason. She had calculated a sum that would definitely increase her status and yet not make her any enemies.
“It’s a deal, as the Americans say.” We were striding briskly downhill as our conversation unfolded. I halted and held out my hand for Guttridge to shake. She did so without hesitation.
“And now, Guttridge, let’s see if the farmer’s wife can provide us with the wherewithal to celebrate our new partnership. All this upheaval is giving me an appetite.”
26
A summer friendship
As spring gradually drifted toward early summer, my life appeared to be taking an upward turn. The approach of the end of June marked the eight-month anniversary of Justin’s death, and it seemed not unreasonable to begin a tentative return into society. So despite my widow’s weeds, I regularly ventured into Littleberry on foot, with Guttridge for company. This was a most pleasant variation on my almost-daily walks to Hyrst to see Mama and a rapidly burgeoning Julia. I could usually find some little excuse to visit the shops on the High Street, and of course I visited Gerry.
Gerry’s house was uphill from the main thoroughfare, and the views from the upper part of the town were magnificent on a bright day. It was quite natural that Guttridge and I should walk up that way often. We passed the Dermody house most days, but the massive front door was invariably shut. If I did occasionally catch a glimpse of a huge black horse, it was generally at a distance. The increase in my heartbeat when we reached the top of the steep cobbled street and passed the Dermodys’ door was obviously due to the strenuous climb.
Such was the case one Thursday afternoon. I had decided to visit an elderly lady who happened to be a tenant of mine. I carried a small wicker basket lined with straw, in which nestled three ripe peaches, and their heady sun-warmed fragrance was a sensuous delight that brought a smile to my lips.
We had just turned the corner toward the church when I heard my name being called.
“Lady Helena! I was hoping I’d see you one day.”
I turned to see Gabrielle Dermody waving from the top of the broad stone steps that led up to the Dermody house’s grand front door. I stopped, lifted my veil, and smiled.
“I’m delighted to see you too, Mrs. Dermody. I see you are in excellent health.”
As I approached, I could see the details of Mrs. Dermody’s dress, which had struck me from a remove as very smart. I particularly admired the pattern of marguerites and berries in deepest crimson on a cream ground, and the complicated swag at the front. Indeed, she would not have looked out of place in a far grander house than Whitcombe.
We shook hands, and Mrs. Dermody’s eyes widened at the contents of my basket.
“Heavens, I haven’t seen peaches like that since I last visited Provence. How did you manage to find them—and so early too?”
I laughed. “We have one hothouse that, according to my head gardener, was designed by God’s angels specifically for the growing of peaches. These are for one of my tenants, but you must allow me to send you some.”
“Politeness would dictate that I beg you not to, isn’t that so? But I would never refuse such an offer.” She had run down the steps to meet us and now gestured toward the great windows that loomed over the corner of the street—a building I knew to be the summer house. “Let me make anticipatory repayment by inviting you to tea in my garden. Miss—Guttridge, is it not?—is welcome too.”
Guttridge and I looked at one another. Did she mean Guttridge was to take tea with us or with the servants? Such situations could be awkward. But Guttridge knew what to do.
“I should get over to Mrs. Holling with the fruit, my lady. She and I can have a nice gossip in the kitchen—she’ll like that.”
It was true that without my noble presence Mrs. Holling would not feel obliged to take off her apron and entertain us in her tiny parlor, most of which was taken up by a large cage containing a gray parrot who liked to repeat phrases from hymns. She and Guttridge could enjoy the sunny afternoon through her open kitchen window, which had a view as magnificent as Whitcombe’s.
“Very well. Do you have the tin of biscuits?”
Guttridge patted her large reticule. “Right here, my lady.”
“Then give her my compliments and best wishes and tell her I’ll be sure to drop by soon.”
Guttridge took her leave of Mrs. Dermody with a blend of cordiality and deference that perfectly acknowledged the latter’s kind invitation yet displayed an understanding of their different stations in life. If she’d been a man she could have entered the Diplomatic Corps.
“When our mulberries are ripe, I’ll send you some,” said Mrs. Dermody, opening the stout wooden door that led into the garden. “Unless your gardener grows them too.”
“He certainly doesn’t. We’d never get a mulberry tree to do well with the wind we get up at Whitcombe.” I looked admiringly at the massive, spreading tree in the middle of the lawn. “I’ve rarely seen such a fine specimen. And this garden is wonderful.”
It was indeed. Enclosed by a high brick wall over which scrambled roses and wisteria, its borders were a riot of color amid billowing clouds of forget-me-nots, many of them white or pink instead of the usual blue. The door to the large summer house was open wide, revealing a white-painted space enlivened by rows of colorful paintings and containing an easel, a drawing table, and blue-painted bookcases full of books and bibelots. Blue-and-white printed curtains hung around the huge windows, and a soft indigo rug sprawled across the floor.
“It’s an artist’s garden,” I realized. “Is this where you draw your inspiration for your pottery, Mrs. Dermody?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Dermody picked up a silver bell from the wrought-iron table under the shade of the tree and rang it. “Would you like to take a stroll?”
By the time the tea arrived, I had inspected every corner of the pretty garden. Mrs. Dermody and I had enjoyed a most stimulating conversation about the plants contained therein. There is nothing the English do better than talk about their gardens, and no better topic exists for avoiding social pitfalls since flowers are available to poor and rich alike. By the time we sat down, I felt very much at my ease.
“I hear you’re engaged in making your own herb garden,” said Mrs. Dermody as she ensconced herself behind the teapot.
“Now that Guttridge is a sort of all-round assistant as well as my lady’s maid, matters are proceeding much faster.” I accepted a cup of tea and looked with delight upon a plate of tiny, delicate edible cups each containing a swirl of thick cream and a fresh strawberry. “She can twist Taylor—my head gardener—around her little finger. And she doesn’t have my social obligations, so she works when I can’t. We fail at our experiments frequently, but at least I have someone
to laugh with over the failures. We’re learning fast.”
“Do you have many social obligations?” Mrs. Dermody’s fine brown eyes were fixed upon me.
“You mean, should I have as a widow?” I looked down at my dress with a grimace. “Most of my sociable life is spent with my sisters or sister-in-law. I do get visitors at Whitcombe—friends of my late husband, of course. And then there’s Mama.”
Thinking of my mother threw a cold shadow over the warm day. Mrs. Dermody must have seen my expression.
“Is she terribly ill?” she asked softly.
“Belming—that’s her attendant—has trouble getting her out of bed most days,” I replied miserably. “She just lies there, staring. And when she is active, which is generally at mealtimes or in the evening, it’s almost worse. It’s as if my mother has vanished inside a . . . a sort of husk of herself. Something that spouts gibberish and screams when you’re trying to help her.”
“I’m sorry for you.” And Mrs. Dermody looked as if she meant it.
I made an effort to smile. “But at least visiting Mama means I see Lady Broadmere almost every day, and we’re good friends. I play with the children too, of course, and that cheers me up tremendously.”
“Is Lady Broadmere well? Her confinement will be in July, I’ve heard, and it’s almost that already.”
“She’s blooming, thank you. Impatient for the baby to be born—as am I.”
“You like children?”