Having ascertained that Miss Ranner was invited to the fête, Ursula took her leave and rode to the postbox she had noticed at the edge of the village.
The heavy letter slipped inside the bright red box and landed with a thud. Ursula wondered if she was being foolish taking such precautionary measures. What did it matter who knew she was writing to Mr Seldon?
* * *
Back at Mountstanton, there was indeed a great to-do. A marquee had been erected on the main lawn to one side of the house. Long tables were being laid with damask cloths and piles of plates and cutlery. Folding chairs had been placed on the lawn. A small band was practising.
‘Ursula!’ Belle called, running towards her. ‘At last I have caught you on your own. I need to speak with you.’ Belle caught hold of her arm and gave her a pleading look.
‘Of course, dear. It is too long since we had a proper talk. Shall we go to your room?’
Belle made a face. ‘That busy-miss French maid will interrupt us. Let’s go to yours.’
Upstairs Ursula settled Belle on her bed and sat beside her. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘tell me what it is that is worrying you. Is it Mr Warburton?’
The response was instant. Belle collapsed in a torrent of tears. ‘I thought he loved me, Ursula,’ she wailed. ‘He acted as though he did. He made me think he did!’
‘Men are notoriously unreliable,’ said Ursula compassionately. ‘I am afraid, Belle, you will have your heart broken a good many more times before you find the man of your dreams.’ She stroked the girl’s hair. After a moment she added, ‘Have you spoken to your sister about your feelings?’
Belle choked back her tears and sat up. ‘I cannot speak to Helen about this.’ She spat the words out, her face turning from that of an upset kitten to a vengeful cat. ‘She wants William for herself.’
‘And do you think Mr Warburton responds?’ Ursula realised she had skipped over the step of protesting that Helen was a respectable married woman.
‘I expect he wants us both!’ The crying started again.
Ursula tried to soothe her while she considered the situation. There had been the odd incident, which suggested that Helen had a tendresse for the handsome young secretary, but could she be serious about him? And was William Warburton really going to ignore all the benefits that a match with Belle could bring?
‘Have you had any private conversation with Mr Warburton since his return to Mountstanton yesterday?’
Belle raised a tear-stained face. ‘No, Ursula! I’ve tried so hard but he slips away whenever I approach him. If only he would speak to me.’ She burst into loud sobs.
Ursula took the girl in her arms and rocked her until she quietened.
‘Darling Belle, I know how painful this must be for you. We feel everything so sharply when we’re young.’ Not only then, she thought. ‘I don’t suppose it is any use my saying that Mr Warburton is not worth your tears?’
It took a long time for Ursula to calm Belle but finally the sobs abated.
‘You know, darling,’ she said when only the odd hiccup signalled the girl’s distress. ‘One of the reasons girls are not supposed to be too informal with young men, or spend time alone in their company, is that the men have to prove worthy of your trust in them. Far too many men take advantage of loving and open girls.’
Belle bowed her head and fiddled with the handkerchief Ursula had supplied her with, now soaked right through.
‘But I fell in love the moment I met him, and … and he said it was the same for him!’ Belle wailed afresh.
Ursula wished William Warburton at the bottom of some ocean.
‘I thought when he returned from visiting his mother that we would become engaged. We could be married and I could make my debut, but it would be as a married woman and all the other girls would be so jealous of me. Oh, Ursula, what am I going to do?’
Ursula could not help feeling sorry for this foolish, headstrong girl.
* * *
The fête was a triumphant success. The weather could not have behaved better. The Dowager Countess looked superb in black ribbed silk and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying herself, passing amongst her guests, being gracious to villagers and staff. When Ursula appeared with Belle, she beckoned them over.
‘Your presence was missed at luncheon. Where were you both?’
‘Belle was helping me make myself look presentable for your birthday celebrations, and we had something on a tray,’ said Ursula easily. ‘May I wish you a very happy day, my lady.’
‘How kind.’ A penetrating gaze took in the plain, pearl-grey muslin gown Ursula was wearing and appeared to approve. Then she assessed Belle’s white, broderie anglaise dress and gave a nod. ‘Belle, my dear, the japanned box you gave me is exquisite. I thank you most sincerely.’
‘I am glad you like it, your ladyship.’ Belle bobbed a little curtsey.
‘And I have to thank you, Miss Grandison, for your gift. It was well chosen, I enjoy Mr James’s works.’
With a twirl of her parasol, the Dowager moved on.
‘Who is Mr James?’ Belle asked.
‘He is an author. When I accompanied yourself and Helen to Salisbury the other day, I was able to purchase his latest work in the bookshop there.’
Helen beckoned Belle over. Ursula watched as the Countess appeared to speak winningly to her sister. Then, with a shock, she thought she saw Mr Jackman standing by the haha, looking around himself like a visitor to a foreign land. A swirl of guests moved between her and the man, blocking him from Ursula’s view. When she managed to work her way through to where she had seen him, there was no one there. However, she was able to spend a little time with Miss Ranner, who introduced her to other villagers. Then she spent a little time with Mrs Comfort and a very excited Lord Harry, followed by an encounter with Mrs Parsons, whom she congratulated on her organisation. ‘It must have taken a great deal of time,’ she said. The woman seemed grateful for the praise but her eyes never stopped checking every aspect of the occasion.
Ursula walked up to the terrace and stood for a moment studying the scene, appreciating the atmosphere of enjoyment.
‘You seem amused by the natives, Miss Grandison,’ the Colonel said.
Somehow it seemed natural that he should appear beside her. ‘I was thinking how well behaved everyone is. Were this an American gathering, high spirits would have taken over by now. Youngsters would be playing in the fountain, others jumping over the edge of the haha; their mothers would be having hysterics and fathers making vain attempts to restore control.’
‘Ah, but this is Mountstanton, Miss Grandison.’
‘Indeed,’ Ursula said gravely. Almost without her realising it, they had returned to the easy relationship that had existed before he disappeared to London.
‘You are not eating. May I fetch you a plate of the delightful collation that has been prepared to do my mother honour?’
‘Thank you, I am not hungry.’
‘Nor I. Cold chicken in aspic does not tempt me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Miss Grandison,’ he started, only to be interrupted by his brother.
‘Charles, I am about to make my birthday speech to Mama. I wish you to be with me.’
‘Of course, Richard. Miss Grandison, please, do not disappear.’
The Earl’s speech, with his wife and brother standing beside him, Helen holding Lord Harry by the shoulders, was exactly as might have been expected.
Afterwards, Ursula would attempt to remember exactly what he said, and try to look behind the actual words. All she could recall were the hackneyed phrases of tribute to his mother and the pleasure displayed by the Dowager. Helen had been calm and the Colonel, well, the Colonel, as usual, looked slightly apart from the scene.
After the speech came the entertainment. Music hall and folk songs were loudly applauded; tumblers and acrobats greeted with gasps of astonishment. A knock-about act between two comedians met with acclaim. The small band performed with aplomb.
Then it was time fo
r the firework display.
Though it was dusk rather than dark, Ursula found the pyrotechnics the greatest success of the whole event. Set pieces of static fireworks fizzed and rotated, with sparks flying off in all directions, making wondrous patterns against the dark of the background woods. There were fireworks that banged, leaping over the ground, to the great delight of the youngsters, and making the loudest of noises at unexpected intervals. Rockets soared into the air and showered the sky with massive handfuls of iridescent gems to oohs and aahs. A finale of a battalion of rockets all fired at the same time, lit up the sky with the generosity of a caliph firing cannons loaded with diamonds.
Then it was all over and guests and entertainers gradually dispersed.
Ursula found Helen. ‘Have you seen Belle?’ she asked. ‘I seem to have lost her.’
‘I sent her to bed. She looked quite exhausted.’
Ursula thought that Helen herself looked tired.
The Dowager came up. ‘I cannot find Richard anywhere. I particularly wished to thank him for his gracious speech. I cannot retire until I have done so.’
Helen sighed. ‘He’s vanished. You know how he cannot stand the entertainment. He says it is too banal for words.’
‘The servants and villagers find it delightful,’ said the Dowager chidingly. ‘Charles,’ she called over to her younger son. ‘Find Richard for me, will you?’
‘Certainly, Mama.’ He disappeared.
Ursula gave her thanks for a splendid party and went inside. She started up the stairs to her bedroom, then paused. The house was full of the sound of servants coming in from outside, chattering amongst themselves, with Mrs Parsons shooing maids upstairs. It seemed as though part of the fun of the fête was to be allowed the run of the house.
Ursula changed her mind about going upstairs. She needed solitude and peace.
Outside all seemed quiet. Tables had been stripped of the remains of food and drink, and the damask cloths removed. In the silver moonlight, the abandoned chairs and naked tables reminded Ursula of the last lines of The Tempest, except that these revellers had left more than the odd wrack behind.
She wandered through to the rose garden and wondered how long before it would be redolent with heady scent. There was a stone bench where the paths that ran between the carefully laid-out beds crossed. Ursula sat down and tried to unpick the various threads in the tapestry she had created since her discovery of Polly’s body. If only she could stitch them into a different pattern.
She was too tired for any of it to make sense and she gave herself up to the solitude and quiet of the garden, dew gathering on the grassy paths.
‘Miss Grandison, is that you?’
Ursula turned and saw the Dowager coming towards her. In the moonlight her features were rigid as stone. Ursula rose and a hand grasped her wrist with the strength of steel.
‘Come with me. I have seen something in the belvedere.’
She pulled Ursula along the way she had come.
The moon lit the scene with the charm of a romantic stage set. There was the stone pavilion, floating in an unearthly manner above the haha with the river far below, tonight a stream of molten silver.
The Dowager’s tension transmitted itself through that steely grip.
The apprehension that had been building up in Ursula over the last two days rose with choking power. She wanted to pull her wrist free, refuse to go any further, but the Dowager’s hold was too strong.
By now the woman was panting heavily. ‘I must know,’ she said. ‘I must know.’
Together the two women climbed the stone steps up into the belvedere.
Lying on the stone bench was a body. The head had been shattered, an arm hung loosely down. On the ground, beneath the open fingers, was a shotgun. Richard, sixth Earl of Mountstanton, was no more.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charles Stanhope finished searching the stables for his brother with mounting frustration.
This was typical of Richard – disappearing when he must have known people wanted to say goodbye after the fireworks. And typical of their mother to insist she had to speak to her elder son before going to bed.
Charles stood for a moment in the stable yard and wondered where to look next. He had drawn a blank with the billiard room, the library, and all the reception rooms. Richard was not in his bedroom or his dressing room; his valet had not seen the Earl after he had given the birthday tribute to the Dowager Countess.
Charles looked up at the roof of Mountstanton. The moon flooded the white stone with unearthly light. Could his brother have gone up there for a quiet smoke? It seemed unlikely; the roof had long been known both to Charles and the Earl as a retreat and assignation point for members of the Mountstanton staff. Even if Richard had wanted an assignation with a servant – Charles unconsciously pulled a face at the thought – he would have chosen another spot. But tonight was surely not the night for that.
None of the horses were missing from the stables, so he could not have gone riding. No hope for it; Charles would have to start exploring more of Mountstanton’s vast collection of rooms.
As he approached the house, however, Barnes, his mother’s maid, came towards him. Barnes had small feet and Richard and he used to say she walked like a pigeon with bowel problems. Charles smiled to himself as she came up.
‘Colonel Charles, there you are! The Countess wishes you to attend on her immediately.’
Just for a moment, he thought Helen had asked for him, then realised his mistake. ‘My mother, that would be, Barnes?’
‘Of course, sir,’ the maid said sharply. Then she modified her tone. ‘Miss Grandison it was that actually said I should fetch you.’
He had already started walking in the direction of his mother’s apartment when that almost brought him to a stop. ‘Miss Grandison?’
‘Yes, sir.’ There was a slight pause before Barnes added, ‘They came in from the garden together, sir.’
‘I see,’ said Charles, unable to make any sense of the situation.
‘And Miss Grandison, she told me to tell you that you must come at once, sir.’
There was no point in Charles worrying about reasons; if sensible Ursula Grandison said he should come at once, then he would. He lengthened his stride and took the side door into his mother’s wing at a fast pace, Barnes running behind in an effort to keep up.
As Charles entered the room, he heard his mother say, ‘I disown him. No son of mine could …’ for a moment she faltered, ‘could do that!’
The Dowager Countess was sitting bolt upright in a Sheraton armchair, holding a half-empty glass of what looked like brandy. Patches of red flared on her cheeks; her eyes stared ahead as though into some abyss.
Kneeling beside her was Ursula Grandison, her face pale as a wraith. ‘My lady,’ she said in an imploring voice and took the Countess’s free hand in both of hers, as though it was cold and needed warming.
His mother saw him. ‘Charles!’ she said as she disengaged her hand and held it out towards him.
Charles glanced at the woman on the ground and was startled to see a look of such warmth and relief on her face, he might have been bringing a battalion to raise a siege.
‘Mama,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘What has happened?’
The Countess closed her eyes. ‘Show him!’ she commanded.
Miss Grandison flinched. Then she rose, picked up a glass of brandy and drank it in one swift motion.
Charles sent her a questioning look.
‘You must show him.’ His mother’s voice spelt out the words one by one as though Miss Grandison was a child.
Ursula put down the glass and without a backward look went out through the French windows.
Charles gave a quick glance at his mother, then followed.
Nothing was said as they crossed through the rose garden towards the belvedere.
Half way there, Miss Grandison stopped and faced him. Her large grey eyes looked into his with such pain, Charles knew that
something terrible had happened.
He grasped her hands and held them tight. ‘Tell me,’ he said softly.
Her hands returned his grasp. ‘Your brother has shot himself, in the belvedere.’ She gulped and her eyes closed for an instant. ‘He used a shotgun. The moon, it’s so bright; it’s … it’s remorseless.’
He dropped her hands. ‘Go back to my mother, look after her.’
She did not move. Somehow his mind refused to acknowledge what waited for him in that graceful stone outlook. The outlook, that was what he and Richard had always called the belvedere.
Ursula held out her hand to him. ‘I will wait here,’ she said.
All feeling closed down as he climbed the steps towards the figure lying on the stone bench.
For a long moment he stood looking down at what was left of his brother. The shotgun had shattered much of his head. Blood bespattered the columns and the floor. The weapon had fallen to the ground. It was one that had belonged to their father. Both he and Richard had shot with it. His brother’s right arm and hand hung down, almost touching the gun. Not far from it was an empty champagne bottle.
Without thought, Charles carefully laid the dangling arm on the dead man’s breast. His head might be mangled, but the hands were intact. Such beautiful hands with their long fingers but with the odd bend in the top joint of the little right finger. Mountstanton hands. They were his too.
Charles found his sight blurring. He blinked hard. About to turn away, he saw a piece of paper anchored beneath the dead man’s right foot. He tugged it out.
Charles, forgive me. I have no other option.
That was all there was.
He slipped it into his pocket and gave a shuddering sigh. On the edge of his consciousness questions crowded; they marshalled themselves alongside a host of things that also started to line up, all needing to be done. And only he to do them. The burden of all that waited for him was almost too much. He had lost his brother; Richard, his childhood companion. Richard, who he had played with, argued with, competed with – but never envied. He ran his hand down his face, as though it could wipe away what he had seen.
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