by Robin Paige
“We can’t have th’ gun afore we have th’ cart,” Nettie objected, playing with the terrier’s ears. On Jaggers’s death, she had befriended the sad dog. “How did yer get to Colchester, Mr. Mudd?”
Mudd obligingly shifted the focus of his story. “As yer know, I drove th’ young miss in th’ pony cart,” he said with an understanding glance at Pocket, who always got sulky at this point in the narrative. When Pocket first learned what happened, he protested that Mudd had unfairly usurped his prerogative, for it was his job to drive. But he objected far less after he discovered that Mudd’s assignment had involved not just driving the cart, but (upon instructions from the young miss) forcing open Mrs. Farnsworth’s kitchen door, stealing surreptitiously up the back stairs, and waiting outside the parlor with an ear to the door, until finally it opened and the lady with the derringer came out. Sarah noticed that Pocket always turned away when Mudd described the silvery gun with the walnut handle, so small it fitted into a lady’s hand, yet so powerful the bullet blasted through a mirror and buried itself in the wall.
“I don’t care t’ ’ear about th’ pony cart.” Amelia pouted. She gave Mudd a flirtatious sideways glance. “That’s too ordin’ry. I want t’ ’ear about th’ gun, Mr. Mudd. That’s th’ dang’rous part.”
Pocket’s ears reddened and he became busy with the chestnuts.
“Well, then,” Mudd said, basking in Amelia’s glance, “th’ young miss comes out o’ th’ parlor with th’ lady, ’oo had th’ gun.”
Nettie pushed the terrier out of her lap. “How c’n she be a lady,” she asked tartly, “ ’f she had a gun?”
“Let that be, Nettie,” Sarah said, pouring herself another cup of tea. “A lady c’n have anythin’ she wants.”
“She ‘ad th’ gun,” Mudd repeated patiently. “Which I already knew, for I ‘eard th’ young miss say, quite loud an’ pert, ‘It is a rather small gun. Is it real?’ ”
“So brave, th’ young miss,” Amelia sighed.
Sarah savored the image of her mistress fearlessly holding her ground in the face of a lady with a gun. Any ordinary woman would have fainted dead away, and the villain would have escaped.
“Brave,” Sarah confirmed, adding sugar to her tea, “an’ gen’rous, too.” Miss Ardleigh had planned to allow them tea, but she had said nothing about sugar. It was the young miss who had instructed her to see liberally, but not wastefully, to the comforts of the servants—had instructed her, because Sarah was no longer simply Cook but Cook-Housekeeper, and a much enlarged ring of keys jangled at the waist of her apron.
In point of fact, Sarah had more to think about than the comforts of the fire and tea and jam, delightful as those things were, especially on a day like today. The young miss, who was very businesslike and efficient when it came to running the household, had set her to counting everything straightaway: all the kitchen stores, the linen, the silver, china, and crystal, even the furniture. Making an inventory, she called it. It was a demanding task that required all of Sarah’s skills of observation, organization, and writing, and as she moved from room to room, noting each item in a book, along with its precise function, condition, and location, she began to think well of herself. Her estimation of her abilities rose farther when she consulted with Miss Ardleigh and Mudd, as now required, on the household accounts. If she could do these things, she could manage three subordinate house servants—yes, even four or five or six—with no difficulty at all.
“So I’m waitin’ by th’ door,” Mudd continued, “primed, yer might say, fer action. An’ when they come out I grab th’ lady right round th’ waist.” At this point, he always leaned suggestively toward Amelia and offered to demonstrate, which, of course, Sarah could not allow. She frowned to remind both Mudd and Amelia that such playacting was not necessary to the authenticity of the tale.
“So then th’ gun goes off, BANG!” Harriet said happily.
“An’ th’ bullet breaks th’ mirror into th’ tiniest pieces,” Nettie added, “like lit’le diamonds.”
“An’ then th’ policemen come,” Amelia put in.
“Yes, an’ Sir Charles too,” Mudd said, pretending not to notice that his arm was slipping along the top of the sofa, in the direction of Amelia’s shoulder. “Th’ one ’oo took th’ photograph of this selfsame lady sellin’ poisonous mushrooms t’ Mrs. P—”
“Dressed up like a gypsy!” Harriet crowed, clapping her hands. “An’ that’s why Cook went t’ jail! Because o’ th’ gypsy’s mushrooms, what got in th’ puddin’!”
Nettie looked respectfully at Cook. ‘C’n ye tell agin ‘bout ridin’ t’ jail in th’ carriage, Mrs. Pratt?”
Sarah smiled, benignly (for the moment) ignoring the fact that Amelia was leaning ever so slightly toward Mudd. Riding in the carriage—to and from the jail—was a subject she loved to talk about; indeed, she dwelled on it in her waking hours and dreamed about it in her sleep. And not just the breathtaking speed and smoothness of the ride or the feel of the fine leather seats, but the astonishment on the faces of her friends as she rattled along High Street, going in glory. Since Miss Kate had given her such a generous gift, Sarah had felt quite differently about herself. She had even begun to believe it possible, as Rachel Elam’s dairyman brother claimed in his letters home, that a person might actually rise above the station of her birth. Might even aspire to something like (she thought with a catch of her breath) a shop of her own.
She shook the thought out of her head and smiled again at Nettie. “Later, child,” she said in a kindly tone. “There’s somethin’ I need t’ hear from Mr. Mudd.” She bowed to Mudd with some deference. One had to feel a certain regard for a man who had so bravely stepped in to save the young miss from being taken to the cellar and done away with—although Sarah suggested that, given the necessity, the young miss could have taken perfect care of herself.
“Yer’ve no doubt told it, Mudd,” she said, “but I’ve never quite got th’ straight. How was it th’ constable come so prompt-like, just as th’ gun went off?”
“I didn’t get th’ straight o’ it meself till this mornin‘,” Mudd replied, “when I read it in th’ newspaper. It ‘pears that th’ lady had already murdered somebody else.”
“No!” Amelia squealed, her hands going to her mouth.
“Yes,” Mudd said, lowering his voice and making it dreadful. “A Frenchie with a gold ring. She made ‘im tipsy an’ drove ’im in ’is ’ired rig out to th’ excavation. Then she stuck a dagger in ’is ’eart an’ shoved him into a pit.”
Harriet’s eyes grew large and she gave a faint moan.
“She cud‘na bin no lady,” Nettie said firmly. She began to count on her fingers. “I make it three she murdered, an’ she would’ve murdered th’ young miss, which is four, if she ’adn’t been stopped. No lady wud’ve murdered so many, not even fer sport.”
Cook looked at Mudd. “How did th’ police know t’ come?”
“Accordin’ t’ the newspaper,” Mudd said, “Sir Charles deduced ’oo killed th’ Frenchie, or near ’nough. ’E was bringin’ th’ police t’ talk t’ th’ lady. They were on th’ stoop at th’ very selfsame instant th’ gun went off.”
“An’ then they arrested th’ lady,” Harriet said.
“Yer see?” Nettie declared triumphantly. “ ’f she were a lady, she wud’n’ve bin arrested!”
“T‘were a great piece o’ luck that yer was there, Mr. Mudd,” Sarah said. “T’wud’ve bin a awful pity t‘have lost th’ young miss so soon after losin’ Miss Ardleigh, God rest ’er. An’ Jaggers, th’ devil take ‘er,” she added factually. “If th’ young miss had gone, we’d’ve all bin out o’ a place, instead of warmin’ ourselves by th’ fire wi’ tea an’ chestnuts.”
Mudd spoke sternly, imbued with a sense of new authority. “Don’t speak ill o’ th’ dead, Mrs. P.”
But Sarah did not reply. She was gazing into the fire, warm, contented, and full of chestnuts. And she was wondering, if ever she should have her own shop, what
kind of shop it would be.
The comfortable silence was broken by the tinkle of the drawing room bell. “I’m wanted,” Amelia said, and rose.
“I’ll go with yer,” Mudd said with alacrity, and rose as well. “Pocket, p’rhaps yer’d better see t’ that lame horse.” Pocket grudgingly acquiesced, and the three of them left the room.
Mrs. Pratt glanced up at the clock on the mantel. “Time fer lessons,” she said.
Nettie clapped her hands, her face glowing. “Come on, Bandit,” she said to the terrier. “Time fer lessons.”
Harriet, who thought of herself as older and wiser, twisted rebelliously. “When I got my place, I thought I was through wi’ lessons.”
“Well, yer was wrong, wasn’t yer?” Cook said. “Miss Kate wants you two tippity-twitchits t’ get on i’ th’ world, so yer’d best be at it. Yer don’t want t’ make fools o’ yerselves when yer recite fer her in th’ momin’.”
She reached under her chair and pulled out the copy of the London Times that Miss Kate had given her, with the explicit but inexplicable instruction that the girls were to practice reading the entire first page aloud until they could read it smoothly and well. Handing the newspaper to an eager Nettie, she warned, “An’ don’t fritter th’ time. Fifteen minutes o’ lessons, an’ then I’ll see yer i’ th’ kitchen. There’s work t’ be done.”
“Yes, Mrs. Pratt,” the girls chorused dutifully.
Mrs. Pratt swung her feet off her stool and stood up. When she thought about the changes at Bishop’s Keep, it all seemed rather queer. But still, none of the alterations—with the exception of the sad loss of Miss Ardleigh—were excessively hard to bear. As she went off to the kitchen, Mrs. Pratt was humming a tune under her breath.
53
“The truth is rarely pure, and never simple.”
—OSCAR WILDE The Importance of Being Earnest
“Thank you for bringing tea, Amelia,” Kate said. “You may go now.” The maid curtsied and left the room. “I am glad to have this time alone with you, my dear Kathryn,” the vicar said, taking the cup she offered. “The past two weeks have been sad for both of us.”
“They have,” Kate said, thinking that today was the fortnight anniversary of her aunts’ deaths. She sat down, straightening the skirt of her mauve dress. She had worn black to the funeral, as was customary, but she had decided not to keep the heavy mourning that English people seemed to expect. Aunt Sabrina would not have wanted it, and to wear it for Aunt Jaggers would be hypocritical.
The two of them sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the clacking of Aunt Jaggers’s parrot, whom Kate had pitied and moved out of the lonely bedroom and into the library. At last the vicar put down his cup and leaned forward.
“Since tomorrow is the reading of your aunt’s will, Kathryn, I thought it might be well to discuss it with you.”
“The solicitor, I understand, is coming here.”
“Yes. The will is very simple. It leaves the bulk of the estate to you, with the exception of certain bequests to the church, to charities she favored, and to the servants. The solicitor will no doubt wish to review the situation in some detail, but I can tell you that the estate included a substantial financial holding that will enable you to live off the rents and the interest without diminishing the principal or liquidating any of the properties. You should be able to live as you wish.” He gave her an oblique look. “Perhaps you will also wish to carry on with some of your aunt’s charities. Sabrina Ardleigh was a great power for good in this parish.”
Kate looked down at her hands. When she had first learned of her inheritance, she had not wanted to think about it. Her great good fortune had been gained through the loss of someone she held very dear. But with the Ardleigh estate came many responsibilities, and she was determined to meet them competently. And more: she was committed to using the Ardleigh fortune, if fortune it proved to be, for good ends. What those might be, she as yet had no clear idea, although she had a few disorganized notions, and was willing to listen to the vicar’s suggestions. But she did know one thing: fortune or no fortune, she would continue to write. While Beryl Bardwell might no longer be required to live by her pen, the pen remained Kate’s way of encountering the world. Kate needed to write, and no fortune, whatever its size, would change that.
The vicar shifted in his chair. “There is something more I wish to discuss with you, Kathryn. On her deathbed, your aunt spoke of a child.”
“Jocelyn.” Kate had thought much of this, over the past few days. While the doctor had denied the possibility and the vicar had refused to discuss it, she believed that there must be some truth hidden away. What had become of Aunt Sabrina’s daughter?
“Yes, Jocelyn.” The vicar paused. “The truth is that he is Sabrina’s son. Our son.”
Kate stared at him. “Your... son?” The smaller surprise, that Jocelyn was a male, was lost in the larger astonishment of his patrimony.
“Yes, ours.” The vicar’s eyes met hers with candor and pain. “He was born nearly forty years ago. I will not go into the circumstances, which as you might guess are quite complicated. I will only say that Jocelyn’s birth was kept secret from Sabrina’s mother and father and from my wife. He was brought up in love and admonition by a man and a woman who cherished him as if he were their own son. I am pleased to say that he entered the church and has risen into a position of prominence.” The light in his eyes brightened his entire face. “He is widely respected, admired, loved. A man of considerable reputation and even greater promise.”
“And Aunt Sabrina felt she needed to protect him,” Kate said quietly.
“Yes. Unfortunately, Sabrina’s sister discovered the secret. She threatened to reveal it to the world unless Sabrina allowed her certain ... privileges.” The vicar’s leathery face darkened. “Perhaps her revelation would not have been the end of Jocelyn’s career, but it would have made life more difficult for him. That is why Sabrina was willing to live in circumstances she would not have chosen. She bartered her freedom and comfort for Bernice’s silence. She did it for ... our son.”
The quiet lengthened as Kate thought about the vast reservoir of pain and sadness out of which the vicar’s words must come. How extraordinarily complex were people’s lives! What depths there were of anguish, of despair and loss—and of pride, dignity, joy. Yes, even joy. Within her welled up a deep respect, almost an awe, at the incredible richness of life. What she had heard here today, had witnessed in the last week, had experienced in her own life over the past months—all of it dazzled and dumbfounded her. But it humbled her, as well, for she knew that Beryl Bardwell’s stories had not even begun to plumb the depths of the human spirit. How much, as a writer, she had to learn! She had not even yet begun!
The vicar stood and began to pace. “I was not sure I should tell you this, Kathryn, because the secret is not just mine. It is Jocelyn’s too.”
“He knows, then?”
“Yes. His adopted parents thought it best, when he became a man, to tell him the truth. I am proud to say that he bore it bravely, that he unburdened his heart to me and to his mother, and that he has from time to time been in touch with us. I have written to him of his mother’s death, although not of the details.” He paused and turned. “I tell you all this, Kathryn, because I believe your aunt wished you to know the whole truth, and because I am convinced that you will safeguard it. And because I think you should know that it is not quite true that you are the last Ardleigh, although you are indeed the last by that name.”
Kate weighed her thoughts and spoke carefully. “Did my aunt provide for Jocelyn in her will? Or should I, as her heir, make some special provision?”
“No, she did not, nor should you. Jocelyn’s adopted family are of considerable means. They have provided well for him.” He pursed his lips. “And of course, we in the Church do not pursue personal wealth.”
Kate was enormously moved by the old man’s confidence. “Thank you for telling me,” she said.
; The vicar sat down again. The lines on his old face seemed somehow deeper, and his eyes were dark with pain. “There remains only one thing left to be said. I must tell you how deeply I regret that I involved your aunt in the Order of the Golden Dawn. I know that if I had not encouraged her to become a member, she would be alive today.” His voice was gruff. “It is a knowledge, my dear Kathryn, that breaks my heart.”
Kate reached for his hand, longing to comfort him in his grief. “Please,” she said urgently, “you must not. Aunt Sabrina chose her own path. The knowledge she sought through the Order was important to her. You cannot blame yourself because the situation was other than you knew.”
“Thank you, my dear.” The vicar’s voice revealed a heaviness of heart. “Your comfort is welcome, although I fear that nothing can truly comfort me for the loss of my oldest and dearest friend. If you do not object, I would like to ask you for the documents that belong to the Order. I will see that they are placed in the proper hands.”
Kate nodded. “That was my aunt’s last instruction. You shall have them. You do know, do you not, that Aunt Jaggers destroyed the original of the tarot cards? They were very valuable, I fear.”
“Sabrina told me. At the moment, their loss does not trouble me deeply, but I am sure that others will think it a great tragedy. The deck was much prized for the quality of its occult symbolism.” He pushed himself out of his chair with difficulty. “Reluctant as I am to go back out in this weather, I must be on my way. It has been a trying week and I am very tired.”
There was a knock at the door and Amelia stepped in. “Lord an’ Miss Marsden, miss,” she said with a quick curtsy, “an’ Sir Charles Sheridan.”
Kate smiled. “Show them in, Amelia. And please bring another tray of cakes—some of those Nettie made would be nice—and a fresh pot of tea.” To the vicar, she added, “I have asked Mrs. Pratt to assume Aunt Jaggers’s housekeeping duties. We will likely hire another cook, but in the meantime, she is training our little kitchen maid. If Nettie likes the work and does well, it can become her trade. If she does not, perhaps we can find something else for her. It is a great pity for people to go through their lives doing work they do not enjoy.”