Secrets of Nanreath Hall

by Alix Rickloff

  “Careful, Miriam. Dom Wesley’s a cousin of mine on my mother’s side.”

  “My point exactly.”

  Minnie gasped, her weathered face breaking into a grin. “Why, there’s me. Ha, don’t I look smart . . . and ever so young.” She pulled a loose page from under another. Her hand paused above the sketch, a slight wrinkle between her brows. “Look at this, girls. Should have known there’d be a drawing of the ruins.”

  “The ruins? Are they nearby?” Anna asked.

  “A few miles up the cliff, north of the village,” Mrs. Crewe replied. “It’s a lonely spot, but very romantic.”

  “If you like old, mossy stones and sloppy kisses,” Miss Dawlish commented.

  Minnie pointedly ignored the comment. “All the young ’uns do their sparking there.” Her tongue flicked to the corner of her mouth, a troubled expression shadowing her features. She dropped the sketch back to the table, as if wanting to rid herself of it. “Lady Katherine had a real gift, didn’t she? Mrs. Vinter always said that she did.”

  “Do you know why she didn’t pursue it professionally?” Anna asked.

  “Mrs. V wanted her to, but girls like Lady Katherine didn’t work at dabbing at pictures, did they? They married a swell and had lots of rich babies. If they doodled a bit, it weren’t to be paid for it.”

  “But Lady Katherine didn’t marry her swell.” Anna laid the picture of Simon Halliday on the table.

  Mrs. Polley sighed. “He was a handsome bloke, wasn’t he? No wonder she fell in love with him.”

  “You know who this is?”

  “’Course I do. That’s the chap that ran off with your mother. Only saw him when he was here that summer before the war, but he was a hard one to forget. All the maids were half in love with him.”

  Minnie giggled. “I can still see Mrs. V facing down the old earl when he come barreling down to her house by the sea, threatening all and a hatchet for her part in corrupting his daughter. She never even blinked. Tough as nails, she was. Not an ounce of give in her.”

  Anna leaned forward. “Why would the earl have come to Mrs. Vinter?”

  “Why, it was her that set the girl to pining for art school when the old earl and his wife forbid it. That’s what started the whole mess, if you ask me.” Minnie seemed surprised Anna didn’t know this already.

  “Nah, it was that painting that did it. Flaunting herself with no clothes on was just asking for trouble,” Mrs. Crewe declared.

  “You mean The Red-Haired Wanton?” Anna asked. “The painting Simon Halliday did of her?”

  “Don’t know the name, but remember the stink,” she said. “I traveled to London that fall with the family. The hullabaloo when they found out, dearie me. The rows and carryings-on, weeping and slamming of doors. Lady Katherine marched out and never a backward glance.”

  “And then later, she run off with him. Could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard. Never thought she’d bolt the traces. Always such a good girl, if a bit scattered.”

  “A shame it didn’t last.”

  “’Course it didn’t. What girl would stay, knowing the man she left her whole family for had a string of mistresses.”

  Forgive my love. Anna’s hand closed around her locket.

  “Well, I saw Lady Katherine with my own eyes when she come back to Nanreath carrying Miss Anna here,” Minnie said with authority. “She was a woman who’d lost her greatest love.”

  “Sentimental hogwash,” Miss Dawlish piped up.

  “Are you saying I’m making things up?”

  “I’m saying she should have known better than to take up with a shiftless nobody. What did it bring her in the end? Scandal, ruin, exile, and a pointless death without anyone from her family by her bedside.”

  “You’re just sour, Louise, and have been for over twenty years. It wouldn’t be the first time a girl’s fallen in love with a man what’s not good for her,” Minnie said angrily. She took up the picture of Simon Halliday once more. “He sure was fine-looking and so young. They were all young, though, weren’t they, Miss Trenowyth? Your da . . . the old lord’s son . . . so many who died in that war.”

  “I thought Lord Melcombe’s father was invalided out,” Anna said.

  “Aye, gas tore up his lungs. That’s why your mum came back. She wanted to see her brother before he died.” She stared blindly into her teacup. “But they sent her away.” She looked up, memory sheening her eyes with tears. “It wasn’t right not letting her in to see the young lord. Not when they were so close.”

  “The old earl was always a hard, unforgiving man,” Mrs. Polley said.

  “And a coward. Didn’t even do his own dirty work,” Minnie added. “Sent Lady Boxley in his stead.”

  “She’s as cunning and hard as the old earl. Looks soft, but she’s sharp as an adder. Always was,” Miss Dawlish intoned down her narrow hook nose.

  “At least the young Lord Melcombe takes after his father,” Mrs. Crewe said.

  Minnie sipped at her tea, her fingers tight on the cup, her eyes focused on the sketch of the ruins. “So Her Ladyship’s always said.”

  Chapter 18

  May 1915

  Waterloo Station was crowded with soldiers. The platform rolled and swirled like the sea with a crush of hats and coats, bobbing umbrellas slick with spring rain, and here and there the slender white flash of a waving hand as each loaded train moved out with a mournful hoot of its whistle. Even the moaning rise and fall of voices as loved ones were parted with a final glimpse through a grimy window reminded me of a mournful ocean gale.

  I pushed my way through the sobbing wives and lovers wiping red eyes on white handkerchiefs, the swish of their long black skirts, as if they already counted their men dead and gone, the stoic fathers with white bristling mustaches guiding stooped and faded mothers by the arm, their eyes still glassy with shock.

  I paused, scanning the lower platform where William’s train waited, hoping to spy him through the mob. He’d been evacuated home to recover from a bullet wound to his upper arm, barely a trifle amid such appalling losses, but for a month I breathed easier, knowing he was safe in South Audley Street. I might be forbidden from seeing him, but I could lay aside the tiring weight of my fear for a short time.

  Now I stood on tiptoe, withstanding the buffeting currents as people came and went. There . . . just to the left of that last column. William’s height lent him an advantage, his chestnut head standing like a flame among the sea of brown and gray surrounding him.

  Even from here I could see he wasn’t the polished barracks officer of last fall. His face bore a thin, haunted look; his mouth was a twisted line. His shoulders were stooped, as if he were in pain or braced for the blow poised to fall. Looking around, it was easy to pick out the veterans from the raw recruits. A year in the trenches had swept away the crisp pleats and shining brass, the swagger and the arrogant sense of superiority. What remained was a gritty, cynical, dead-eyed cadre of survivors, leading ranks of starry-eyed boys who dreamed of honor and glory as they marched off to avenge the dead of the Lusitania, the passenger liner sunk by the Germans three weeks previously off the Irish coast.

  William spotted me, and I waved before plunging back into the descending current. The stairs were slick, and I nearly fell, only the press of people to all sides holding me upright as they carried me along with them. I broke free with a well-placed elbow and a poke of my umbrella, finding myself alone at the far edge of the platform.

  William smiled then his gaze passed beyond me, the pleasure fading from his face. I turned in time to see my parents descending the stairs behind me, their expressions strained, their posture rigid and unapproachable as ever. Before they spotted me, I stepped back into the shadow of the column, letting them pass, unaware their wayward daughter was only feet away. I smelled Mama’s perfume, Papa’s cigars. It might have been my imagination but I could have sworn I caught a whiff of lemon oil and beeswax, and even the briny tang of Nanreath’s sea air caught in the folds of her
coat and his fur collar.

  I ached for my home as I had not done since I’d walked away from my aunt’s house in Simon’s company.

  William greeted them stiffly and the three stood in quiet conversation. I looked around, expecting Cynthia to appear just behind, perhaps with Hugh in tow. My brother, too, seemed to gaze up the stairs as if expecting his wife to wish him good-bye, but a small shake of Mama’s head seemed to answer the unspoken question. He shrugged and glanced my way, his voice low, his words unmistakable.

  Mama spun, her hands curling into her chest, as if protecting herself while Papa’s icy stare nearly froze me breathless. Then William’s eyes met mine, clear and insistent, and I wasn’t afraid or ashamed.

  I stepped free of the column. “Hello, Mama . . . Papa. I hope you’re well.”

  I had seen those twin looks of disgust and disapproval many times, usually when we’d had to mingle uncomfortably with the unwashed masses; though never had they been aimed at me. I felt my insides curling, my confidence failing beneath the sneering, hard-eyed condescension.

  Papa turned his back. It felt like a knife to the chest, and I think I gasped out loud. A flash of pain crossed Mama’s face and she reached a hand for me, so quickly that I wasn’t sure I saw it, but at a clearing of Papa’s throat, she firmed her narrow chin, dropped her arm back to her side, and followed Papa’s lead.

  “What are you doing?” William growled.

  “We no longer know this young woman. Nor should you if you care for your reputation. Her indecency and lack of morals are all too clear just by looking at her.”

  I admit I wasn’t dressed in the first stare of fashion. My skirt was heavily mended, my blouse washed so frequently that the fabric was worn nearly translucent and my coat had come secondhand from a market stall. But my hat was new, the violets in the band perfectly complimenting the blue of my scarf and the blue of my eyes.

  “My reputation?” William’s bark of laughter was ugly to hear. “There is a far more disgusting indecency going on across the Channel. Would you really shun Kitty for following her heart?”

  “One’s heart doesn’t enter into it. Sentimental youth sees love in every charming smile and nervous flutter. Those smart enough to understand this realize there are greater considerations to take into account. Your sister was a fool and she will end as all fools do, lamenting her folly.”

  As always, my mouth ran away with me, my anger outstripping my tact. “Is this how you convinced William to marry Cynthia? By pointing out those greater considerations of duty, honor, and the family reputation?”

  “Kitty . . .” William warned.

  Papa brushed off my accusations with a gruff snort, but at least he was acknowledging I existed. “William knew his worth to the family and to himself and behaved accordingly. You behaved cheaply and thus were bought for a tinker’s price.”

  I swallowed back the tears. I refused to let this man see me cry, but his words hurt like a physical pain. I wanted only to hurt as he hurt me. To cause pain equal to that inflicted, but as anyone knows who lashes out blindly in fury, it’s not only the intended target that gets hurt.

  “So where is Cynthia now? Shouldn’t the perfect daughter-in-law be here to see her husband off to war? After all, it wouldn’t be the first time she kissed a lover good-bye before battle—maybe not the last, either.”

  “Kitty, stop,” William said quietly, but I was too far gone to halt the stream of anger.

  “Perhaps she’s not as dear a prize as you thought, Papa. Perhaps her affections can be bought for far less than you believed. Why don’t you ask her when you see her next? Ask her who the lucky man is.”

  “Kitty, enough.”

  It was not my parents’ sputtered fury but William’s cold, clear, knifing voice that dragged me back to my senses. He stood vibrating like a coiled spring, white ringing his mouth, his eyes painfully bright. Hands clenched.

  I wiped my face, drew a breath. “I’m . . . William, I’m so sorry. I have to go. I shouldn’t have come. Take . . .” I met his gaze for one long, painful moment. “Take care of yourself.”

  I turned and ran, never getting to hug him good-bye or offer one last kiss. But I watched from the farthest corner of the upper platform as his train pulled out. The young soldiers who hadn’t yet experienced the horrors of the front sang songs. As my nose ran and tears burned my eyes, I hummed along as they raised their voices in “The Homes They Leave Behind.”

  Chapter 19

  June 1941

  The ward scullery, an old anteroom converted and improved with a sink and a small burner ring when the house changed hands, still bore the orange and gold damask wallpaper of its heyday and a chandelier, which sparkled down on a metal table, two chairs, and an enormous ugly army-issue cabinet. The room was noisy, too close to Sister Murphy’s gimlet eye for comfort, and the upper doors of the cabinet had a disconcerting habit of swinging open at odd times and catching one in the face. But the biscuit tin was always full, the kettle always at the boil, and the talk always juicy.

  Coming off duty, Anna retired to fix a restorative cup of tea before climbing the stairs to her room and falling into bed, hopefully for six hours of dreamless sleep.

  “Thought I’d find you here.” Hugh dropped into a chair beside her. “I’d kill for a whiskey.”

  Anna poured him a cup of tea instead and set it at his elbow. “Has Lieutenant Forbes’s wife arrived yet?”

  “No. That’s three times she’s canceled.” He stared into the mug, hands plowed to either side of his head. “Bloody bitch.”

  “It’s hard to see someone you love suffering.”

  “You mean it’s hard seeing them with half a face and no hands. Forbes shouldn’t even be here, Anna. Why hasn’t he been sent on to Basingstoke or the Queen Victoria?”

  “He’s due to be transferred any day. He’s only here now because Southampton ran out of beds.”

  “Bloody fucking war.” Hugh pulled a flask from his pocket, pouring a generous amount of whiskey into his tea. Swirled it around. So much for sobriety.

  “Surely it will make a difference, now the Russians are on our side,” Anna remarked, nibbling a shortbread biscuit.

  “I’d like to say Hitler’s bitten off more than he could chew, but who would have thought he’d manage as much as he has in such a short time? The damned little corporal in Berlin may look a clown, but he’s no bloody fool. He’d not attack Stalin if he didn’t think he’d beat him.”

  “It must do us some good. We’re not alone in this fight anymore. That has to count for something.”

  “Meanwhile, the Lieutenant Forbeses of this war languish while the people who profess to love them shy away out of revulsion and fear.” A hand fell to his thigh, kneading what was left of his leg. “We’re damaged goods set out for the refuse heap.”

  “Stop it,” Anna snapped. “Stop behaving as if your life is over because you’ve lost a damned leg. Look at Forbes. Is he complaining? You’re perfectly capable of doing anything you put your mind to if you took two seconds to be grateful for what you have rather than always moaning about what you’ve lost.”

  He offered her a wry if somewhat apologetic smile. “You know, I wonder sometimes if the advantages of gaining a new cousin are worth the grief. Nobody else scolds me like you do. Well . . . no one but Mother, though her reprimands are far less vocal. She can make me feel guilty with no more than a lift of one perfectly plucked eyebrow and a sorrowful half smile.”

  A voice barked, “In there.”

  Speak of the devil. Anna looked up in time to catch Sister Murphy jabbing a finger in her direction and Lady Boxley offering a curt empress-like nod of gratitude.

  She wore a pale green dress with a fashionable close-fitting hat to match. Her hair and makeup were impeccable, and she moved in that brisk yet patronizing way of all upper-class women, as if she had just swept out of her chauffeur-driven Bentley after a day of shopping at Harrods and taking tea at Brown’s Hotel.

  Hugh stood
as his mother entered the room. Anna noted the way his hand clutched the table and the sudden leaping pulse in his jaw. No doubt, Her Ladyship expected Anna to hop to attention like a doorman or a housemaid with a submissive curtsy, but she was too tired and her feet hurt. She stayed where she was and spooned honey into her cup.

  “Set an army of her ilk on the Germans, they wouldn’t stand a chance,” Lady Boxley grumbled after Sister Murphy departed.

  Anna caught her gaze, and for a moment they shared a feeling of mutual accord. Then Her Ladyship ruined it with a cool, dismissive look down her regal nose as she addressed Hugh. “I’m glad to see you safe and sound, Hugh dear. I thought something must have happened when you didn’t turn up at the station with the car.”

  “Blast! I’m sorry, Mother. It completely slipped my mind. I was working with Anna all morning and lost track of time.”

  “That’s all right, my darling. I’m sure your business here was more important.” She made a sweeping study of the cluttered scullery and the table set with tea and biscuits. “Overseeing repairs?”

  “Helping on the wards, actually.”

  “Were you? What an odd thing to do.” She offered him a thin smile and patted his cheek as if he were ten. “It’s all right. Mr. Gough was at the station with the estate wagon. I was able to ride along with him . . . plus four cans of paint, a case of tools, five bags of wheat seed, and a small motor. A diverting if somewhat grubby journey.” She sighed. “I’m sure after a hot bath and my medicine drops, I’ll be right as rain again. Don’t give it another thought.”

  “Truly, Mother. I am sorry. How was London?”

  “Horrid. Traveling is always a travail, more so now when one can’t count on any sort of timetable, and proper decorum seems to be a thing of the past. We were delayed over an hour, then our driver turned out to be some young snippet of a girl, and Claridge’s is not up to its prewar standards. Everything is make-do and catch as catch can. I don’t know why I continue to make the journey.”

  “Because you can’t invite your friends down here any longer now the hospital’s been taken over.”