by Gayle Buck
He had been somewhat cheered by his sister’s lack of hesitation. Miranda could be trusted to keep a cool head on her shoulders. But when he shut the door to the carriage he left his hands on the window edge, reluctant to say good-bye now that the moment had come.
Miranda looked down at her brother’s frown. “I will be fine, Jeremy.”
“I do dislike your traveling alone, Miranda. I wish there was someone we knew to act as an escort,” he said.
“What would I do with an escort?” asked Miranda scornfully. “I am hardly one of those helpless ladies who swoons at the least excuse, Jeremy. Between us, Constance and I shall be able to handle whatever may arise.”
He laughed, acknowledging that it was probably true. “I am sorry that I cannot accompany you myself. But I shall not know anything for certain for several days yet. In the meantime, we must do all that we can for Ned Simmons and the other seaman. Edward is ear wigging every influential person he knows.” Jeremy’s eyes turned suddenly cold and his jaw hardened. “As for the cutter’s commanding officer, our good Captain Daggett, that is another matter that I wish to address.”
Miranda squeezed his fingers. “We will win, Jeremy. I know it in my heart. I shall tell our cousins of our misfortune. I should think that they might know someone with influence as well. I may yet be able to add a persuasive voice to the fight.”
Jeremy nodded. He suddenly grinned. “I know that you found it difficult not to be able to help. Perhaps at Willowswood you will find a way to do just that.”
Miranda smiled back at her brother. “We are from a determined family, Jeremy. Could I do anything less?” Impulsively, she reached over to kiss his lean, browned cheek. “Good-bye and good hunting, brother!”
Jeremy stepped back from the carriage, signaling the driver. A whip cracked and the chaise jerked forward. He put his hand to his mouth and called, “Miranda, just think before you leap, will you?”
Miranda wrinkled her nose and waved. She knew he was remembering her near tragic impetuosity on board the Larabelle. “I will, Jeremy!” The carriage got up speed, its iron tires clattering over the damp cobbles. Jeremy watched the chaise until it had disappeared.
* * *
Chapter 3
As Miranda traveled through open moorlands she was awed by the beauty of hills unfolding behind hills, clothed in brown and green, in an endless undulating line. The carriage passed farms and villages that were remarkably neat and in good order and the inns that she and Constance rested at were comfortable and clean, staffed by courteous and obliging servants.
The stone walls and fields of Cornwall eventually gave way to the high hedges and deep rich soil of Devon. The country cottages were thatched in varying shades, ranging from the gold of ripe wheat, gray, taupe, russet, and rich brown, to the older, weather-beaten, and smoke-stained roofs of darkest brown. Miranda knew from her cousin’s letters that Willowswood was located outside one of these small villages. Through the months Anne’s correspondence had contained several lively descriptions of the quiet Devon district in which she lived, so that as the carriage neared its destination Miranda began to recognize landmarks. She pointed out the window. “There is Willoughby Hall, Constance. My cousin described it perfectly,” she said. She smiled as she recalled all that Anne had brought to such vivid life with her pen.
Three respectable manor houses distinguished the outer reaches of the village, Anne had written. The first, Willoughby Hall, stood about two miles before the village. The Hall had once been the site of many entertainments but now rarely saw visitors since the last scion of the house was a reclusive gentleman who preferred puttering in his garden among his rose beds and his dove cote.
It was not that Mr. Willoughby rejected the society of his fellows; if someone called to extend an invitation, he usually accepted in a vague sort of way. But the moment that his visitor was out of sight, he promptly forgot the point of their conversation. However, there was always the hope among his more persistent neighbors that Mr. Willoughby would take the notion, as he occasionally did, to attend the various amusements in the neighborhood. After all, Mr. Willoughby was a young man, not above thirty in any case, and judged to be fairly well-favored in countenance and build. He was also the owner of Willoughby Hall, a proud house established during good Queen Bess’s reign, and that must be counted for something by the parents of marriageable daughters.
The village was typical of those that Miranda and Constance had seen during their journey. The carriage rattled over the cobbles in the streets and quickly left it behind.
The second manor house on the outer bounds of the village was Stonehollow, inhabited by Mr. Bertram Burton and his incredibly beautiful sister, Mary Alice. Mr. Burton’s friends and acquaintances could not exclaim enough over Miss Burton’s violet eyes, her red rosebud mouth, and her perfectly endowed figure; but they received only an indifferent shrug and cynical laugh from Mr. Burton. Better than anyone, he knew that his sister’s uncommon beauty clothed a nature both restless and capricious. He had ducked too many hurled missiles and been the target of too many tirades to subscribe graciously to his cronies’ reverent opinions.
Nevertheless, however much he decried his sister’s temper, Mr. Burton did harbor some sympathy for her. She knew herself to be wasted on the gentlemen in the neighborhood and looked higher for her place in life. And well she might, had declared Mr. Burton more than once. Mary Alice Burton was the prettiest piece the county had ever seen. Given the right entrees she could easily snare herself an earl or even a duke. But titles of that sort were not likely to turn up in such a sleepy district.
As for Miss Burton, she ruled what was offered with a high hand. As far back as she could remember, gentlemen young and old had catered to her every whim, spoiling her and encouraging her to rely on her sweet beauty to gain whatever she desired. As a consequence, at the age of nineteen Miss Burton was a spoiled, haughty young lady, bestowing her smiles and frowns with capricious want of thought or compassion. She was inevitably surrounded by a court of admirers and if she felt the lack of female friends and companionship, none could have told it by her devastating progress through the district’s society. Miss Burton easily overshadowed her peers and when her violet eyes beckoned, the other young ladies despaired of retaining their own admirers’ fickle interest.
Miranda looked for the squire’s house, but it was too closely hidden by trees for her to catch sight of it. But her greater curiosity in Willowswood soon overran this disappointment. She knew from Anne’s letters that the squire was the Townsends’ nearest neighbor and she pressed close to the window for her first glimpse of Willowswood.
Anne and her husband had come to Willowswood but ten months previously, having inherited the property from an eccentric relative. Anne had said nothing much was known of the redoubtable old woman to whom Willowswood had belonged except that she was a lady born who detested society of any sort. Miss Claridge had steadfastly refused every invitation extended to her by her neighbors. One of her more stout-minded neighbors had once dared to call on her and had been sent packing. Upon being questioned by the curious, he had aptly described Miss Claridge as “a crank, very starchy, and decided in her opinions.” When the good lady died there was much speculation about what would be done with Willowswood and by whom. Some thought the estate would simply go to rack and ruin; others wondered if Miss Claridge could possibly have left the house to an animal society, for it was known that she had a fondness for cats. Eventually it was learned with astonishment that Miss Claridge had a distant relative, a young army officer by name of Richard Townsend.
When the Townsends took possession of Willowswood the entire neighborhood had held back to see if they were anything like Miss Claridge. But Richard and Anne Townsend were discovered to be a delightful couple and their young son was variously described as “a mischievous young devil,” “quite intelligent, though perhaps a bit too indulged,” and “a regular right-un.”
Anne had confided in her correspondence that
she had been appalled by her first tour of Willowswood. Miss Claridge had kept most of the proud one-hundred-year-old house closed up with only a minimal staff, since she did not entertain. As a result, the estate was somewhat tumbledown and in need of much improvement. Richard had an independence that could carry the expense of the house, but it was not great enough to allow him to make over the house all at once. But Anne had assured Miranda that when she did visit them at Willowswood she would find all the comforts of home, for though neither Anne nor Richard were familiar with the running of a large house and grounds, they were determined to make of Willowswood a veritable showplace.
It was late afternoon when the chaise drove up the winding drive to Willowswood. Miranda could scarcely contain her excitement and curiosity. She had not seen Anne since they were both girls and though the cousins had remained close through the years by letter, it was vastly different to be able at last to meet Anne’s husband and her small son. “I don’t know what I shall say, Constance,” she exclaimed as she caught sight of the pleasant gray mansion ahead. Willowswood was a three-story manor house graced on either end by a tall chimney. Vines clung to the sides of the house and large oaks shaded the west windows. A half circle of steps rose welcomingly to the wide door.
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry my head over that. I have never known you to be without a proper word or two,” said the maid dryly. Her tart observation earned her a glance of outrage from her mistress and she chuckled.
The chaise drew up at the steps. The driver opened the carriage door and let down the iron step. Miranda accepted the man’s hand in descending and then stood motionless on the gravel to look up at the house. There was no movement at the windows, nor did the door open at the arrival of the chaise. She frowned slightly. The maid also was struck by the odd lack of activity. “Perhaps we should ring the bell. Miss Miranda,” she suggested.
“Of course.” Miranda and her companion climbed the stone steps and Miranda firmly pulled on the bell. She could hear its echoes within and nodded with satisfaction. She addressed the chaise’s driver. “Pray set down our trunks and bring them in,” she said. The man nodded, touching his cap in deference. Miranda turned again to the door, only to wait futilely for it to open. She and Constance looked at one another, their eyes reflecting the same question. Miranda shook her head. “Nonsense, they cannot have left. We were expected.” She took hold of the brass handle, not actually expecting it to turn. She was therefore surprised when the door eased open on well-oiled hinges. For a moment she stood indecisive. Then she shrugged slightly and pushed the door wide.
“Do you think we ought?” asked the maid doubtfully.
“Come, Constance. It is not as though we are breaking into the house. The door is unlocked and we are expected guests,” said Miranda, as much to reassure herself as her companion. She stepped inside, followed a moment later by the reluctant maid. The women stood in a wide pleasant hall. A staircase rose on the right hand, doubling back on itself to form a partial balcony of the upper hall. Several closed doors marched down either side of the entrance hall. The walls were covered with a charming paper of small white roses and mirrors that reflected sunlight dancing with dust motes across the marble floor. But the arrangement of blooms in the bowl on the occasional table had long since withered and dropped petals to the surface of the table and the floor. A thin coating of dust covered the straight-backed chairs that were set about for visitors. There was utter quiet.
* * *
Chapter 4
“I do not care for the look of it, Miss Miranda,” said Constance firmly.
“Nor I,” admitted Miranda. She heard a step behind her and turned. The burdened chaise driver had paused in the doorway to look about him. “Pray leave the baggage here. We shall go directly to find someone to tell us where it is to go,” said Miranda.
“I needs to be getting to the inn in the village for me next fare, ma am,” said the man, setting down the load of baggage.
“Yes, I understand. We shall not be long, I trust,” said Miranda. She gestured to Constance and they walked down the hall, opening doors as they went. In room after room the curtains over the tall windows were drawn, creating an impression of gloomy abandonment. Some of the rooms were surprisingly untidy. Ashes that had been left in the fireplace grates had spilled out onto the floor and an occasional window had been left open to allow debris and rain to be blown inside. Gray cobwebs festooned every corner.
Miranda felt more and more dismayed. It was hardly the welcome that she had expected. It appeared that she and Constance had come to an empty house.
“If there is someone here, Miss Miranda, we shall find signs in the kitchen,” said Constance. Her mistress nodded and together they went in search of the kitchen.
Most of the inner regions of the house showed signs of the same neglect they’d seen in the rooms off the entrance hall. When they did find the kitchen they were almost startled to find it inhabited. They paused in the doorway, silent with their surprise.
The elderly woman who worked at the stove did not at first notice that she was being observed. She stirred a large pot from which savory steam arose and tossed in a handful of scallions. Her wrinkled face was red from the heat; a strand of her gray hair had fallen out of its pin and she brushed it up impatiently. Her expression was tired, resigned. She turned to the table to pick up a rack on which aired fresh loaves of breads and chanced then to see her audience. She started violently and the bread jumped out of her hands to the table and floor. She stood with one hand pressed on her ample breast and exclaimed, “Lor’!”
Miranda entered the kitchen. “I beg pardon! We did not mean to frighten you. I am Miss Miranda Wainwright and this is my companion and maid, Mrs. Constance Graves.” Miranda bent to retrieve a loaf of the bread. She sniffed appreciatively before setting it onto the plank table. With a friendly smile, she said, “How good fresh-baked bread smelts. I take it that you are Mrs. Townsend’s cook?”
The plump woman had regained her color and the look of fright faded from her eyes. She reached up to tuck the rebellious lock of hair firmly into its pin. “Aye, I am Mrs. Crumpet. I was that surprised to see you, miss. We—that is Mr. Crumpet and I—we had forgotten that you would be coming, but now that you have it might be the very thing. Mr. Crumpet wrote his lordship this two weeks past but never a word have we heard, and there be the mistress sick in her bed and the boy running wild and us with no help—” Tears started to the cook’s faded blue eyes and she had recourse to her apron. She wiped her cheeks quickly and gave a watery sniff. “Forgive me, miss, but it has been a bit of a burden as you may imagine.”
Constance had quietly picked up the rest of the bread and placed it neatly on the table. While the cook regained control of herself, she exchanged bewildered glances with her mistress. Miranda was alarmed by the cook’s partial revelations. “But what has happened? Where is Richard? Surely if Anne is fallen ill, he would not leave! And what is this about having no help? There must be others responsible for tending the house, surely!” said Miranda.
The cook shook her head. “When the mistress was struck down with her illness, the others deserted her for fear of the pox. Of those in the house, only myself and Mr. Crumpet, who is the butler, stayed. And Master Richard—”
“Pox!” Miranda could not keep the mingled dismay and fear out of her voice, and she knew that her expression must mirror the same horror as was in Constance’s face.
“No, no, miss! It is as I tried to tell those fools, who would not stay to listen. The mistress had the chicken pox, not the dreaded small pox. But there was true pox in the countryside hereabouts not long ago and the fear was that it had come again. And seeing as how the house servants were but a gaggle of silly geese who had no loyalty to a new mistress and master, they all left us without a thought of mercy in their hearts,” said Mrs. Crumpet bitterly.
“Then my cousin is lying somewhere in the house unattended except for you and Mr. Crumpet? But where are Richard and the boy?” asked
Miranda sharply.
“Begging your pardon, miss, but Master Richard was called back to the army more than two months since. Mr. Crumpet wrote him, too, but there is that fierce of fighting and running about on the Continent that Mr. Crumpet fears the letter went astray.” The cook paused and shook her head. “As for the boy, Mr. Crumpet is looking about for him now. The little one is that wild and headstrong and lonely, what with his father being gone and his mother down in bed and no one to watch him. It is not enough, but Mr. Crumpet and I do our best.”
“I am certain that you do. And I thank you most heartily for it. Well, Constance! It appears that we have found employment,” said Miranda with an attempt at lightness.
“Indeed we have, Miss Miranda,” said Constance with a slight smile. She removed her bonnet and her gloves to place them on an out-of-the-way chair. “I shall aid Mrs. Crumpet with the tea and perhaps a tray for Mrs. Townsend would not be amiss.”
“An excellent thought, Constance. I shall wish to see my cousin as soon as possible. In the meantime, I suppose I should have our driver carry up our bags and then pay him off. We shall not be returning to the village as I had earlier half-suspected might be necessary from the state of the house,” said Miranda. She turned to the cook, who was listening with every appearance of rising hope. “Mrs. Crumpet, if you would show me to the rooms most suitable for my companion and myself I would be most grateful. I should also like to see Mrs. Townsend.”
“Of course, miss! I would be most happy to, I am sure!” said Mrs. Crumpet, and with hardly a glance for the stranger who was making herself familiar with her kitchen, she led Miranda back through the house.
The bedrooms that Mrs. Crumpet showed her into were covered in dust covers just as many of the rooms downstairs were. In the room that was to be Miranda’s, Mrs. Crumpet crossed to the windows and vigorously pulled on the curtain ropes. The drapes flew open and sunlight streamed into the bedroom. “It will look better once I have them covers off, miss,” she said, and set to with a will.