Lord Calne's Christmas Ruby

by Jude Knight

  Aunt Cecilia would have ignored any remark she made as irrelevant, since Aunt Cecilia believed the world would march to her order if she only charged on in her chosen direction. She ignored any facts that did not fit her preconceptions, including her own son’s opposition to marriage with his older cousin, the five years between his age and hers seeming an insuperable barrier to an eighteen-year-old.

  Cecil’s guardian, his father’s uncle, had forbidden the match while Cecil was so young but, despite this, in Aunt Cecilia’s mind the matter was certain. She nonetheless kept a careful watch for possible poachers in her son’s preserves.

  It didn’t matter. This was the last ton party Lalamani would attend, if all went as planned in the morning. She and Cecil had decided. Or, rather, Lalamani had made up her mind, and Cecil had cooperated, since it fitted with his own desires.

  Tomorrow, they would leave together, and disappear. Cecil was heading north to a hunting lodge with friends. Lalamani had received a friendly letter from her father’s sister, the widow of a country rector who still lived in the village she and her husband had served for forty years. Lalamani had grown up with letters from Aunt Hannah, and couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of going there before now.

  This morning, Cecil had escorted her to her man of business, who was also her trustee, to collect this quarter’s pin money. Tomorrow, he would see her to the coaching inn, and onto the coach for her aunt’s village. She would visit, and if all went well, she would take refuge with Aunt Hannah until her twenty-fifth birthday, when she had control of her own fortune.

  With luck, Aunt Cecilia would assume she and Cecil had eloped and would keep their absence a secret so her brother-in-law did not come running to stop his ward’s marriage.

  With even more luck, her first inkling Cecil and Lalamani had gone in different directions would be when Cecil returned from his hunting trip in the new year. Time enough for Lalamani to find out whether she wanted to stay with Aunt Hannah, and whether Aunt Hannah would want her to stay. She could deal with Aunt Cecilia easily enough if only she had a safe place to wait out the next year.

  Chapter Three

  Lalamani, waking in the little room she had been assigned when she arrived in Feldon Roding late the previous evening, looked around it without pleasure. The walls were covered in a faded print that must have been a dull puce when it was first put up and was now an indeterminate beige, almost the same colour as the painted ceiling. Its trim had once, perhaps, been gold but was now a rather dirty brown. The walls were panelled to chair-rail height in a dark wood made dull by unknown years of poorly applied polish. The drab curtains added to the overall impression of being in a muddy hole underground.

  “What colour would you call those curtains, Milly?” she asked when her maid arrived with a jug of hot water and a warning her Aunt, Mrs Thorpe, always rose to break her fast in the downstairs dining room, and Miss Lalamani had better look sharp if she wanted to join her.

  Milly looked doubtfully at the curtains. “Chocolate?”

  “I was thinking mud,” Lalamani said. “The yellow sprigged, Milly. I feel the need of something cheerful.”

  Milly put the pink gingham back on the hooks and lifted down the dress Lalamani selected. The muted pink, which Lalamani had always rather liked, today looked almost the same shade as the wall it hung on.

  Dressed, Lalamani went down through a stairwell and hall of the same faded, depressing hues to a dining room that might have been rather fine fifteen years ago, had it been decorated in more appealing colours and had the black crepe swags draped along every available surface been folded away, or at least shaken out and dusted.

  Aunt Hannah was helping herself to a heaping plate of food. Lalamani noted the food, at least, was not depressing. Aunt Hannah clearly believed in starting the day with variety and quality.

  “Lalamani, my dear, how lovely you look, and how you brighten up this sad old house.” Aunt Hannah dabbed at the tears that overflowed from her pale blue eyes.

  The house was, Lalamani had to agree, rather sad, with its drab colours and mourning swags. Aunt Hannah, too, was swathed in deep black though her husband the rector had been gone for nearly nine years.

  “Have some bacon, Lalamani, dear. And eggs? How do you like your eggs?” Aunt Hannah fussed over making sure Lalamani had a loaded plate, clucking anxiously that Lalamani must say if anything was lacking and Aunt Hannah would order it for the morrow.

  “I am very pleased to see you, Lalamani, of course. Dear Hadley’s little girl.” Aunt Hannah leaned over the table to pat Lalamani’s hand, her eyes watering slightly. “I do not know when I last had company. And is your aunt, Lady Carngrove, well? And little Lord Carngrove?”

  “Yes, very well,” Lalamani said. “They are both well.” How Cedric would frown to be referred to as little Lord Carngrove, as if he was still in leading strings.

  Aunt Hannah’s face glowed with the warmth of her smile. “They will miss you, I am certain. But how kind of them to spare you to me for Christmas.”

  “I am very happy to be here, Aunt Hannah.”

  “It is lovely to have you here. I could not be more pleased, Lalamani, but…” The anxious expression that seemed habitual deepened to a frown. “I do not know, my dear, how I shall keep you entertained. I live very quietly, you know.”

  “I am here to visit you, Aunt Hannah. I am happy to keep you company, and perhaps I can help with your visiting and your parish work?” Lalamani had long been fascinated by the many activities Aunt Hannah had written about over the years.

  “Oh, my dear, I do not do much anymore.” The faded cheeks turned pink, and the ready tears brimmed over again. “I know I said in my letters… It was wrong of me. One should never tell falsehoods, but truly I did do all those things. Just not since the new rector… His sister, you know. She is quite right, quite right. It is her place to… And I would not want to… I truly would not, my dear. I feel so old and useless, and when I wrote to you, I could pretend, for just a while…”

  Her voice faded away as tears sleeted down her cheeks. Lalamani patted her on the arm, wondering somewhat desperately what to do next. This was completely outside of Lalamani’s experience. Her life had not provided a plethora of weeping elderly widows.

  “Dear Aunt Hannah, of course you pretended. Anyone would have done the same. There was no harm in it. Oh, Aunt Hannah, please do not cry.”

  After several minutes of patting and reassurances, Aunt Hannah visibly pulled herself together and gave Lalamani a watery smile. “There, you will be running away when you have barely arrived. I am so sorry to be such a watering pot, my dear. Come, try some of this lovely bacon. I must say the parish people are so good to me. I never want for food for my plate. I really do not. Why Mrs Wright brought me this lovely cut of bacon just yesterday morning…”

  She carried on while Lalamani ate, enumerating all the givers of the food they enjoyed. The tea, brought by the servant who had opened the door to Lalamani and Milly the night before, was not up to the same standard; it was weak and of an indeterminate flavour between milky water and, Lalamani thought, dishwater.

  Aunt Hannah, after taking a sip, looked with consternation at the servant, a small bent elderly lady in the same faded black as she herself wore. “Oh dear, Addy. It is worse than I remembered.”

  “I told you, madam. Gave you the floor sweepings, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Addy! No uncharitable remarks, if you please. As if they would. It is very kind of Dr Wagley and his sister. Lalamani, the rector and his sister give us a canister of tea every Christmas. A whole canister! Is that not generous?” She looked doubtfully at the cup.

  Lalamani exchanged glances with the servant and resolved to have a private conversation with her very soon.

  Something was wrong here. Uncle Herbert had bought Aunt Hannah a house when her husband died, and set up a trust to provide her with an income. She should not be dependent for her very food on the generosity of her departed husband’s f
ormer parishioners.

  Everything Lalamani had seen in the house was faded, dismal, and much mended, from the furnishings to the clothes Aunt Hannah and her servant Addy wore. Yes, and not too clean. Surely a house of this size needed more than one servant? But Addy, bustling out and then back again with a pot of peppermint tisane to replace the undrinkable China tea, was the only one Lalamani had seen, and far too old to manage all the work on her own.

  Lalamani and Milly would have to help. Ladies’ maids generally held themselves above housework, but Milly was an agreeable girl, and would probably consent to work alongside Lalamani to make the place more comfortable for Aunt Hannah and her woman, especially if Lalamani paid Milly extra to assuage the loss of dignity.

  Yes. Dealing with the dirty corners would be simple enough. Finding out the cause of Aunt Hannah’s unexpected poverty was unlikely to be as easy.

  Chapter Four

  Philip had been warned. But he found Highwood Hall in an even worse state than he expected. “The house in Feldon Roding has been the main seat of the Calnes for hundreds of years,” the lawyer had said, “but your uncle hasn’t lived there for fifteen years, or kept it staffed for ten. And he refused to allow money to be spent on repairs. I understand the roof has failed in places, in the main house and in the outbuildings.”

  The entire west wing had failed, the roof collapsed into the crumbling walls that were all that remained. The centre block was still largely intact, but the east wing was going the way of its counterpart, with gaping holes instead of tiles and the rafters showing through.

  The stables were in no better case. Philip tethered his borrowed horse where it could reach water and grass, and poked around as best he could without risking life and limb. He’d hoped to be able to do some repairs in order to increase the possible sale price, but razing the place to the ground might be the best use of his meagre savings.

  One thing was certain. He would not be staying in his own house tonight. He’d better get settled at the local inn and walk back later, to make a start on a proper assessment.

  A day with her aunt only deepened Lalamani’s concerns.

  Adidiah—Addy—was happy to express an opinion, as she and Lalamani scrubbed the kitchen floor. “It’s a crying shame, Miss Lalamani. Mrs Thorpe don’t have but a pittance for herself. If not for the people roundabouts, why, she’d starve.”

  “But, Addy, she has an income. She could even sell this house and move into a smaller place if she needed to.”

  “Is that a fact, Miss Lalamani? Rector, he gives her a bit of money now and then. Don’t know about no income, though. I never heard of such.”

  Lalamani wasn’t sure of the details of the trust; it had been set up before she began acting as her uncle’s secretary. But her uncle loved his sister, and he was a wealthy man. Why, the house itself attested to his generosity; shabby though it was, it was large, well built, and had lovely proportions.

  An interview with her aunt was in order, and afterwards, perhaps a letter to Lalamani’s lawyer who had served her uncle well over many years.

  “Aunt Hannah,” Lalamani began as they took a break from housework that afternoon to walk the two miles to the village, “it is impertinent of me, I know, but I am concerned about you.”

  “You do not need to be, dear Lalamani.” Aunt Hannah’s eyes watered again. “I have all I need. Everyone is so generous to me.” A shadow crossed over her face. “I do wish, though, I was able to pay my dear Addy. I worry about her, dear, I do indeed. If anything should happen to me… Well, I must just pray about it and trust God would look after her.”

  “Aunt Hannah,” she tried again, “what happened to the money Uncle Herbert left you?”

  She stopped in her tracks and peered at Lalamani, her pale blue eyes bewildered. “Money, dear? He paid for the house; the man from London came and found it for me. That was so lovely of Herbert, sweetheart. Though I could wish it was closer to the village, but Miss Wagley—she’s the rector’s sister, dear—she told me it was better I put a bit of distance between myself and the village. The people needed to get used to calling on her, she said. And she was quite right, no doubt, but I do find it hard sometimes, my dear.” She began walking again, shaking her head.

  “But the money, Aunt Hannah,” Lalamani reminded her.

  “No one told me anything about any money, my dear. I was not very well, of course. Such a terrible ague. So many people died. My poor dear husband. The inn keeper. Twelve babies they told me, so sad, I always think, when a baby dies.” Her eyes filled again.

  Lalamani was becoming inured to the easy tears and carried on regardless. “I’m so sorry to make you think about that sad time, Aunt Hannah, but it is important. When did you hear about the house?” It must have taken some time for word of Uncle Thorpe’s death to get to India and for Uncle Herbert to send back his instructions to his lawyer.

  “Let me see, dear. Mr Thorpe took the ague in January. He was one of the first in the village. I nursed him, of course, and we thought he was rallying, but he died in early February. Too much strain on his heart, dear, the doctor said.

  “So many sick people in the village and out on the farms. So sad, my dear, especially when it started in the foundlings’ home. I did what I could, but I was so tired, and then I fell sick myself. If not for Addy, I would have died too, I expect.

  “How mysterious are the ways of God, for me to be spared and not those little children. A useless old woman like me, living past her time.” Paradoxically, Aunt Hannah seemed cheered rather than depressed by this and blew her nose enthusiastically on the handkerchief with which she had been dabbing her eyes.

  “So, when did Uncle Herbert’s lawyer come to see you about the house?” Lalamani asked.

  “Oh, I never met him. He visited while I was sick. I had the ague again twice more that year, and he came the second time, in the summer it was. Indeed, by the time I was well enough to go about a bit again, they had already moved me into the house. I was so grateful, for I cannot deny the cottage they found for me when they moved me from the rectory was draughty, and the roof leaked. But there. I must not complain, and it was good of the people to find me a place.

  “The new rector—he was the new rector then—came to see me and explained my brother had rented the house for me, though what I will do when the lease runs out I do not know, my dear.

  “And he said the parish would look after me, since I had no income. And they have, Lalamani. Why, Dr Wagley even gives me money from time to time. One does need money, unfortunately. At last quarter day, he gave me a whole ten pounds! Think of that. Ten pounds.”

  The lease? The house was Aunt Hannah’s free and clear. And ten pounds? Lalamani had spent much more on a walking dress.

  They’d arrived in the village, and Lalamani dropped the topic for the moment, but she would be seeking an introduction to this Dr Wagley without delay!

  Miss Finchurch was the first person Philip saw as he rode into the village. At first, he did not believe it, since he had been seeing her in every short comely woman he passed for days. But there she was, her face turned his way as she talked to the elderly woman beside her.

  She wasn’t aware of him, her focus all on her companion. He noted the shop she entered, a village general store. Should he follow immediately, or take a room at the inn first and look her up after? The hired horse was tired. He should hand it over to the care of the grooms. He nudged it on into the inn-yard and dismounted with his usual care, pleased the damned hand managed to maintain hold on the reins. It ached a bit, but his exercises had helped him to gain and keep some measure of function.

  A walk would do him good. He gave his saddle bags to the innkeeper with instructions to prepare a room, and headed out to find Miss Finchurch.

  She was still in the shop. He knew her by her lack of height, and by some indefinable knowledge of her shape and the way she moved, though her face was hidden by her bonnet and she was half hidden on the other side of a stack of shelves.

>   “Oh dear,” the elderly woman was saying, “Lalamani, my love, are you sure? Can you afford it? I should not wish you to spend your money on me.”

  Lalamani. What an unusual name. Beautiful and exotic, and somehow precisely right for the lady whose memory had haunted him for days.

  “And why not, may I ask?” Lalamani replied firmly. “Who else should I spend it on than the aunt who was like a mother to my papa? Why, it is my Christian duty, Aunt Hannah.”

  Philip rounded the shelves and was gratified by Miss Finchurch’s expression of surprised delight before she schooled her face to gracious welcome.

  “My lord! What a surprise to see you here! Aunt Hannah, may I make known to you Lord…?”

  Philip interrupted, holding out a hand to the lady. “Lord Calne’s engineer, Philip Daventry, madam, at your service.”

  Miss Finchurch’s eyes narrowed, but she did not betray his prevarication. “My aunt, Mrs Thorpe.”

  Mrs Thorpe held out a wrinkled hand for him to salute. “Mr Daventry? Oh my goodness. I suppose you have come to see to the Hall. Daventry is the earl’s family name, of course, so you must be some kind of cousin. Does the earl wish the Hall repaired? But I cannot think it is fit for anyone to stay in. Certainly, no one has stayed there this past thirty years. More! You will stay with us, of course. Only, Lalamani,” and here she dropped her voice to what she clearly imagined was a whisper, “I’m not perfectly sure we have another whole set of sheets!”

  “I have a room at the inn, Mrs Thorpe, but thank you for the offer.”

  Mrs Thorpe looked relieved, but insisted, “But you will visit. You must. You have come all this way. And you are a friend of my niece’s.”

  “I expect Mr Daventry is as surprised to see me as I am to see him,” Miss Finchurch said.

  Philip hazarded his luck. “Yes, but I am always happy to see a friend, Miss Finchurch, and feel very fortunate my duties brought me to the same village you were visiting. I had not hoped to see you again so soon.” Or at all, though he had thought about her more often than he should, given his lack of a decent future to offer her.