At length they reached the gates and the comfort of the well-drained gravel drive, and were able to walk side by side again. Lucy’s thoughts were still on the oddity of two sisters living in the same town for fully two years, and even meeting in the same drawing rooms, without recognising each other. Mr Audley’s thoughts were clearly following a similar track.
“You are lucky in being close to your sisters, Mrs Price,” he said. “I have seen the letters arriving, and yours leaving. You write so often to each other. How do you find enough to say?”
“There is always something to say. I shall write to Margaret next, I think, and I shall tell her all about today, about my call on Aunt Laurel, and all the shops I visited, and what I bought in each one, and the funny story Mrs Banstead told me about her new scullery maid, and how I dropped some coins out of my purse in Mr Walker’s confectionery shop and how one of the coins lodged in a crack between the floorboards, and Mr Walker had to get his tools out and lift the floorboard a little to retrieve it for me.”
“And you will tell her about meeting me on the lane, I suppose?”
“Of course, and how you offered to carry me over the muddy parts, although that story will be best received by Fanny. She is such a romantic, dear Fanny. She will hear of your gallant offer, and immediately imagine you violently in love with me, and be in hourly anticipation of the announcement of our betrothal.” He chuckled, and she went on, “And then Annabelle will think nothing of that, except to conclude that you are a gentleman, which was a settled matter already, but she is so clever that perhaps she will be able to explain to me how two sisters can live in the same town and even meet each other without either being aware of it. For that puzzles me exceedingly, Mr Audley. And what of your other sisters? Your half-sisters, I mean? Where are they?”
“I have no idea. Tilford hears from them occasionally and they are well, he says. Beyond that, I have no more interest in them than in anyone else from my childhood, long since moved away.”
“Are they married? You might have a great many nephews and nieces. Half-nephews and half-nieces, I mean.”
He shrugged. “They had dowries of twenty five thousand pounds apiece, so naturally they are married.”
“But you do not know where they are? Or even whether they are alive or dead?”
“I do not need to know,” he said, and there was a coldness in his voice which made her shiver. “They chose to leave their home in Bath, they chose to leave Gussie and me without a word, from that day to this. They have never cared about us, so why should we care about them?” They had reached the front door, and a footman emerged to relieve them of their parcels. “I shall take my horse back to the stables and see him settled, Mrs Price, so I bid you a good morning.”
With a bow, he strode away, his horse placidly walking alongside. Lucy shook her head in bemusement, and followed the footman into the house.
9: Sisters And Brothers
When she reached her room, Lucy tossed aside her bonnet, gloves and pelisse, rang for Janet and then, while she waited, counted the money in her purse. Twenty one pounds, three shillings and ninepence halfpenny, and that had to last her until Lady Day. Another five weeks. Well, she would just have to be careful.
It was so difficult, though, when she had never had to think about such matters before. She had bought what she wanted, had always had enough coins for small items, and the larger bills went to Papa and she never knew how much she was spending. When she had ordered her mourning clothes after Walter’s death, Robin had dealt with the merchants, and she wondered now how many of those bills he had paid instead of sending them on to Papa. She had been sheltered from such realities by the men in her life, and now there was no one to shelter her.
Janet came in and removed Lucy’s muddy boots, and the walking dress, which was also liberally spattered with mud, despite her care. Janet knew better than to make any complaint.
“The gown with the embroidered sleeves, madam?”
“No, that is my best morning gown. One of the older ones, Janet. The one with white trim.”
“That one needs a new ribbon round it, Madam. Or replacing. It’s getting so old, it’s a wonder it holds together at all. There’s a good linen drapery in town, where—”
“No, I cannot afford a new gown at the moment, Janet. I shall look out for some ribbon, next time I go to town. Let it be the embroidered sleeves then.”
Mrs Kingsley was receiving in the morning room, and when Lucy entered there were several visitors in attendance, and something that Lucy’s mama would have described as ‘an atmosphere’. Mrs Kingsley’s face bore a fixed and insincere smile, Deirdre looked smug and Winifred seemed about to burst into tears. Surrounding them were the clergyman’s wife and daughter, looking bemused, and Mr Cherry and Mr Exton, rather red-faced.
“Ah, Lucy, dear!” Mrs Kingsley said brightly. Was that relief in her tone? “Do come and sit beside me. Did you have a successful morning? Did you get the buttons? Were the shops crowded? And how was your aunt?”
There it was again — ‘your aunt’. Not her sister, or even her half-sister, but Lucy’s aunt. She had said they were not close, and Mr Audley had also made the point, and it could not be denied. Yet how sad, to have a sister — even a half-sister — who was a virtual stranger.
“Mrs Tilford was very well, thank you. She will send the receipt for apricot jam for you.”
“Oh, Mrs Tilford is your aunt?” Mrs Jarvis, the clergyman’s wife said. “How interesting! I did not know that.”
“Mr Tilford is my mother’s brother, ma’am.”
Winifred had no patience for this polite chit-chat. “Lucy, what is your opinion? Mr Exton has asked Deirdre to stand up with him for the first two at the assembly next Thursday, but he is already promised to me!”
A tense silence fell over the gathering. Lucy looked from one to the other, ending with Mr Exton, who looked horribly flustered. “I do not remember it, Mrs Price,” he said helplessly. “I cannot remember it in the least.”
“Perhaps Winifred is mistaken…” Mrs Kingsley said.
“I am not! David, you must remember!”
He shook his head mutely.
Lucy had no doubt as to what needed to be done, but diplomacy was not her strong suit. If only Fanny were there! But they were all looking to her for her opinion, so she must just do the best she could. “Everyone’s memory may be faulty occasionally, Mr Exton,” she said gently. “You would not wish to contradict a lady, I am certain.”
“Oh no!” he said, eyes widening. “Not for the world! Of course, it must be so… my foolish memory… Miss Kingsley, you must hold me excused, I beg you. I am already engaged for the first two. Perhaps I may engage you for the supper dance?”
Deirdre’s eyes flashed, and Lucy held her breath. Would she give way graciously, or make a fuss? After a tantalisingly long hesitation, she inclined her head regally. “Very well, Mr Exton. We would not wish to upset Winifred, after all, would we?”
“And may I make so bold…?” Mr Cherry said smoothly. “If I may offer my humble self in place of David, perhaps you would honour me with the first two, Miss Kingsley?”
With a wintry smile, she agreed to it, but behind the fair words Lucy detected a worrying degree of hostility, and none of the four seemed entirely pleased with the outcome.
The conversation became more general, so Lucy made her excuses and moved away to where Miss Jarvis was sitting a little apart, flicking through a book without much interest. After the usual greetings, Lucy whispered, “What was that about? Not dancing, of that much I am certain.”
Miss Jarvis rolled her eyes. She was a homely girl of fifteen, not yet officially out, and therefore not very sympathetic to the grown-up trials of Deirdre and Winifred. “That was just Winifred being awkward. I daresay she does not care one bit about David — I mean, Mr Exton. She just does not want Deirdre to have him.” She continued to turn the pages in a desultory fashion.
“But if he had already engaged Winifr
ed—”
Miss Jarvis looked up in surprise. “There is no such engagement! Winifred has made it up, I am sure. She is a little liar, everyone knows that. She says the most dreadful things about Deirdre and her step-mother, and when the babies were born—” She looked a little ashamed of herself. “I should not repeat such things, should I? Papa would be most upset if he heard me. Mrs Price, you cannot imagine how constraining it is to have a clergyman for a father.”
She looked so woebegone that Lucy smiled, and said, “It must be very trying. Does he prose on all the time?”
“Oh no! It is far worse! He just looks so.” And she assumed an expression of such melancholy that Lucy laughed out loud. “We call it his face — as in, ‘Papa has his face on’. It is so lowering.” Miss Jarvis sighed.
“Now my papa never had a ‘face’,” Lucy said. “With us, it was Mama who acted as a powerful aid to conscience. ‘We had better not — Mama would not like it.’ That thought kept us from a great deal of mischief, and after all, that is what parents are for, is it not? To prod us into correct ways, so that, in time, we shall know how to go on without prodding.”
Miss Jarvis looked astonished at this modest piece of wisdom, and would, perhaps, have enquired further into Lucy’s sense of propriety had Mrs Jarvis not decided to leave at that moment. Lucy was left alone to ponder this new view of Winifred as not just a rather cross young lady, but one who was also a liar and a jealous sister. It was an unsettling thought.
~~~~~
‘18 February 18— Charlsby, Cheshire. My dear Lucy, How strange to find the governess living secretly, as it were, in an obscure corner of the house, and in such poverty that she is obliged to cut up old curtains to make gowns. That does not seem right to me. If she has served the family faithfully for many years, as seems to be the case, then she should be given a modest pension and allowed a cottage on the estate to live in. On the other hand, if the family wishes to retain her services for future children, then she should be kept in the proper manner and paid a salary. I have been very fortunate in my employer, who treats me almost as one of the family, but even where this is not the case, common decency should compel an employer to keep his staff in tolerable comfort, commensurate with their position. A governess may pour honey or vinegar into her charges’ ears, and a sensible employer will ensure that she has nothing to complain of! But I wonder that Mr Audley does so little for his former governess. Does he truly know nothing of her circumstances? When he has so much wealth at his disposal, surely he might think to enquire after her wellbeing? Does he care so little for a woman who was once so important to him? But I suppose it is often so with these wealthy young men, that they are entirely given up to selfish pursuits and have no thought for those in lesser circumstances. He sounds like a deeply unworthy young man, and I hope you will not be tempted by him, no matter how rich he may be. Your affectionate sister, Annabelle.’
~~~~~
Leo was so cross with Mrs Price that he avoided the morning room, where he would be obliged to smile and be polite with tedious callers. After handing the horse to a groom, he went to his room to change and then, when he had dismissed Browning, to pace up and down his room, seething. How dared someone like Lucy Price suggest that he was neglecting his sisters? They, after all, were the ones who had gone away and left him, and Gussie too, all alone, in that great, empty house in Bath.
He could barely remember them now, his sisters. He had a vague memory of girlish chatter, and soft, flowing gowns, much fuller than the fashion now, and the hair with curls piled high and wide-brimmed hats. They had giggled a great deal, and whispered together, and looked down on his childish self with lofty superiority. They had seemed so grown up to him, even Martha, who was only three years older than he was and still came to the schoolroom occasionally. He had an image of soulful brown eyes in his mind, and a round face framed by soft curls. Martha, at least, did not disdain the efforts of dear old Hardy to instill the rudiments of an education into her charges.
But the others? They seemed so distant now. Laurel was already a young lady at that time, her life of musical evenings and card parties far removed from his. He could not recall her face to mind from those days, for whatever image his memory conjured was overlain by the pale, worn features of present-day Laurel. He had one memory of Arthur Tilford, slimmer in those days, and the hair still a vibrant red. He had come for dinner, and Laurel had blushed and simpered, and Tilford had smirked in a smug, self-satisfied way. There had been a tense atmosphere for a few weeks, but then they were betrothed and there was a wedding and she had gone away to Somerset. Bridgewater, he thought.
Maria must have been out by then, too. She was lively, he recalled, always singing. Once he had seen her dancing, all alone, in the gallery, humming the tune to herself, spinning and cavorting with some imaginary partner. And Caroline? She was strangely restless, with odd shifts in mood that were probably nothing to do with him, but unsettled him all the same, so that he avoided her when he could.
So long ago. And then Papa had died, and hordes of relatives had descended on them, and war had broken out until the lawyers had arrived and then Laurel and her husband, who had carried off Maria, Caroline and Martha triumphantly. Most of the relations had vanished then, and the house had relapsed into quietude, now just Leo and Gussie and Hardy, and a few kindly strangers.
Not that he remembered much about them, now. His guardians were in fact aunts and uncle to his mother. They were gentle souls, drifting about the house in a distracted, otherworldly way, as if they were not quite sure why they were there, and would much rather be elsewhere but were too polite to say so. They did their duty to him, and to Gussie, providing them with everything required for their physical and educational wellbeing. There were tutors and masters of various arts, and a regime of study that he had rather enjoyed. There were outings to Wells and the countryside and the sea. Once, they went to Bristol. But the aunts and uncle had departed back to Norfolk with visible relief as soon as Leo reached his majority. A cousin had offered to introduce him at court, but he had never quite seen the point. Two different aunts came to introduce Gussie to society, but she, too, preferred to stay in Bath. And so they came to adulthood without further drama, or anything very much to trouble them.
And they never thought about their vanished half-sisters from one year’s end to the next.
But now Leo thought about them. Why had they never written? Where had they gone to? For that matter, why had Laurel and her husband moved from Somerset to Shropshire? When asked, they said vaguely that they had just felt like a change, in a tone that discouraged further enquiry. Leo guessed that it had to do with Tilford giving up his work as an attorney and becoming a gentleman, something best accomplished in a new place where no one knew him. But he never made any secret of his former career, so the reason could not be so simple. It was not polite to enquire too deeply into matters which a man preferred not to talk about, but his sisters were another matter. Now that his curiosity was aroused, Leo very much wanted to know more of them.
Accordingly, when Arthur Tilford came for the promised dinner, Leo determined to raise the subject. The occasion was propitious, for the Smythe-Hunters were hosting a party that evening to which half the town was invited, including Deirdre and Winifred with Mrs Price in attendance. The only other guests free to sit at Gussie’s table for dinner were the parson, Mr Jarvis, with his wife and daughter, and the ever-hungry Miss Watfords.
When the ladies had withdrawn, the four gentlemen resettled themselves around Kingsley and passed the port. As soon as an opportunity arose, and Kingsley was engaged in conversation with Mr Jarvis, Leo said, “Tilford, I have been wondering about those half-sisters of mine — Maria, Caroline and Martha. I daresay they are scattered around the country now, but I travel about quite a bit, when I am invited to the houses of various acquaintances. It might be within my power to visit one or other of the three if I should happen to pass close by. Perhaps you would be so obliging as to furnish me with t
he direction of each of them.”
Tilford stared at him, his glass of port arrested halfway to his lips. Slowly he set it down on the table again. “Direction?”
Leo became aware that Kingsley, too, was staring at him, his discussion with Mr Jarvis suspended.
“Direction,” Leo said. “You know where they live, for you assured me just the other day that you hear from them, which is more than I ever have.”
“Audley, my dear fellow,” Tilford said, recovering a little, “why this sudden interest?”
Leo saw no reason not to tell the truth. “I have noticed how close Mrs Price is to her sisters, even though they are widely separated now by circumstance. She writes to one or other of them almost every day, and they write back. She was astonished to discover that I have not seen or heard from my own sisters for seventeen years. It brought me to the realisation that I have been a most neglectful brother. I cannot even say where my sisters might be or how many children they have or anything at all about them since they left Bath. No doubt they are comfortably situated, but even so, it would please me to discover whether there might be anything I could do for them.”
“Neglectful?” Tilford said. “I cannot suppose that they see it in that light. Consider, Audley, that they were never your responsibility, neither their persons nor their fortunes. When they left Bath, all connection was severed between you.”
“Not the blood connection, Mr Tilford,” said Mr Jarvis. “That can never be severed.”
“No, of course not,” he said testily, “but every other connection. The rift between the two branches of the family was so severe it can never be bridged.”
“Every rift can be bridged, if the two sides wish it so,” Leo said. “Whatever the cause of the schism that arose at the time of my father’s death, there can be no grievance against me, since I was but ten years of age at the time.”
“And now you wish to heal the breach, like the good Christian that you are,” Mr Jarvis said. “Your actions are commendable, Mr Audley.”
The Chaperon (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 2) Page 9