“I thank you, sir. I flatter myself that my interest in the matter arises from the kindest of motives, to assure myself of my sisters’ happiness.”
Tilford’s mouth flapped open but no sound emerged. He took a gulp of port, and then looked, as if for help, towards Kingsley.
Kingsley grunted. “You know, Audley, you might consider that although you may not know the whereabouts of your sisters, they have known yours the whole time. If they had wished to make contact with you, they could have done it any time these past seventeen years.”
This point was so unanswerable that Leo merely bowed and made no more effort to press the argument. But he was thoughtful as he sipped his port and listened as the talk turned to local matters. He was no nearer to finding his sisters, but of two things he was now utterly convinced — Tilford was hiding something, and Kingsley was in on the secret.
10: Coffee And Confidences
Two days later, Leo had an opportunity to fulfil his promise to take Mrs Price to talk to Gussie’s monthly nurse. Deirdre and Winifred were invited to spend the day with the Exton family and some other friends, with the declared objective of reading through Romeo and Juliet. This sounded far too intellectual a pursuit for either of the Miss Kingsleys, who rarely read a book of any description, and certainly not William Shakespeare. Leo could not remember seeing them with anything more taxing than a fashion journal in their hands. Still, they would be under the care of Mrs Exton and her two sisters, and Mrs Price would not be needed.
Leo took some care with the arrangements, to avoid being alone in the carriage with Mrs Price at any time. Accordingly, he handed Mrs Price into the carriage, together with Deirdre and Winifred, to make the short journey to the Extons’ estate at Hammerford End. He did not envy Mrs Price that company, even for so short a drive, for the two girls were twittering excitedly and likely to squeal at every bump in the road or unexpected lurch of the carriage. After leaving her charges with the Extons, Mrs Price would continue alone into Market Clunbury, where Leo would meet her on foot.
Leo had the direction for Mrs Coombs, the nurse they were to meet, and enquiries led them to one of the narrow streets hidden away behind the larger buildings on the main thoroughfares. Children ran barefoot in the mud, chickens scratched about and washing hung in the still air on strings tied from one house to another. Leo stopped, daunted.
Mrs Price addressed one of the more respectably clothed children. “What is your name, little man?”
“Dan’l, Missus.”
“Well, Daniel, here is a penny for you if you can tell me which is Mrs Coombs’ house.”
He pointed and snatched the coin in the same fluid motion, running off at full pelt before she could change her mind.
They were out of luck. A girl of about ten or twelve with a baby in her arms answered their knock at the door. “She ain’t here, Missis, Sir,” she said, bobbing a wobbly curtsy. “Mrs Bradley were brought to bed early, so Aunt May’s there.”
A boy of about eight was dispatched to show them the way to Mrs Bradley’s. This was a more respectable property, a town house of several storeys. Mrs Price marched up to the front door and knocked loudly. After some negotiation with a rather fierce housekeeper, it was agreed that Mrs Coombs could meet them in the summer parlour. “No one will see her in there,” the housekeeper said, with a sniff of disapproval.
The summer parlour was clearly used for storage during the winter, and various fire screens, unwanted paintings and a rocking horse cluttered up half the room. There were several chairs pushed into a corner, and here they talked to Mrs Coombs. Leo felt a little awkward, but he had meekly followed Mrs Price and no one had commented on his presence.
Mrs Coombs was a pleasantly rounded woman of about forty who told them at once that she was unmarried, but her mothers, as she called them, felt more comfortable with her as a widow than a spinster.
“Oh, poor Mrs Kingsley!” she said, when she learnt the reason for their visit. “I remember her well. And she’ll be wanting my services again, no doubt. When is her time likely?”
“August,” Mrs Price said.
“I’ll keep myself free for her. I do get booked up well ahead of time, but I’ll be sure to come out to the Priory. If she’ll have me again,” she added in a low voice.
“Mrs Coombs, was there any indication that there was anything wrong with the baby, in either case? Some illness, perhaps?”
“Oh no, madam, nothing at all like that. Those babies were as fine and healthy as any I’d seen.”
“It seems… unusual for a healthy baby to just die, in that way. With no warning.”
“Aye, in a family like that. Quality. It happens all the time in poor families, with little food on the table and prone to infectious fevers. The poor mite picks up something and hasn’t the strength to fight it. But in gentlefolk — no, it’s unusual. I never saw it before, or heard of it. And to have it happen a second time! Poor, poor Mrs Kingsley. I never saw a woman more distraught.”
“Did anything out of the ordinary happen that day, that you can remember?” Mrs Price asked.
“Nothing at all,” Mrs Coombs said promptly. “We wondered ourselves, of course — me and the head nurse and the nursery maids. First thing you think of — was there anything to suggest a problem? But everything was as usual.”
“The babies had not eaten or drunk anything out of the ordinary?”
“Never had nothing but their mother’s milk, neither of them. She had plenty, too. She was a good mother, and wanted to do right by her babies and not just hand them over to a wet nurse. Kept them in her room at night, too, so as she could reach them easy like. Contented, they were, those little ones. Never cried for long.”
“Who else was in the room with the baby at night?” Mrs Price said.
“Oh, no one.”
“Then perhaps someone got into the room while Mrs Kingsley slept, and—”
“No, no, no,” Mrs Coombs said. “Couldn’t be done. The lying-in rooms at the Priory are arranged so that Mrs Kingsley slept in an inner room. I slept in a small room off it, so I could be called easily. Then there were two outer rooms, with the nurse in one and the nursery maids in the other. If anyone crept in at night, they’d have to walk right past the nursery maids, and the second time, the door was kept locked and one of the maids sat up at night to keep watch, too. And before you ask, all the windows were barred. It’s the old part of the house, see, so it’s very secure. I know what you’re thinking, madam, but if anyone smothered those poor little mites, the only person who could have done it was Mrs Kingsley herself, and that she did not, I’ll swear to my dying day. She loved those babies more than anything in the world, and she’d never, ever have harmed them.”
Leo and Mrs Price walked in thoughtful silence back to the main street.
“I do not see anything untoward about it,” he said at length. “It must be no more than a tragic event.”
“Perhaps,” Mrs Price said. “But the old part of the house… there might be a priest’s hole where someone could hide, or even a secret passage, who knows.”
“Even if it were so, why would anyone wish to kill an innocent child? Two innocent children? Who could possibly benefit from it?”
“Two male children,” she said. “Who inherits the estate if Mr Kingsley dies without an heir?”
“Oh, I see. It is entailed, I believe. There are cousins in Hertfordshire, so I imagine one of them would inherit, but they rarely visit, so far as I am aware.”
“And they were not visiting at the relevant times, I suppose. Ah, well.”
He laughed at her woebegone face. “You would like this to be murder, I collect, but it does seem unlikely. Nevertheless, we may amuse ourselves looking for secret passages and priest’s holes, if it would please you, Mrs Price.”
They turned a corner onto the main street, and an icy blast caught them unawares. “Goodness!” Mrs Price said, holding tight to her bonnet. “Winter is not finished with us yet, I fancy. That wind is
perishing. Shall we get some coffee at the Lamb and Pheasant to warm us up?”
“What a lovely idea, but while I can certainly bespeak a private parlour for you, I shall have to take my coffee in the common room.”
“Do you think me so grand that I need a private parlour, Mr Audley? I am well acquainted with tap rooms. I used to take my husband to the inn at Frickham to enjoy some ale with his friends. He was almost blind, so he needed my help to make sure he did not fall in the river. The common room will be very quiet at this time of day, and perfectly acceptable for a widow of my lowly position in society.”
Leo was so disconcerted by this that he found himself quite unable to argue the point, and before he could collect his thoughts she had led the way into the inn, found them an unoccupied corner of the common room and ordered their coffee from an uninterested boy. It was, as she had predicted, very quiet.
“There, is this not cosy? That fire is giving out a good warmth.” She peeled off her gloves. “My fingers are frozen — look, I can barely bend them, and I do not think I can feel my cheeks at all. There are such disadvantages to being a lady, for one cannot go about sensibly muffled up in a woollen scarf, like most people do. It would be far more satisfactory if whoever determines the fashions would take the seasons into some account and bring voluminous scarves into favour again. And as for muslin! These flimsy gowns are all very well for balmy summer days, but not the thickest pelisse will make them sensible attire for the middle of winter. Now gentlemen’s clothes are much more practical, what with waistcoats as well as coats, and you may wear one of those wonderful greatcoats to keep you warm.” She must have noticed the amusement in his face, for she coloured slightly. “I beg your pardon, I am rattling on about nothing at all.”
“Your rattling is charming, Mrs Price, so do not stop on my account.”
Her face changed at once, and there was a hard edge to her voice when she spoke. “Are you flirting with me, Mr Audley?”
“No, indeed, I would not dare,” he said gallantly. “You have made it very clear you despise such strategems, and I have resolved to speak only the truth to you. But I am not sure that you are equally open with me, Mrs Price, for you have told me that your husband was six and seventy, and now you say he was almost blind and — forgive me, but it is hard to believe.”
“Why is it so hard to understand?” she said, tipping her head on one side. “Young ladies marry older men all the time. As your sister did.”
“And I do not understand that, either!” he burst out. “She had a happy life in Bath, or so I thought. She had a place in society and the money to maintain it. She had young suitors enough to choose from, heaven knows. She had friends, and an older brother happy to squire her about. She lacked for nothing, yet at eighteen years of age, she married a man old enough to be her father. Not that I hold his age against him, but one expects a marriage to be founded on equality — of rank, of wealth, of position, initially, but also on habits and age and beauty and temperament. Gussie gave up all her many acquaintances, and a life where she was seldom at home, in order to bury herself in the country with a man whose idea of a lively evening is three rubbers of whist and a hot supper. Why would she do such a thing?”
Mrs Price smiled. “Your question is one which may only be answered by the lady herself. Have you asked her?”
“I have, but…” He stopped, trying to recall what had actually been said. “No, in fact that question was never posed. I asked her whether she was sure of the step she was taking, and she assured me she was. I asked if she held Kingsley in the regard and esteem in which a wife must hold her husband. Again, her answer reassured me. I insisted that there must be a long engagement — six months, at least. They agreed to it without demur, and neither wavered in the slightest. How could I withhold my consent? It was an eligible match, and as to fortune and character, she could not do better. Yet I could not understand it.”
Mrs Price wrapped her hands around her coffee cup and frowned. “What I do not understand is why he married her. Not that I mean to imply any disrespect to your sister, for she is a charming lady who would attract any man of sense, but Mr Kingsley had remained a widower for many years. Why did he suddenly decide to marry at that point? Was it because his daughters were growing up, and he felt they needed a mama? Someone to bring them out, perhaps?”
Leo laughed. “Now that is an easier question to answer. He fell head over ears in love with her.”
“Mr Kingsley?” she said, in tones of utter astonishment. “No! For he shows no sign of it now.”
“Indeed, but so it was. I had doubts of Gussie’s regard, but never the slightest doubt of his. After her come-out, she stayed with friends somewhere in the wilds beyond Shrewsbury, and Kingsley was there too. When she went back to Bath, he followed, and paid court to her with the greatest persistence. Asked my permission to pay his addresses at an early stage. Then, when he discovered I had joint guardianship with my great-uncle, he went haring off to Norfolk to get his blessing, too. All very correct. But I never supposed she would accept him.”
“She must have had her reasons,” Mrs Price said. “A woman knows what she wants, and what she is prepared to give up to get it.”
He leaned back in his chair, looking at her curiously. It was such a confident statement, and yet he had always thought of women as the frailer sex, less apt to reason and good sense, more apt to romantic follies, and therefore in need of strong guidance from men. Yet this woman, young as she was, needed no guidance, and doubtless would not take it anyway. She ran counter to all his experience of women.
“Your words make me wonder what it was that you wanted when you married your husband,” he said, “and what you gave up to get it. But forgive me, I do not mean to pry.”
“Oh, I think perhaps you do,” she said, but with such a sweet smile that he could not be offended. “Everyone I tell of Walter wants to know why. Why would a girl of but eighteen tie herself to a man of seventy six, and one already frail, half blind and not too good on his feet, either, and with no fortune to sweeten the deal? But he was a lovely man, more gentlemanly than many who have a greater claim to that description, and if you knew what my life was like at home…”
She paused, and perhaps would have said no more, but he badly wanted to understand, so he said at once, “I would know of it, if you are willing to tell me, Mrs Price.”
“Very well, then.” She took another sip of coffee. “When I was sixteen, Mama died and everything changed. I suppose it was the same for you when your father died. Life goes on with reassuring regularity, until suddenly all the wheels fall off and the family is hurtled into the ditch, with no warning, and everything is different and… and horrid. Papa had always been a man of volatile moods, but he became quite peculiar. He was away from home a great deal and when he was home, he was either up in the clouds or so miserable there was no pleasing him. But then—”
She paused, anguish written on her face, and he wished he could reach across to take her hand, but propriety forbade it. He could only say, “Do not distress yourself! You need not speak of such upsetting times.”
She took a long, heaving breath, then said, more composedly, “If you are to understand, then I must tell you all, for Mama’s death was not the worst of it. A few months after Mama had died, Papa decided that Jeremy must have a career. Jeremy was our only brother, the youngest of us. He was twelve. He had no wish to leave home or to have a career, but Papa was determined. He was to go to sea as a midshipman. You cannot imagine how ill-suited Jeremy was for such a life. He was bookish, like Annabelle, and not at all the active sort of boy for whom such a career might appeal. And he hated the sea — any sort of water, really — with a great passion. He did not want to go, but Papa was adamant, and so off he went.”
She fell into silence for a while, and Leo had no wish to disturb her reverie, so he sat, unmoving, caught up in the story and feeling an echo of her pain. He waited for her to continue, and eventually, with a great sigh, she did so.
A tear rolled unheeded down her cheek, and Leo could do nothing but sit in an agony of suspense. If only he could comfort her in some way, hold her, or even take her hand. But he dared not touch her, and all he could offer was his silent sympathy.
“Rosamund… she was the eldest, and the beauty of the family, so she married. And Annabelle had her books. Margaret… she withdrew into herself. She had always been quiet, but now she was barely there. Fanny was so sweet-natured that nothing Papa did dented her good-humour. He would get over his grief, she said, he would be well again and we should all go on as we had before. Dear, sweet Fanny! But I could not help myself from speaking my mind. I told Papa what I thought of his behaviour, and you may imagine the consequences of that. And he hated my chatter. He said I was inane, and no man of sense would ever want to marry me, and threatened to have me locked up.”
“Good God!” Leo cried.
“Oh, I daresay he would never have done it, but you can understand, I am sure, why I found plenty of excuses to take me away from the house for a few hours each day. There were many in the village who welcomed a visit now and then, and Walter was one of them. I used to read to him, and he liked my voice, he said. He enjoyed hearing me chatter away. I was spending more and more time with him, until the gossips started to talk, and so he asked me to marry him, and I accepted. But you must not think that it was solely a means to escape from Woodside and my father. I was not so desperate that I would marry a man I disliked. I was very fond of Walter, and he made me happy, for all we had little money and lived in a tiny cottage with just one servant. I knew it could not last long, of course. I hoped for five years, but in the end three was all we had, but they were the best three years of my life. Do you understand?”
The Chaperon (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 2) Page 10