Yorkshire

by Lynne Connolly

  Richard still had his arm in a sling, but his colour was healthier and his posture better than on the previous day. He still wore a country coat. “Carier is fonder of my coats than of me, but that is what one looks for in a valet, after all.” That drew a laugh from most of the company.

  I had reason to believe this wasn’t true, but he must wish to hide his valet’s obvious devotion to him. Careful not to meet his look at all during the meal for fear I might give myself away, and deeply aware of my inexperience, I kept my head down. My night had been broken by fitful dreams that I couldn’t remember properly after I’d woke up.

  The door burst open, admitting two manservants carrying Mr. Pritheroe. In my agitation, I had forgotten his plight, and I felt guilty that I’d neglected him. The men struggled over to a vacant seat and installed him.

  The self-proclaimed minister was dressed in aggressively simple homespun country clothes, and gave out his good mornings unsmilingly. “The doctor has instructed me to eat, to restore my strength. I do not indulge unduly in pleasures of the flesh, but I must think of my people.” For a man who ate so little, he carried much excess weight. He had considerable presence. One must notice him, listen to him, though his words seemed to me to be nonsense when I thought them through properly. I began to see how he could attract people to his cause.

  “I hope you will permit me to preach a short sermon this morning.” He seemed to have only one pitch for his voice, and that was very loud, developed from years of preaching in the open, I presumed. Steven had to agree to his request, although he’d previously told us he planned only a small ceremony.

  We’d barely known the late earls. It seemed hypocritical to mourn them with great ceremony, though the County would expect it, if only because of the consequence of the two dead men.

  Lady Hareton had said her husband and his brother wouldn’t have wished for any great ceremony, but they must be laid to rest in the family vault. It mattered little to me what they did. Ladies were not usually required to attend funerals, so I would spend the day helping Martha and Mrs. Peters. I wouldn’t pretend grief for someone I’d met once, and disliked. Neither would I parade this, so I kept quiet.

  “I was a Great Sinner until I found God.” Now, we were forced to listen to Mr. Pritheroe’s stentorian tones, as it would have been difficult to talk over them. “Then, one day, in the middle of a corn field, He made His desires known to me.” I heard Lizzie suppress a snigger, and I too suppressed a giggle, just as though we were schoolroom misses.

  Mr. Pritheroe didn’t seem to notice. “He needed a valiant band of people to travel the world, spread His word, help His people see the light.” So far, it sounded reasonable, if unusual. “I sold my property and took my wife and child to see the world. God said, unless I followed His word to the letter, He feared disaster.” His voice rose at the end of his sentences, as though he preferred to make announcements, rather than conduct conversations.

  The preacher began to hit his stride. He buttered toast while he spoke, and then took great bites and sprayed the assembled company with his half-masticated crumbs, showing all of us the tender morsel in his mouth as he spoke and ate. Fortunate to be at the other end of the table, I tried not to look. “I read the Bible from cover to cover and I strongly recommend you all to do the same,” our lecturer announced. He looked round at his fascinated audience. “It will show you the error of your ways, the sin the rich are subject to, and the punishments which await the sinners in Death.” He lowered his voice dramatically at that last word and paused for effect.

  “What would they be?” Richard enquired, with no trace of irony detectable in his voice.

  “They are eternal damnation for the rich who keep their riches to themselves and flaunt them in sinful ways,” roared Mr. Pritheroe. “There are punishments for the immoral that will make you shudder in your skin. It is all there for anyone to read. Pestilence will visit the vain, and send them boils dripping pus and blood.”

  Martha tutted. Mr. Pritheroe glanced at her, and turned his speech a little. “The immoral will lose the offending parts and be made to suffer foul torment.”

  Martha went back to her breakfast. She would find foul torment acceptable for the breakfast table, but not distasteful descriptions.

  The Kerre brothers watched him with rapt attention. Their faces were grave, but their eyes betrayed their intense interest in this odd person.

  “Divorce is a great sin.” The minister applied yet another slice of toast to his ever-open orifice. “When a man cleaves to a woman he must do this for life. Only God can separate them.”

  “What if she commits adultery?” Richard leaned his chin on his good hand and turned a face of calm interest to our interlocutor.

  “God does not permit carnal relations,” Mr. Pritheroe said gravely. We all digested this statement in silence, but the sensation it made was almost audible, as its meaning slowly became clear to all of us.

  “Then how are children made?” Mr. Kerre asked him, with every semblance of interest.

  “In fifty years there will be no need for children. In the year 1800 Armageddon will come.” Pritheroe threw his arms out wide and the remainder of his toast flew through the air in a dramatic gesture that took us all by surprise.

  The toast hit me. Everyone turned to where I sat and I wanted the floor to swallow me up. Mr. Pritheroe begged my pardon in a voice no less booming than his lecture.

  I smiled wanly and peeled the offending item off my skirt, wondering if I could use the opportunity to excuse myself. I wasn’t sure the brothers would stop baiting the man before he had an apoplexy. Obviously deranged, Mr. Pritheroe’s face had turned as red as a drunk’s with the effort of his speech, but not with any embarrassment at flinging his breakfast in my direction. He subsided, but only for a time, until he had gathered his thoughts for another tirade.

  James managed to take charge now, since a natural pause was reached. “I thought I might have the family part of the house to rights before I send for the others,” he said, a little louder than usual, his ears probably numbed by Mr. Pritheroe’s ringing tones, but otherwise he behaved as though this breakfast was quite normal. “I’ve sent them a letter, to inform them of the sad occurrences of the last few days, and I told them to get their mourning clothes out. Martha and I have decided six months would be appropriate, three in full mourning and three in half mourning.” There were murmurs of agreement.

  “I’ll go into York next week and buy the necessary materials,” Martha said. “We’re unlikely to receive any mourning visits, so if the present company doesn’t object, we will go about in our ordinary clothes until the rest of our things arrive.”

  “It would perhaps be better than no clothes at all.” Lizzie’s observation made everybody laugh and broke the tension in the room. The minister now seemed content to leave the rest of his sermon for the funeral oration, and the brothers ceased to bait him.

  Then the door opened on our laughter, and it faded away in an instant as Lady Hareton came in. She had dressed in the deepest, unrelieved black, her small face pale, but composed. This was the first time anyone but Martha and her maid had seen her since the accident.

  She had lost even more weight. She seemed so ethereal a good wind might have blown her away. “Good morning. Good morning, Father.” She bowed to Pritheroe.

  This stopped everybody, and the ordinary meal returned to the realms of the unusual. We’d had no idea the Dowager Countess and the minister were related. Nothing the man had said or done had informed us of any relationship. He’d not asked after the health of his daughter nor had he asked to see her, and the thought of such selfish callousness made me feel a little unwell.

  Now he put his hand on her head, murmured a blessing and let her go to the end of the table.

  Richard seated her next to me. I felt his hand on my shoulder for the smallest moment as he moved away, and I shivered at his touch. I despised my body for being so weak. He could so easily be playing with me; enjoying my re
actions to his tiny gestures of affection, but I couldn’t stop responding to him. I could, however, keep it to myself.

  I asked Lady Hareton if she would like me to help her to anything on the sideboard. “You are very kind. Just a little, please.”

  I stood, picked up a clean plate and then found the best morsels for her. Thanks to Martha, who had discovered the chafing dishes the previous evening and pressed them into service this morning, the food was still hot, if a little dry by now.

  “I should like to attend my husband’s funeral.” The lady looked straight at her father.

  “I think you should do so.” Her father’s voice came relatively quieter, though it could still have been heard from one side of a field to the other. “You should show your respects to the man who fed and clothed you for the last ten years.”

  “Yes, Father.” Lady Hareton began to eat. Idle chatter seemed intrusive with her quiet presence and the room fell silent. Lady Hareton put her knife down and addressed Martha. “I hope you are finding your way around. I always find it very difficult, I can never remember where things are kept.”

  “Don’t you keep written records?” Martha asked gently.

  “I cannot write,” replied her ladyship.

  After another stunned pause, the minister kindly explained, “Women’s brains were created for obedience and housework, not ideas. They should know their place.”

  Well, that put paid to me joining his religion. I’d always taken great pleasure in reading and I found unquestioning obedience difficult at the best of times. Lady Hareton couldn’t read or write, not because of any inability in herself, but because her father had deliberately kept her ignorant. What a horrible thought. I couldn’t think of anything more cruel. That explained why she found it difficult to run the house. We had every reason to suspect her husband had kept her short of housekeeping money. Not knowing how to read recipes, wage bills, laundry lists and the like, it would be impossible for anyone not having a perfect memory.

  I glanced at Martha who looked as incredulous as I felt. “I will help you to learn, if you would like.” The lady cast a dark glance at her father. I interpreted it as hatred, but I must surely be wrong; I hadn’t credited Lady Hareton with any spirit.

  “I cannot allow it,” her father replied. “It is not a woman’s place to learn.”

  “Can the lady not make up her own mind?” Strang’s face was calm, though the light tremor in his voice betrayed his anger.

  “I will guide her in this,” stated Mr. Pritheroe. “When her husband lived, he had a duty to instruct her. Now that he has sadly left us for a better place, I shall give her the guidance she needs.”

  “Lady Hareton is welcome to stay here as long as she wishes,” James put in, angry and not bothering to hide it. He hated any form of bullying. He always had, even as a small boy. Only his good manners held him back from further comment.

  “We appreciate the hospitality, but, when I have recovered, we will continue with the ministry.” Pritheroe continued to eat. I watched him, concerned I might find myself the recipient of more unwanted bounty.

  “Lady Hareton will, I hope, make up her own mind.” By Martha’s tone, I knew she’d decided to take the lady under her wing. Martha was born to be a mother, a caretaker, and she showed it in whatever she did. The minister shrugged, a gesture Martha might well consider a declaration of war. She would enjoy it.

  “Another thing,” Mr. Pritheroe said. “I know the Lord Hareton, of blessed memory did not have time to change his will in the way he would have wished. I thought I might speak to you about that, my lord.”

  James gave him a darkling glare. “Please come to my office after breakfast and we will discuss it all you like.” Which meant, No, over my dead body, I would rather give it to highwaymen than to you. However, Mr. Pritheroe didn’t know James as well as we did and appeared pleased with his progress, agreeing with alacrity.

  Chapter Eight

  The entertainment concluded, I excused myself. Martha had asked me to count and list the bed sheets upstairs, so I went straight upstairs and busied myself at the task. I heard the bell toll. I didn’t know the chapel had a bell, but Steven had found it, and he made good use of it. In short order an echoing bell followed it from the church in the village. A figure hurried up the drive, on foot, his clothing indicating he was the village vicar. He had come alone.

  I put my list down and watched from the window. Soon a gaggle of young women also came up the drive on foot. Unlike the solemn demeanour of the cleric, they laughed and nudged each other in some private joke. I assumed they must be the girls from the village. The men were due to come up later, when James had time to interview them.

  A noise caused me to turn. Lizzie stood there, clad in a large apron much like the one I wore. My heart sank because I knew she wanted to speak to me. I’d avoided her since my encounter with Richard yesterday, pretending to be asleep when she came to bed the night before. Now that Martha had located sufficient bedding, we needn’t share a room after tonight.

  “How do you feel today?”

  “I feel very well,” I replied, in a useless attempt to fend her off.

  Lizzie clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Don’t try to put me off, you know quite well what I mean. Your foolish infatuation.”

  “Oh, that.” I toyed with the idea of lying to her, but I couldn’t. I was very bad at lying, especially to my sister. I turned away and picked up a sheet to fold and add to the pile, avoiding her censorious eyes. “I saw him yesterday. I went to the stables and he saw me there. You’ll never guess what we found.”

  “Do tell,” said Lizzie flatly, with no enthusiasm at all. She lifted a pile of towels out of the cupboard and began to go through them, to look for damage or wear.

  “You know the straps which hold a coach up?”

  “The suspension, yes,” said my sister absently.

  “We’re fairly sure the one at the back had been cut.” I tried to make my voice as dramatic as I could; anything to keep her away from the other matter.

  “It probably had been cut,” Lizzie replied, “By the men when they righted the coach and brought it home.”

  “They had no reason to do that. In fact, it looks very much as if it had been cut deliberately.”

  I couldn’t distract Lizzie from her original intention. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. So what did you get up to, with your Lord Strang?”

  I couldn’t help but tell her, so I decided to get it over with. “He kissed me. And he said he loves me.” I blushed at my own foolishness; it sounded so silly even to my own ears. I turned away and put some torn sheets on the relevant pile, so she wouldn’t be able to see my confusion.

  I heard her sharp intake of breath and the soft thump as she put the towels down. “I thought you were my older sister,” she said, with all the emotion she had omitted from the previous subject. “But you have no more sense than a baby. Didn’t I tell you how dangerous he is? Dear God, Rose, haven’t you more sense than that?”

  I regained some control over my complexion, and turned back to face her. “He says he’s asked Miss Cartwright to break the betrothal contract.”

  “Please be careful, Rose, please. You mustn’t ruin your chances now, and if you ruin yours, you go a long way towards ruining mine.”

  Lizzie was right. To enter society under a cloud after all those years of longing would be disastrous for her, but I hadn’t remembered that until now.

  “I’ll be careful, Lizzie, I promise.” I meant it, but I couldn’t promise not to meet him again. When he’d touched me at breakfast the feeling had been delicious, even that casual, possibly accidental contact. I wanted to feel it again, my body yearned for it, but I wasn’t so far gone that I couldn’t see the risks.

  “Shall I tell you what they say about Lord Strang?” Lizzie said in a small, hard voice. If I’d said no, she would have taken no notice, so I kept silent while she told me. “He has seduced more women and had more affairs than anyone else
in society. Husbands keep their wives away from him if they want to keep them for themselves. When he visits a house party, it’s frequently to carry on an intrigue, and he never seems to be there with the same woman twice.”

  She watched me closely. I met her look with equanimity. She sighed. “I know why it is, it’s your lack of experience. You fell into his arms like a ripe plum.” She could be right. Flushing, I looked down at the thin towels I had pulled out from the unlocked cupboard. Dry, crumbly herbs fell from the folds. “Well amuse yourself by all means, but he’s strong meat, Rose. You’re no match for him. Neither am I, come to that.”

  I tensed. “Has he approached you?”

  “No,” she admitted. “The first man in ages who hasn’t. Perhaps he’s saving me for later.”

  No. No, I couldn’t believe that.

  Lizzie remembered something. “But he’s not the first, is he? There’s Drury.” She knew all about that particular problem. “You did the same with him, responded too strongly, too quickly. Back away, Rose, think.”

  She was right. “I know. And I promise I’ll be careful. But the two cases don’t compare at all. I was bored and desperate when Steven approached me. He seemed so desperate, so madly in love with me that I felt sorry for him. I’ve never felt for him what I felt yesterday.”

  “What was that?”

  “Hard to describe, really. Complete contentment, a sense of rightness. I know it looks wrong, but I must see what it is, what he means by it. I think I have enough control to stop him seducing me. I don’t think he means to. He says he doesn’t seduce inexperienced maids.”

  A silence fell. Lizzie took her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking, while I sorted through more linen. “Yes. He might have a point, at that. Of all the accounts I’ve read of him, he doesn’t go in for innocents.”

  I laughed. “I’m too old to be completely innocent.”

  “Don’t be silly, Rose. I keep telling you, twenty-five isn’t on the shelf.”