Amberley Chronicles Boxset II (Amberley Chronicles Box Sets Book 2)
Page 62
Margaret found it harder than she had expected to persuade her mother to travel to Derbyshire.
“I hate to miss a single day of my grandson’s life, when he is still so small,” Mrs. Bellairs fretted. “What if Marcus should sicken?”
“There is nothing you could do for him, that his parents and nurse and the best physicians in London would not already be doing,” Margaret pointed out. Her mother’s irritated look indicated that she did not appreciate such logic.
In the end, it was only the prospect of choosing and installing a splendid funereal monument for the late Rupert Bellairs that carried the day. Margaret promised her mother free rein and an unlimited budget for this plan (courtesy of Anthony, who unobtrusively supported her efforts.)
Poor Anthony – he certainly deserved some time alone with Emily, without Mother and herself. For Emily’s sake he treated them with unfailing courtesy and generosity, but Margaret would have been a fool not to realise that he was looking forward to the day when they found some other arrangement. Having lived in a household where she was even less wanted for upwards of two years had thickened her skin, however. She would pick her new spouse when it suited her, and nobody else.
On the other hand, Mother might be happier in a small house or apartment of her own.
Unlike Mrs. Bellairs, Mrs. Carney had declared herself perfectly ready to journey to Derbyshire as soon as the plan was proposed. A sensible, horse-faced woman in the early fifties, her influence on Mrs. Bellairs had been wholly beneficial. Her abundant energy had been instrumental in bringing Margaret’s mother home from Northern Italy. She had successfully rescued her invalid charge almost from the brink of the grave, a feat for which both Emily and Margaret felt deep admiration and gratitude. The Italian relatives with whom Mrs. Bellairs had lived had encouraged her to dose herself with laudanum, partly to avoid having to listen to her constant lamentations. She had not been quite addicted to the substance, but it had been a near thing.
Now that the travellers were seated in one of Anthony’s elegant and well-sprung carriages, travelling northwards, Mrs. Carney regarded the passing landscape with avid interest. Beside her Porsons, their elderly maid, was dozing, her mouth standing slightly open. Margaret quickly looked away from the woman’s worn, discoloured teeth. Anthony had offered to send more servants along in a second carriage. Yet Margaret had felt reluctant to introduce servants used to a noble and smoothly run London household to the ramshackle and empty Bellairs Hall, with its damaged roof and overgrown gardens. It would be better for her pride, as well as more economical, to hire local staff after they arrived.
“It is over fifteen years since I last came this way, and it is amazing how much England has changed,” Mrs. Carney remarked. “All those smoking chimneys – and the towns are much bigger than I remember.” Her tone was not altogether approving.
“Do you still have family in England?” Margaret asked. She knew Mrs. Carney had married young and gone to live on the continent decades earlier, settling in Geneva after her husband’s tragic death in an avalanche.
“There is my brother in Dorset, with a large family, but we never got on too well. I was the eldest and he the youngest. Strange to think that such a spoiled brat as Ellis should be a clergyman now.”
“People do change as they grow up,” Mrs. Bellairs said. “You would not imagine what a wild, tomboyish little girl Margaret was, to have turned into such an elegant and refined young lady.” She threw a significant glance at her daughter. “One who I pray daily will soon marry and give me more grandchildren, as Emily has done so successfully.”
Margaret suppressed a groan.
“With some people it is unwise to apply pressure,” Mrs. Carney said. “They must come to a decision in their own time.”
“That is all very well, but youth and beauty do not last forever,” Mrs. Bellairs said gloomily. “One must make the most of one’s chances while it is still possible.”
Margaret decided upon counter-attack as the best distraction. “You are still an attractive woman, Mother, and the mourning period is long over. As you are such a fervent advocate of matrimony, aren’t you thinking of remarriage yourself?”
Her mother stared at her. “Really, Margaret, what an outlandish question!” From her expression, the thought had never entered her mind.
“People in their forties do marry sometimes,” Mrs. Carney said judiciously. “The notion is not as strange as all that.”
Mrs. Bellairs’ mouth opened and closed several times before she said, with great dignity, “There is absolutely no thought of remarriage in my mind.”
“Anthony and Emily would approve, as long as the man was eligible.” Margaret was enjoying her mother’s flustered reaction. “I fancy Anthony would prefer us to move to some separate residence.”
“Well, of course you will do so shortly, Margaret, as soon as you accept one of your suitors. That goes without saying. But as for me –,” Mrs. Bellairs’ voice trailed off doubtfully. “Dear Anthony has never indicated that he is not perfectly happy to have me live with Emily and him.”
“He could hardly do so without offending Emily,” Margaret said gently. “He is not like our Italian uncles, who could not wait to get rid of us. But if you suggest that he give you separate lodgings nearby, where you can still easily visit your grandson, he would not be displeased.”
“An excellent notion,” Mrs. Carney supported Margaret, “no man wants his mother-in-law to permanently live with him under the same roof. It also puts the wife in a difficult position, if her mother and husband should not agree on something.”
“But I would never –!” Mrs. Bellairs’ brow was furrowed, and her voice shook. “How can you imply such a thing? There is perfect harmony at Pell House. This is all nonsense.”
“Let us think rather of how we are to go about repairing the Hall,” Margaret changed the subject before it could escalate into an argument. “It has been years since we lived there. Do you remember where reliable workmen can be hired in Bankington? The roof is especially urgent, from what Anthony told me.”
Her mother still looked offended. “He told you and not me?”
“He gave me a copy of the report his man of business sent, you are welcome to peruse it. Anthony is sending an architect to assist us, a Mr. Trey, who should arrive almost at the same time.”
“But where will he stay?”
Margaret had not given any thought to that question. “I daresay we could offer him a guest room, or he could take a room at the inn. Since the house belongs to Anthony and he is footing the bills for everything, a guest room might be more appropriate, if there is enough furniture and bedding left. God knows we have plenty of space.”
“But would it be respectable?” Mrs. Bellairs pulled on the fringe of her shawl in worry. “We would not want to create any rumours or gossip.”
Margaret bit back the retort that they had already provided fodder for so much vicious gossip in Bankington, that a little more would hardly matter. “With you and Mrs. Carney in residence, I do not see anything improper. But maybe it is for the best if he stays in the inn, for another person means extra work and we have no staff as yet.”
“What of our former servants? Can we not rehire them?”
“I have discussed all that with Anthony. He recommends we only hire a skeleton staff as long as nobody is going to live there permanently. He left their choice to me.”
“But I know them better,” Mrs. Bellairs objected. “We certainly must have Mrs. Bedlington again, if she should still be available.”
Margaret did not have a high opinion of their former housekeeper, who had spent more time gossiping than focusing on her duties, and abandoned them at the worst possible moment. “A younger woman might be better. We shall see, Mother.”
Maybe this temporary return to her former home had not been Margaret’s most brilliant idea. No, it was just that bringing her mother made everything twice as hard.
But that was not going to stop her.
Her first love was not part of the unfinished business, somewhat to her surprise. Only two years earlier Margaret would have alternately yearned and dreaded seeing Christopher again. In her foolish youth she had thought of him all the time; but over the past year, as she moved in the most fashionable circles of the country, Margaret had put her past into perspective. Christopher had been there when she desperately needed a ray of hope, so very handsome and sympathetic to her troubles. She had forgiven him for abandoning her when they were ruined, but she could never trust him again. Margaret would not marry any man whose strength and reliability in difficult times did not equal her own. Unfortunately such qualities were hard to gauge at balls or dinner parties.
“Is the carriage returning to London after our arrival?” Mrs. Carney enquired.
“Only to Anthony’s estate near Norwich, to save us the expense of stabling and feeding them. They will pick us up for the onward journey at the arranged time, though we can write for them earlier.” Four horses, the outriders … she did not need or want them hanging around Bellairs Hall for weeks on end. “He is sending a barouche with one pair and a coachman from there, to carry us around during our stay.”
“Dear Anthony is so considerate and thinks of all the details,” Mrs. Bellairs said.
Margaret nodded, but even one pair of horses would need feed and straw … she would have to see to supplies right away. Lord Pell’s retainers were used to the best. Happily, their debts from before their exile were paid off, thanks to Anthony, and he had given her an ample purse for expenses.
Mrs. Bellairs was already focusing on her main project. “What motto shall we put on your father’s monument, Margaret?”
He squandered everything and left his family ruined. But a graveyard was no place for anger and resentment.
“I am sure you will think of something suitable, Mother.”
Chapter 4
William Trey would have preferred work that gave more scope to his architectural training than repairing some old manor in Derbyshire, but when you were belatedly starting out on your second career, you had to take what offered. If he satisfied the client, Lord Pell, with luck he would subsequently be awarded more challenging projects.
Manning, his assistant, looked no more enthusiastic as they sped northwards on the fast mail coach. “How long do you reckon we are we going to stay there?”
“It depends on what we find, and how quickly we can hire local workers,” William replied. “No less than five weeks, and possibly as long as two months. Let us hope the local inn is not too far from the estate. If it is, we’ll have to hire a gig or some other contraption.”
“It would be more convenient to just stay at the site.”
“So it would, but some of Lord Pell’s family will be in residence, to make sure that the estate will look as it did before.” William strove not to show too openly what he thought of that idea.
“They are in residence while we’ll be working on the house?” Manning sounded disgusted and appalled. “Not ladies?”
“Yes, I am afraid, three ladies,” William confirmed. “But I expect they will flee quickly enough from the noise and dust.”
“Why did these ladies take it into their head to be there at all? It seems a rum notion to me.” The surly tone did not surprise his employer. Manning was not fond of women, not even his long-suffering wife, judging by his occasionally biting remarks about the evils of family ties.
“From what I was told, two of them used to live there until they lost the estate. Lord Pell bought it only recently. Maybe he plans to restore it to them.”
“Then he is a fool. Someone who does not take care of their own place and loses it, hardly deserves to get it back.”
William could not disagree. “We don’t know the full story. Our job is to satisfy the client, whatever strange notions he may take into his head. If Lord Pell wants us to please these ladies – one of which is his mother-in-law – then we have to do our best to accommodate his wishes. “
“Ah, his mother-in-law?” Manning nodded, as at a puzzle solved.” In that case, giving the house back to her may not be so foolish, as long as his lordship can afford it. Derbyshire is a good long way from London.”
To illustrate his opinion of in-laws, Manning launched into a lengthy story about his own mother-in-law and her many offenses. William only half listened, his thoughts on architecture. There might be other projects of interest in the neighbourhood… Anyway, he’d better try to get some sleep in this lurching vehicle, once Manning stopped nattering on, for they would arrive at their destination in the early morning, and he wanted to start work right away.
***
When William and Manning walked up the drive to Bellairs Manor, after depositing their modest luggage at Bankington’s only inn, evidence of decay was visible all around them. The two pillars of the once imposing but now sadly rusting gate required plastering; one of the carved eagles looking down from the top had lost his beak and half a wing, and looked positively bedraggled. Vegetation was encroaching on the drive. The yew hedges had not been trimmed at all over the past summer, and possibly the previous one.
“A shame to let the grounds get into this poor state,” Manning said critically, looking around. “This could be a showcase with proper attention.”
“Well, we are here to help, though the gardens are hardly our first priority.”
They knocked at the front door, but for several minutes there was no reply at all. Maybe the ladies had been held up en route, and were not yet in residence.
“Let us walk around the whole building,” William decided, taking out his notebook and pencil, “and check on the state of the outer walls.”
He had taken two pages of notes when they located traces of life at the back of the building. Through a ground-floor windowpane a young woman was visible, sitting all alone at a breakfast table, a teacup forgotten by her side. She was drawing in a sketchbook with charcoal.
William stared, mesmerized. With her classical features and thick mahogany hair piled high on the proudly held head, the lady was a picture of beauty and elegance. What was a stunner like that doing all alone in this deserted and crumbling house? She belonged to some exotic fairy tale rather than prosaic reality.
Manning, less impressed with feminine pulchritude, went straight to the window and knocked.
The girl looked up; her dark eyes widened. William bowed from where he stood, to show that they were not a threat.
Without hesitation, she came towards the window and opened it wide. “Good morning – I suppose one of you is the architect we are waiting for?”
William bowed again. “William Trey, at your service, Ma’am. This is my assistant, Jim Manning.”
“Welcome to Bellairs Hall, Mr. Trey and Mr. Manning.” The beauty cast a wry look around. “I am Margaret Bellairs. My mother and her companion are also in residence, but they have gone to call on neighbours just now. Do come in and have some tea, though I fear it is cold. I’d better ring for a fresh pot, but it may take time.”
“That is quite all right, Miss Bellairs, we had breakfast at the inn,” William demurred. “Have you no servants here with you? We knocked on the front door, but to no avail.”
“We only arrived yesterday afternoon, and have recruited one maid and an assistant cook so far. For such a big house, it is not nearly enough. The kitchens are too far from the front door to hear anyone knock. I plan to hire a few more people, but there is no great hurry.”
She let them in through a side door. Presently they found themselves in the breakfast parlour. “Do sit.” Miss Bellairs gestured at the chairs around her table. “I would like to discuss the restoration with you.”
“There is little point before we have thoroughly inspected the house,” William told her. “I have begun to check the outside wall, and what is visible of the roof, but we shall need to go all over the place.”
“Yes, of course. Let us begin right away.”
“You are coming with us?” William cast a doubtful look at her elegant muslin morning dress. That pale green fabric would show any smudge.
“Certainly.” Miss Bellairs regarded him with mild surprise. “As the owner’s representative.”
“Very well, Miss,” he assented with a sigh.
In the event she proved useful rather than a hindrance. Miss Bellairs knew every inch of the house in which she had grown up. She showed them the pile of leftover roof tiles behind dusty trunks in the attic, and the place where the water pipes from the outdoors well leaked; she knew which chimneys were inclined to smoke and which could be made to draw properly when freshly cleaned. Nor did her energy falter during the long inspection.
The majority of the rooms were still furnished, though some of the best pieces, he guessed, were missing. A number of discoloured squares on the walls indicated the loss of pictures, and a mere two dozen or so books remained in the library. Miss Bellairs looked pained now and then at the state of the place, but did not apologize or explain. She kept the focus on the need for repair throughout.
They returned to the breakfast room after more than two hours. The kitchen maid, to whom they had been introduced on the way, supplied fresh tea and scones. Miss Bellairs’ chaperons had still not returned from their calls, but as the young lady did not show the slightest constraint or awkwardness in the presence of the two men, William was reluctant to draw her attention to the delicacy of her situation. He was probably flattering himself that it was in any way improper; a young lady like Miss Bellairs, related to a Marquis, might see an architect as a mere menial and not as a man.
“It is not as bad as I feared,” he told her, after gratefully downing a cup of the hot, fragrant beverage. The house was unheated, and he was thirsty. “The roof is the first priority, and should not take longer than two weeks, if we can find experienced workers close by.”