by Laura London
“You’re far off there. M’father always said that Uncle Nicky was one of the brightest young men in government. Said he had a knack for organization combined with a quick eye for detail. That’s the kind of men they want running the country. Damn, girl, your country’s in a state of siege. Do you think they’d want a bunch of titled nodcocks minding the store?”
“Quick eye for the ladies, too,” shot in Caro, who had been busy untangling her fishing line. “The innkeeper’s wife said it was musical bedrooms when he stayed there with Lady Doran.”
Christopher raised his eyebrows meaningfully at me, but as I rarely discipline the twins I remained silent.
“The innkeeper’s wife ought to be ashamed of herself repeating fudge like that around a little poppet like you,” growled Christopher.
“I’ll wager that she didn’t know she was repeating it around Caro,” I said, casting a shrewd eye over my unrepentant sister. “Besides, if people don’t want to get talked about then they ought not to do things that people will want to talk about.”
“Of all the prim… What do you expect a man to do, live like a monk?” asked Christopher indignantly.
I was coyly silent for a moment and then replied as prissily as I possibly could, “Happily, I know nothing of men or the way they live. Surely that you would have the indelicacy to raise such a subject to me shows that you have no regard for my sensibilities. In short, sir, I find you shocking!” I quickly buried my head in my hands to hide my laughter—the sight of his mortified face had been too much for me.
“Elizabeth! I beg your… so sorry… pray do not be upset. Why you imp, I believe you’re laughing.” He pried my fingers away from my mouth. “You are laughing.” Christopher smiled down on me dazedly, like one charmed. He sat down next to me, and then, becoming aware that he was still holding my fingers, released them hurriedly.
“You oughtn’t to look like that, makes a fellow feel like he’s been hit over the head with a two-by-four. Nor blush like that either, has the same effect.”
Caro finished untangling her fishing line and walked over to the stream to drop it in. “Is there to be an inquest, Lizzie?”
“Yes. Next week at the Tenterly courthouse. And the squire says that I will have to testify.”
Christa looked at me with awe. “Won’t you be afraid to speak in front of all the people?”
“I’m more likely to grow puffed up with my own importance, from all the attention, like poor Niobe, who suffered a most painful fate.”
My sisters deserted their fishing rods to come and sit across from Christopher and me. “Tell us about Niobe, Lizzie, c’mon, do…”
Chapter Four
The twins and I spent most of the next week getting to know Christopher, who seemed as pleased in our company as we were with his. By the second day we were calling him Kit, and by the third we had exchanged stories of how we had lost our parents. Christopher’s mother had died in a runaway carriage when he was seven. The loss of his father was still raw—Christopher told us bleakly that he had been shot by housebreakers only six months ago.
In spite of his loss, Christopher was as open and unaffected as Lord Dearborne was cold and withdrawn. Not that I saw much of the marquis; he stayed only a few days before returning to London to more sophisticated amusements and, so Christopher averred, his government responsibilities. To Christopher, Lord Dearborne was all things. Kit plainly worshipped the man, to no degree less than did Squire Macready. It was Uncle Nicky this and Uncle Nicky that with Kit. I thought glumly that there was at least one bone I would have picked with Uncle Nicky if I had the chance:
The marquis had sent workmen from London to undertake long-needed repairs to the estate. They were rough city-bred types who seemed to be everywhere, turning up at unexpected places. They were near the gatehouse when we took Christopher to see the new litter of kittens. One man came to hammer in the stables when I was feeding the old cob a carrot, and the same man went into Tenterly with us on the day of the inquest, saying that he needed to purchase some more building materials. In short, I got an uncanny feeling of being spied on. I should have been glad to have the men there making those repairs to the neglected buildings of Barfrestly—but I wasn’t. I felt tiny fingers of resentment prodding at me. Before Lord Dearborne’s arrival we had done very well, thank you. There had been no pesky workmen, no corpses in the bushes, and no coldly mocking blue eyes to disturb my dreams.
I decided that, perhaps, my unaccustomed tension was due to the upcoming inquest over Henri’s death. I had been assured and reassured by everyone from Mrs. Goodbody to the squire that there was nothing to fear, that I would merely have to tell my story of the events immediately leading to the discovery of Henri’s body and then answer a few simple questions. Still, Caro had read me well in guessing that I was shy at speaking before so many people. There is something unnerving about being the center of attention at a legal proceeding.
Fortified with an egg-and-bacon breakfast and a new Sunday bonnet, I set off for Tenterly in Lord Dearborne’s elegant carriage, Christopher and Caro on either side of me and Mrs. Goodbody and Christa across from us. Riding in this magnificent equipage had gone a fair way toward reconciling me to the trip. What lady could fail to be pleased by a ride in a carriage out of a fairy tale? My sisters leaned perilously out the window to shout greetings to passersby and to laugh at their expressions of awe at seeing those Cordell gals riding in such splendor.
I had laughed that morning as Mrs. Goodbody had packed a bottle of smelling salts in her reticule, possibly on the conviction that the inquest would leave me with a fit of the vapors. If the truth be told, however, there was a moment in the inquest when I was afraid that I might really end up requiring the services of that ominous little brown bottle.
As I sat on the stand giving my testimony, having sworn on a Bible to tell the truth, my narrative reached the point where I had seen the shadow and walked to investigate under the library window. The squire interjected, “and did you hear anything just then?” I of course took him literally for a moment and, blushing to the roots of my hair, I thought he wished me to recount the humiliating conversation between the marquis and Christopher concerning myself. I would rather have eaten all the ribbons on my new Sunday bonnet.
But I had sworn on the Bible to tell the whole truth, so it was either relate the conversation or go to hell! Thinking that never again would I be able to hold my head up in Tenterly, I closed my eyes and started to speak. Mercifully, the squire’s voice interrupted me to clarify that he only wondered if I had heard any footsteps or noises on the roof at that point. Saved by the donkey’s bray!
There were several others that gave evidence after me, including Roger and the coroner, though no new evidence came forth. After only eight minutes of deliberation the jury returned with a verdict of death by misadventure, just as the squire had predicted. Henri had been French and as we were at war with France, people were only too ready to believe anything bad of a Frenchman. I have no patience with that type of national prejudice, but what could I do? I knew nothing that would exonerate the poor chef from the posthumous charge of attempted robbery. I had never even met the man.
I was glad to leave the musty courtroom behind and step into the fresh breezes that blew upon Tenterly’s High Street. Here, surrounded by half-timbered houses, pubs, and small shops, one can see the tall spire of the church tower. It dwarfs everything around it into insignificance, which is not such an unpleasant feeling sometimes.
Christopher, the twins, Mrs. Goodbody, and I went to the White Lion for tea. We sat down and got cozy after Mrs. Goodbody had quieted the twins, and began talking over the events of the day. My mind was wavering in and out of the conversation, when I heard Caro speak, in her forthright way, to Christopher.
“Why, Kit,” she said. “Whatever are you looking at?”
Christopher was indeed staring intently out the window, even rising into a half-crouch, suddenly oblivious to what was taking place around him.
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br /> We were all growing very much alarmed, and I turned to look out the window myself, thinking I was missing some momentous occurrence. Perhaps the Prince Regent himself was passing by the inn with his entire entourage and I was missing it. But no, it was only Dr. Brent, standing and talking to one of the workmen from the estate, out in the road.
“Who is that man?” said Christopher. “That straight-backed, distinguished fellow standing in the road? He looks familiar to me.”
“Why, that’s only Dr. Brent,” I told him. “He’s not half so distinguished as he looks.”
“Who is Dr. Brent?” he said, still staring out the window.
“Only the new assistant to Dr. Lindham in the area,” said Caro disparagingly.
Christopher appeared to relax. Just then Dr. Brent turned, observed us all gawking at him through the window, gave us a huge smile and wave, and walked into the inn to stand beside our table. He was indeed a forward gentleman.
“Elizabeth, Mrs. Goodbody, and the dear little girls,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “And this must be the new guest at Barfrestly I have heard about—a sturdy young man to hold the walls up while the marquis is away.”
Christopher extended his hand. “Christopher Warrington is the name, Dr. Brent. Pleased to meet you.” Whatever had made Christopher feel ill-at-ease had vanished when Dr. Brent presented himself, and they soon fell into an easy banter. I was surprised at how well they hit it off until it occurred to me that what I was seeing was the well-mannered interplay of two determinedly charming people, and that all they did have in common was their late residence in London. Dr. Brent had taken his medicals there and Christopher had lived there with his family. I supposed this was London manners in action. I was surprised at the skill with which Christopher handled sociable small talk and it brought home to me that, though I was an aristocrat by birth as he was, our differences in upbringing were pronounced. He had been raised to his station, where I had been raised to be a simple country girl, polite in my way, but perhaps a little too direct and obvious. I felt like an openmouthed bumpkin as I followed the banter between Christopher and Dr. Brent.
“I heard you had some excitement at your house lately?” said Dr. Brent. His face was solemn but his eyes were twinkling in a way I did not really find amusing considering the ordeal I had been through. “Miss Elizabeth looks rather petite to be confronting housebreakers, trespassers, and things that go bump in the night.”
That last remark brought my chin up. Though his face was solemn I could detect a real note of mockery in his eyes. “I don’t think the entire story of the cook’s death came out in the inquest,” I said defiantly. It seemed to me that his eyes narrowed slightly, but perhaps he was only squinting at a sunbeam deflected from outside. I could detect no change in his easy manner. He leaned his hands on the table, bent forward, and looked intently into my face.
“Tell me, Miss Elizabeth, what is the real story of what happened that night?”
“I’m not sure,” I retreated. “It just seems to me that people were too easy with their judgments because the cook was French.”
His smile widened perceptibly. I stifled an unladylike desire to grind my teeth. I had already felt behind in the conversation, and now my ego was really bruised at being made sport of like a foolish child. I longed to recoup my stock in this entire enterprise.
“I just don’t consider the case closed, that’s all,” I declared ringingly, with much more bravado than I was actually feeling.
“So you are setting yourself up in competition with the Bow Street Runners, Miss Elizabeth?” said Dr. Brent, smirking.
It did nothing for my temper that I could think of no very clever comeback to this snide remark. Why was the man so obnoxious? We teased in my family, yes, but only for fun, not to humiliate. Caro’s hand stole underneath the table and softly patted mine. Christopher, reading my frustration and distress, changed the subject, and kept the conversation away from me until the coach arrived to take us back to Barfrestly.
As we rumbled down the road in the big carriage, Caro patted my hand again and spoke. “Never mind that horrid Mr. Medicine-Menace, Lizzie. He was just trying to show off, making fun of you like that.”
Mrs. Goodbody clucked mildly. “I’m sure he meant no harm, dears. Gentlemen,” she proclaimed importantly, “will have their jokes.”
“Well,” I retorted, “if that’s an example of their jokes, than the less I see of ‘gentlemen,’ the better!”
* * *
I hummed as I poured water into the old porcelain washbasin the next morning. My good mood sprouted like spring flowers after a May rainfall. I realized that I had put the inquest and all that went with it behind me. God bless the Fates for restoring me to my accustomed serenity. I think that because I feel pain so deeply when it strikes me, some merciful natural balance prevents me from feeling it for too long.
That day, Caro, Christa, and I were to begin work on our annual theatrical production. Every year since my twelfth birthday, I had written and directed a play as a parish fund-raising activity. It was presented on the same day as the church bazaar, and I must admit that it is usually one of the bazaar’s most popular attractions. Though our modest productions could never play Drury Lane, to the people of our parish who hardly ever see a show of any kind, they are a source of much enjoyment. The whole parish eagerly inundates us with ideas and suggestions that are often as humorous as they are impractical.
This production was to be the most ambitious since three summers ago when we had put on “The Plagues Visited Upon Egypt and the Subsequent Exodus of the Hebrew People to the Promised Land.” We had decided to pull out all the stops with a play so grandiose that it would, we hoped, leave our audience in a state of rapt amazement. We planned to enact “The Battle of Hastings Culminating the Norman Invasion of England in the Year of Our Lord 1066.” Unfortunately, the only thing in scarcity for our productions were those few souls fearless enough to risk forgetting their lines and embarrassing themselves before the village. So far we only had a scant half-dozen ferocious Norman invaders. I was stuck with the role of King Harold. No one else wanted to be the loser. Jane Coleman was to be the lachrymose Queen Edith. She showed a regrettable tendency to giggle when the news of her husband’s death was brought to her by the wounded messenger (Christa). The role of William the Conqueror was yet unfilled because every potential applicant had declared that the part had too many long speeches to memorize. I was beginning to think that I would have to cut out some of my most cherished declamations. I had taken particular care in writing William’s part, for I have always felt rather sorry for him. The only way that I can account for this strange partiality is that he is an unpopular figure in British history and I have what Caro says is a maudlin tendency to sympathize with the underdog. I brought the problem up to Christopher as we walked down the lane together.
“So here I am, having to choose which precious lines will go. I feel like a poor mother who has to decide which of her children will go to work in the city,” I told him in melancholy accents.
“Why cut any lines? Right at your doorstep is an actor willing to do lengthy speeches all day if only to please you, little Elizabeth,” Christopher said solemnly, with teasing eyes.
“If you mean Mrs. Goodbody, I can assure you that nothing would induce her… Why I believe you mean yourself! You must be jesting!” I was amazed. Hazy as my notions of the proper behavior for young bluebloods were, I knew that nothing could be more shocking than for one to appear in a public theatrical. So I told Christopher, who laughed so hard that he almost fell into a ditch.
“What a peagoose you are, sweetheart,” he said. “If it’s proper for you then it can hardly be too scandalous for me.” I replied huffily that I had only been trying to protect his reputation, but saw that this only threatened to set him off again.
“Well, it’s true for all that, Christopher. I don’t have a reputation to lose. As far as society is concerned I am nobody. If your guardian heard that you w
ere going to act in public he would think it an unbecoming prank and yank you out by the ear.”
I had expected a grin to answer this sally, but to my surprise he grew quiet. After a minute he said, very gently: “Elizabeth, don’t go saying you’re a nobody because it ain’t true.” He paused reflectively and his face brightened. “Damn if I don’t set out to prove it to you, too.”
Considerably intrigued, I teased him to tell just how he meant to set about this mysterious task, when we were interrupted by mischievous Cleo who had flushed a partridge from the underbrush beside the lane. There was a great deal of commotion as the twins tried to retrieve the triumphant puppy before she damaged Mother Partridge’s hidden nest.
We were on our way to the village to pick up a large piece of lumber that the blacksmith was donating to the production. It was destined to become the historical vessel that carried the invading Norman army to the English shore.
The village is more accurately called a hamlet. It nestles in a valley’s dip about half an hour’s brisk walk from Barfrestly Estate and rejoices in the name of Mudbury. You may laugh, but it is surely no worse than being called Broughton Poggs, Bumpstead, or Sparrowpit, which also number among England’s more than thirteen thousand villages. Mudbury is a hamlet of such great charm that I think it picturesque, and I have lived close by it all my life! A tidy row of whitewashed cottages cuddles cozily about the little church with its Gothic stone cross. Separated from the buildings by a trim yew hedge, there slopes a wide piece of common land, now bright with marsh marigolds.
As the lane turned abruptly into the village, we were hailed by my friend Jane Coleman, hanging out a washing on a clothesline behind their cottage. After introducing Christopher to Jane, the twins took him across the village square and then disappeared behind a stone-built barn where the blacksmith carried out his trade. Jane and I sat together on the overturned clothesbasket to chat in the sun while they were arranging the transportation of our lumber. Fine brown curls frame Jane’s sweet freckled face, which reflects its owner’s quiet strengths and the graceful humor that she applies to everything she does, from frying bacon to being my friend.