The Westerby Inheritance

by M C Beaton

  “Hey! What? What?” cried the Marquess, suddenly sitting bolt upright in bed and staring wildly round with unfocused eyes.

  “There now,” said Hetty, putting her hands on his shoulders to try to force him back against the pillows. “Hetty’s here. Quietly, now.”

  But he shook her off with surprising force, calling out, “Who’s there?” and then, “Listen!”

  The candle flame, disturbed by the draft caused by the sudden movement of the bedclothes, danced wildly, sending grotesque shadows flying over the paneled walls and up to the painted ceiling.

  They sat rigid, listening.

  Very faintly, from the blackest of the shadows in the right-hand corner of the room, came a faint cracking noise. It sounded like the noise of someone cracking his knuckles.

  “God and all his angels defend me!” whispered Hetty through white lips.

  The noise grew more distinct. Jane stood up and stretched a trembling hand to the bellrope. But before she could touch it, a figure appeared in the shadows, the figure of a man, smiling obsequiously and cracking his knuckles. The face was half hidden in the shadows. But clothes and figure and very movement in the flying shadows were that of James Bentley.

  The Marquess opened his mouth, but it seemed to go on opening and opening, drawing back horribly over his teeth. He made a choked, gulping noise in the back of his throat. His face seemed to cave in on the right, and then he collapsed back against the pillows, his lifeless head lolling to one side.

  “Simon!” screamed Hetty, flinging herself on the bed.

  Jane bent over her father. There was no need to feel his pulse. One look at his face showed that his soul had fled his body.

  And then she looked back into the shadows. The ghost had gone.

  Hetty’s frenzied weeping tore the air.

  Jane felt her mind snap. She ran down into the hall and seized the rope of the fire bell and pulled and pulled and pulled.

  The wild alarm rang out over the silent fields and sleeping countryside, calling for help, calling for aid. Jane was calling for faces and lights and noise and living people and more people to crowd the Chase and frighten the demons back over into the other world.

  The servants came running. She did not know what she said, wildly pointing up toward her father’s room.

  And then there was Bella, hugging Jane to her ample bosom. Bella, who seemed miraculously to know all. Bella, with her warm, gossipy voice, banishing the ghosts.

  “Well, now,” she said bracingly, leading Jane into the morning room and lighting the fire, “you must look at it proper, now. You wouldn’t ha’ wanted to see my lord in Bedlam, astanding there in his nightshirt for to be poked and tormented by any punk who pays the penny entrance fee? For he would ha’ ended in the madhouse, he was agetting that strange.

  “And it ain’t no use you ascarin’ yourself with thoughts o’ ghosts, my lady. That there Bentley is probably safe in hell where he belongs, cheating the devil at dice.

  “Now then, my lady, it would help if you would cry a little. And what of Lady Hetty? Her’ll need help. There now, I took the liberty of ordering the teatray, and you shall sit by the fire with Bella.”

  “Bella,” said Jane through chattering teeth, “have you ever seen a ghost?”

  “No, not a one. But it brings to mind the story of Mrs. Maclean, who…”

  As usual, Jane turned her mind off when Bella began to reminisce. She felt very young and defenseless and alone. She tried to mourn her father, but she felt numb.

  As the birds began to fuss in the ivy and a rosy dawn flooded the dew-laden grass and trees with pink, she put her head wearily back against the chair and fell asleep.

  “… and that is why I don’t really believe in ghosts,” finished Bella. She looked across and saw that her young mistress was fast asleep and tiptoed from the room.

  All next day, a steady procession of tenants and gentry and aristocracy filed up the long drive of Eppington Chase to pay their last respects to the Marquess.

  The Lovelaces had had a private chapel some time during the last century, but it had fallen into disrepair, the Marquess favoring the church at Westerby on his brief attendances. So he lay in state in the gloomy hall, his hands crossed on his breast, the shadows from the tattered battle flags hanging from the beamed ceiling floating across his waxen face.

  All that long day they came, for the Marquess had been popular with the whole cross-section of the community, from poachers and thieves to the Lord Lieutenant of the county.

  Jane was kept busy supplying refreshments and acting as hostess, since Hetty had locked herself in her room with her grief and would not let anyone come near.

  Young Sally was more superstitious than the quiet Betty and jumped at her own shadow, terrified that the ghost of James Bentley would appear.

  Jane pooh-poohed her fears. They had been overwrought by fatigue, she said. Neither Hetty nor she had seen anything. But after the mourners had departed, she went into the hall to stand beside her father’s body and felt very alone and very afraid. The four tall candles at the corners of the Marquess’s catafalque burned steadily, and the house was hushed, apart from the muted sound of Hetty’s frenzied weeping.

  “What a pair of lungs that woman does have!” thought Jane with a healthy burst of anger. She herself had been unable to shed a tear, too numbed by the shock, too weighted down by her new responsibilities.

  One of her father’s wealthiest farmers, James Ecksleigh, had offered to act as temporary steward, since crops and cattle, which were the life-blood of Eppington Chase, had still to be attended to.

  The land was in exceedingly good heart, he had told Jane earlier that day, and if her late father’s innovations and improvements were kept up, the estates of Westerby could prove to be among the most profitable in the country.

  Jane slowly left the hall and walked through the chain of small saloons which led to the morning room in the west wing.

  Bella was already sitting by the fire with her sewing. For once her garrulous tongue was stilled and she looked old and tired. Jane picked up her own workbasket and selected some handkerchiefs to hem and embroider. She thought briefly of Lord Charles Welbourne, but he seemed so remote, a person in a dream.

  A footman came in, carrying a fresh basket of logs and another with the teatray. When they had left, Bella said, “Don’t know that we need a fire, my lady. ’Tis mild this night.”

  She went and opened the window, and the sweet smell of grass and flowers and bushes drifted into the room.

  “Have you seen my lady?” asked Jane, helping herself to tea.

  “Won’t let nobody nigh,” said Bella sadly. “Lady Hetty will do herself an injury, weeping like that.”

  “If she is in the same state in the morning,” said Jane wearily, “have the servants break down the door and send for Doctor Stamford.”

  After several hours, Bella looked at the little French clock on the mantel and exclaimed. “Lud! ’Tis two o’clock of the morning, my lady. You should be in bed.”

  But Jane shook her head. She did not want to leave the comfort of the cozy little room to climb the shadowy stairs to her bedroom and lie awake listening to the dirge of Hetty’s grief.

  Bella got up and opened the door and cocked her large head to one side. “Lady Hetty’s stopped crying,” she said. “Poor soul. Now my lady will have some sleep. Such grief cannot last forever.”

  “Go to bed, Bella,” said Jane quietly. “I cannot sleep. I will sit here and sew.”

  “I dunno that I can neither,” said Bella with a heavy sigh. She was dropping with fatigue, but she would not for a moment have dreamed of abandoning her mistress in time of trouble. There was a lot of the faithful family dog in Bella’s character, a characteristic recognized by Jane and Hetty, who allowed her some license in her behavior. Even the rough-and-ready Hetty had a short, sharp manner with uppity servants.

  The little clock ticked away busily as both women bent over their sewing. Bella’s head b
egan to nod. Through eyes blurred with fatigue, she stared at the branch of candles on the table in front of them—and her eyes opened wide with horror. Winding sheets! The draft from the window had blown the flames so that the wax had dripped round and round the candles in a way that was known as “winding sheets,” a sure omen of death. Then Bella gave herself a mental shake. There was death in the house already.

  Nonetheless, she shuffled wearily to her feet and went to close the window.

  “I should leave it open,” said Jane, looking up from her work, “and remind me to send for the sweep. The chimney must be smoking terribly.”

  “Now just let old Bella close this here window,” said Bella firmly, suiting the action to the words. “You are tired, my lady, and that’s when a body catches the ague.”

  Jane sighed, too tired to argue. After a few moments she put down her work again.

  “Bella,” she said firmly, “I want that window open. The room is hot—and see, the smoke is already lying in layers.”

  “That’s strange,” said Bella wonderingly. “I’ve let the fire die down. See, my lady. There ain’t nothing but red ashes. No smoke.”

  Both women stared at each other, and then Jane flew to the door and flung it open. Great black clouds of smoke billowed into the room.

  “Fire!” screamed Bella. “Fire! Oh, my lady! Oh, the children!”

  And then, “Come back, my lady!”

  But Jane had gone.

  She fled through the saloons, choking and gasping, as once more, above her head, the great alarm bell of the Chase began to ring.

  She opened the door to the hall and staggered back before the roaring inferno.

  She ran back along the saloons and into the morning room. “Quick!” she cried to Bella. “Through the window. Fetch help.”

  It was easy for Jane’s small body to climb through the open window, but it was difficult for Bella. Servants who said they had been sent by the Marchioness broke the window and frame with axes until there was a large enough hole to pull Bella through.

  Together the two women stumbled from the house.

  Then Jane set out a sob of sheer relief. The lawn in front of the house seemed to be full of people, and, foremost among them, Hetty with her stepsisters.

  “Thank God you’re safe,” said Jane, running into Hetty’s arms.

  Then she turned and stared in horror at the blazing, crackling, savage fire that was Eppington Chase and cried out, “Oh, my father!”

  “He’s dead, ain’t he?” said Hetty in a flat voice. “Let him take his house with him.”

  Jane drew back and stared at her. Hetty’s eyes were blazing in her thin face with a strange triumph.

  “Hetty,” said Jane in a low whisper, “you did this.”

  “Well,” said Hetty callously, “it’s insured, ain’t it?”

  Tenants and servants ran with buckets of water. Farmer James Ecksleigh proved to be an excellent organizer, but there seemed little he could do to combat the raging blaze.

  A man ran past Hetty with a bucket of water, and the Marchioness quickly put out her foot and tripped him up.

  “Hetty!” cried Jane, running forward. “How dare you? How could you?”

  “Let it burn,” said Hetty, beginning to laugh. “It’s a fine funeral pyre for Simon.” Then she went on laughing, standing with her hands on her hips, her head thrown back, laughing at the blaze.

  Beside herself with rage and shock, Jane struck Hetty across the face. Hetty stopped laughing and looked at Jane sadly.

  “You’re a funny little thing, Jane,” she said. “You never could see the point of a good joke.”

  “Joke!” said Jane, appalled. “Oh, my home. My beloved home!”

  “Aye,” said Hetty grimly. “With luck, I’ll have saved you from the sickness that killed Bentley and your father.”

  Whatever Hetty said next was drowned by the bell of the Sun Life Fire Insurance fire engine, which had just arrived from the largest neighboring town. The firemen, in their blue liveries with silver badges flashing on their left arms, quickly took off their leather helmets and began to don leather smoke masks, the hoods of the smoke masks making them look like so many demons as they ran toward the blaze. Following them ran the porters, their silver badges bobbing round their necks. The porters were hired by the insurance companies to rescue goods and valuables and remove them from danger.

  A fiery dawn streaked the sky, adding its flames to that of the Chase.

  Jane turned and walked away, walked across the lawns churned up to plant trees and statuary, walked away past the black pit that was to be an ornamental lake, and across the dew-laden grass to the Holm Wood.

  She walked through the trees into the heart of the wood, until the greedy crackling of the fire could no longer be heard and the shouts and cries of the rescuers were muted by the distance.

  She knelt down by a mossy log under the cathedral arch of the trees and prayed for the repose of the Marquess of Westerby’s soul, while the busy birds chirped their requiem overhead.

  She prayed on as the sun rose higher and struck down through the trees, and at last she put her weary head down on the log and fell fast asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You’ll be as bald as a coot ’fore you’re fifty,” said Sir Anthony Blake gloomily.

  He and Lord Charles Welbourne were seated in the Mulberry coffee house with the morning newspaper. Lord Charles had dispensed with his wigs and had grown his own hair. He was wearing it unpowdered and tied at the back of his neck with a solitaire. It shone dully in the gloom of the coffee house, like the wing of a raven. “Shouldn’t wash it so much,” went on Sir Anthony. “Makes it look like one of them glass wigs.”

  “It doesn’t itch,” pointed out Lord Charles reasonably, but Sir Anthony was not convinced. An itching head, whether from livestock or an accumulation of powder and pomatum, was to Sir Anthony one of the realities of life, like having a sore head and a dry mouth in the morning or constricted breathing or fallen arches. All these ills were part and parcel of the life of a gentleman of fashion, and to suggest that even one of them might be alleviated by a bath, a sober night, or a pair of sensible shoes was flying in the face of Providence.

  He was glad, however to see his friend back in London in time for the Little Season. Lord Charles had departed for Italy two days after the Marquess of Westerby’s funeral some three months ago, and had only returned the day before.

  Lord Charles glanced up from his paper with some amusement at Sir Anthony, who was even higher-heeled and tighter laced than usual. “Who is she?” he asked.

  Sir Anthony gave a gusty sigh and put a plump hand over the region of his heart.

  “Miss Syms,” he said. “The fairest angel in London.”

  “Syms?” Lord Charles’s black brows drew together. “Now where have I heard that name before?”

  Sir Anthony looked at him rather awkwardly. “Oh, well. She’s only the vicar of Westerby’s daughter, but a pearl for all that.”

  Westerby! Lord Charles carefully examined his heart, felt not a twinge, and almost heaved a sigh of relief. Enjoying this new feeling of detached interest, he said mildly, “Ah, now I remember. Lady Jane Lovelace’s friend.”

  Sir Anthony looked shifty. “Well, she ain’t exactly a friend. Not now, that is. You see, it was like this. When the Lovelace girl had no money, Philadelphia helped Jane to get invited to London by Lady Comfrey, even going so far as to supply Lady Jane with presents of jewels and things for the old girl so as Lady Comfrey would invite her.”

  “Really!” said Lord Charles mildly. “I would not have thought a vicar’s daughter would possess such a quantity of jewels that she would be able to give them away.”

  “Anyway,” went on Sir Anthony, brushing this aside, “just before the old Marquess died, Jane tells Miss Syms that she cannot accommodate her, but that she has arranged that Miss Syms shall stay with the Bentleys, who are at the Westerby town house.”

  “So?”
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  “So Miss Syms finds that after Lady Jane returns from her father’s funeral, she don’t want to have nothing to do with Miss Syms, because Miss Syms has taken an immense liking to that there Fanny Bentley.”

  “Were the Bentleys and this angel of yours not present at the Marquess of Westerby’s funeral?” asked Lord Charles.

  “No, why should they be? The Westerbys and Bentleys never got along, to say the least of it, as you very well know.”

  “It did not,” said Lord Charles coldly, “stop the Bentleys from living off the Westerbys, however.”

  “Well, they ain’t now, let me tell you,” said Sir Anthony wrathfully. “The Marchioness, Lady Hetty, before what’s left of her husband after that fire has hardly had time to settle in the family vault, she ups to town and gives the Bentleys their marching orders.”

  “Very proper,” remarked Lord Charles. “I wondered when the Westerbys would rid themselves of their unnatural guilt in that direction.”

  “I haven’t got to the tragic bit yet,” said Sir Anthony wrathfully. “Fanny sends Miss Syms round to plead with Lady Jane so’s they can keep the Westerby town house, and Lady Jane sends poor little Miss Syms packing, saying as how Miss Syms is as hardhearted and selfish as the Bentleys and she wishes her the joy o’ them.”

  “Seems like an accurate description of Miss Syms. What are her parents about, to leave her in London with people who are not even kin? I gather she is still with the Bentleys.”

  “Oh, yes. Mrs. Bentley rented a fine house and told Miss Syms she could make her home with them. Mr. Syms, the father, came hotfooting it to town to protest, but Miss Syms has the championship of her mother, and so she was allowed to stay. I’m meeting Miss Syms at the opera tonight, Charlie, and—and I would deem it a favor if you would make your bow to Miss Syms. She’s mortal anxious to meet you.”

  “I confess I am anxious to meet this paragon of yours. But, at the risk of offending your sensibilities, it seems to be as if Miss Syms had not been wronged at all. Surely her place was with Lady Jane when the Marquess died?”