The Westerby Inheritance

by M C Beaton

  “Although,” he said after the carriage had moved off again, “it is a case of the pot calling the kettle black, for I should have been ready myself. Well, I have a flask of brandy on this side. Drink some. You’re as white as a sheet.”

  He tilted the silver flask to her lips, and she drank a great gulp, choked, shivered, and suddenly collapsed back against the upholstery.

  “What…?” he began, but she put her hand in his and said in a low voice, “Don’t speak. Not now.” And so he fell silent, turning over the problem of young Carruthers in his mind.

  They stopped for the night at a comfortable hostlery. It was not very grand, but the sheets smelled of lavender and their bedroom was clean.

  Jane had hardly said a word, except to beg him to be silent when he tried to discuss the attack by the highwaymen. That night she would not let him touch her and cried out in fear when he tried to take her in his arms, and, tired and shaken himself, he merely shrugged and turned over on his side and fell asleep.

  The next day she was no better, and he wearied of begging and coaxing her to tell him what was the matter.

  “Bunter’s Cross,” he said finally. “We are nearly home.”

  Jane glanced out of the window and stiffened. A high wind was blowing, and three corpses hanging on a gibbet at the cross swung and dangled in the wind, creaking on their ropes.

  “Death!” whispered Jane through white lips. “Death everywhere.”

  He found himself becoming impatient with her. Dead bodies hanging on gibbets were a common sight in Merry England, all part of the landscape, so to speak. He forgot about her incredible bravery of the day before and began to wonder if perhaps she might be missish.

  The almost boyish look of elation left his face, and by the time the weary horses pulled up the long drive toward the entrance to Upperpark, his face had resumed its old haughty mask.

  He felt that she could not possibly love him, or she would not reject him so. He was her husband, and she should confide her troubles in him.

  But it was good to be home. He felt proud of his home as the mellow Tudor brick rose above the trees of the park and the setting sun sparkled on the mullioned windows. And oh! the smells of home were already in his nostrils. Woodsmoke rising from the tall, fantastic chimneys, and inside a mixture of applewood, rose leaves, beeswax, hot bread, and damp dog.

  The servants were lined up in the hall to greet their new mistress, and Lord Charles was relieved that his wife performed the ceremony with grace. Then, after it was over, he noticed Jane bending over a wicker basket.

  “What have you there, my love?” he demanded, striding over.

  “Wong,” said Jane. “I could not leave him behind.”

  “Wong!” he said wrathfully. “Do you mean to tell me you brought that excuse for a dog on your honeymoon?”

  Jane was helping Wong out of his basket and did not trouble to reply. Wong’s flat obsidian eyes stared round his new quarters. He promptly squatted, and a large puddle began to spread over the sanded floor.

  “Tcha!” said his lordship and turned on his heel. “I will see you at supper, madam,” he said over his shoulder, “and perhaps you might deign to tell me what ails you.”

  Jane crept miserably after the housekeeper, to be shown to her own apartment. The woman had barely curtsied herself out before Jane threw herself on the bed and burst into an agony of weeping. She wanted to go home. But she no longer knew where home was. After some time, when she had cried herself out, she realized she would have to explain herself to her lord. And so she learned one of the most difficult lessons of marriage very quickly—that unfortunately the loved one is not blessed with telepathic powers, and therefore it is always necessary to explain one’s feelings clearly and distinctly.

  But as she washed and changed, with the help of a strange maid, she could not help feeling rebelliously that he might have guessed the extent of her shock and horror.

  As she was ushered into a pleasant paneled drawing room with a fine crystal chandelier blazing under the low ceiling, he rose to meet her, and she saw at once the hurt on his face and ran to him, crying his name for the first time. “Charles! Oh, Charles. Forgive me! I was so frightened, so very frightened, and you did not seem to understand.”

  He swept her into his arms and held her close against his heart.

  “How could I?” he said softly. “I am supposed to be your defender and protector, my dear, and yet it is my tiny bride who kills two men as coolly as you please with the best piece of shooting I have ever seen. I was angry with myself, I think, because I had exposed you to such danger by my lack of foresight. And how was I to know you were so frightened and shocked? I began to feel you thought me less than a man for having put you in such a position.”

  “Ah, no, Charles,” she said, laughing through her tears. “I am a very weak woman, I assure you.”

  “Who taught you to shoot?”

  “Hetty.”

  “What a terrifying mama-in-law I have. Add Bella to that, and I shall be frightened to raise my voice to you.”

  “Charles,” said Jane timidly, “I am not hungry, and we are wasting time.”

  He promptly swept her up in his arms and began to carry her toward the staircase. This time he did not wonder what was in her mind.…

  In the next month, Lord Charles gradually forgot about Jimmy Carruthers. He had reported the matter to the magistrates and had heard nothing further. He had been going to start investigations of his own, because he was curious to find out what had forced Jimmy Carruthers to such a trade and why that young man should be so interested in blowing his, Lord Charles’s, brains out rather than simply taking his money and jewels. But as the lovely, lazy days drifted past in a golden chain, he found himself reluctant to break the spell by doing anything to remind Jane of the incident.

  Sir Anthony had written begging to visit them, but to even Sir Anthony Lord Charles sent a firm refusal. He wanted his bride to himself for a little longer. Bella had arrived a few days after the wedding. Whether Jane had told her maid the story of the highwaymen, Lord Charles did not know, and certainly Bella never referred to it.

  Then the first news to disturb their calm arrived one morning by the early post.

  It was a long and rambling letter from Hetty, in which she stated that she had allowed Mrs. Bentley to take up residence as a sort of chatelaine at the Chase, since Mrs. Bentley was just a regular body like anyone else and had overcome her bitterness for the Westerbys—which, when you looked at it clearly, Hetty had written, was only natural, seeing as how her husband had killed himself over the loss of the Westerby estates. She added almost pleadingly that Jane would surely be glad to have someone in residence at the Chase to oversee the building, and after all she, Hetty, was mortal sick of the country and preferred the life in town.

  Lord Charles covertly studied his wife’s face as she finished reading aloud Hetty’s letter. Jane looked very grim indeed.

  “I cannot bear the thought of that woman in my home!” Jane burst out.

  “But this is your home,” said Lord Charles gently.

  “Of course,” said Jane, crumpling the letter. “I shall think no more about the Bentleys, I assure you.” And with that she gave him a very bright smile and left the room.

  All seemed, however, to return to its idyllic state until some three days later, when he found her in the study, poring over a sheaf of blueprints of the Chase.

  “What is this?” he admonished. “I believe you love that horrible place more than me.”

  He leaned over her shoulder and stared down at the top sheet. “Is that the old part of the house?” he asked suddenly.

  “Of course,” said Jane in some surprise. “These are the original plans.”

  He took out his eyeglass and polished it and looked very closely at the plans. His long finger moved over them and then stopped.

  “Is that your father’s room?” he asked. “The one he died in?”

  “Yes,” said Jane. “But why�
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  “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Are you still hankering for your old home?”

  “Not very much,” she said wistfully. “But I would so love to see how the rebuilding is going on. Oh, Charles do you think we…?”

  He gave her a quick hug. “Yes, my dear, I shall take you to see my rival for your affections.”

  “Oh, Charles!” cried Jane, throwing her arms around him. “I shall run and tell Bella. She will be excited too.”

  “Why should she be?” asked Lord Charles, looking amused. “She hardly knows the place.” But Jane had already danced from the room.

  Lord Charles walked over and shut the door behind her. Then he returned and sat down in front of the old plans of the Chase and took out his glass again. He hoped he had been mistaken. He located the late Marquess’s bedroom and brought his eyeglass into play again.

  After a few minutes he straightened up and almost mechanically put his eyeglass away again and rapped his long fingers on the table.

  It was as he had feared. Very faintly marked in faded ink was a small etching indicating the presence of a secret closet or priest’s hole in the corner of the old Marquess’s bedroom.

  Lord Charles remembered the ghost of James Bentley. Someone could have hidden in the secret room and emerged like a ghost from the shadows. Someone wearing James Bentley’s clothes. And where would that someone get James Bentley’s clothes but from Mrs. Bentley herself?

  Had the late Jimmy Carruthers’ attempt at murder been by chance—or by plot? The answer lay at the Chase, at the center of which sat Mrs. Bentley, holding the reins and playing chatelaine.

  He would not frighten Jane with his suspicions. But he would make sure she was never left alone, day or night.

  There came a scrabbling at the door. He went and opened it. Wong shuffled in with his rolling gait and collapsed on the rug, dribbling and gasping.

  “And you,” said Lord Charles, looking at Wong with dislike, “will make a very good food taster indeed!”

  Sir Anthony had, in fact, proposed to Miss Philadelphia Syms and had been accepted.

  Philadelphia was back at Westerby, Mrs. Bentley having tired of her since she had failed so miserably to attract the attention of Lord Charles, and Mrs. Bentley having her fanatical obsession with Eppington Chase to keep her warm.

  Mrs. Bentley had put in a miraculous deal of hard work on Lady Hetty. Hetty was so pleased with the world and, like her stepdaughter, was prepared to think the best of everyone, even the Bentleys. For herself, Hetty detested the Chase and thought that the house and the Bentleys went very well together. Fanny was glad to escape from London. She had attended a party at which Mr. Jennings, her late suitor, had been present. He had blushed painfully the minute he saw her and had dropped his glass.

  His amused friends had crowded round him, and Fanny heard voices asking the confused Mr. Jennings whether he were still smitten with Miss Bentley to get himself into such a state. To her horror, he had shaken his head and had started to murmur something in a low voice.

  His friends had listened intently, heads bent in a powdered circle round the blushing, stammering Mr. Jennings. At the end of his speech, raucous laughter had rent the air, and Fanny had walked quickly away, two spots of color burning on her cheeks, but not before she had caught several amused and mocking glances thrown in her direction.

  Mama was right, Fanny had thought fiercely. The Westerbys were responsible for all the Bentley humiliations.

  A further blow to her pride had been Philadelphia’s engagement.

  Perhaps Fanny would have been consoled had she been able to look into Sir Anthony’s heart and see the confusion and misery there.

  Sir Anthony was sitting in the drawing room of Westerby vicarage on the day after Lord and Lady Charles set out on their journey from Kent to the Chase in Surrey.

  He was alone with his beloved, Mrs. Syms having considered it proper enough to leave the couple alone, since they were engaged. But he no longer seemed able to recapture that feeling of happiness and exultation when he looked at her beauty.

  Perhaps one reason was that, as Philadelphia was pouring tea for him, she was making an inventory of all the things she did not like about him, something she had begun to do almost as soon as the couple had announced their engagement.

  “And another thing,” Philadelphia said sharply to her large fiancé (what had happened to her soft, cooing voice?), “I think you carry too much bulk. Mama has some very good purges in the stillroom, and I shall give you some. Also, you must take two rhubarb pills with your breakfast—and, talking of breakfast, tea and toast will suffice. I noticed you ate a vast quantity of York ham, two cold pigeon pies, and a great deal of bread, all washed down with eight tankards of beer.”

  “You see,” interposed Anthony eagerly, “I have made a start. That is less than half of what I usually eat.”

  “And your clothes,” went on Philadelphia remorselessly. “They are not becoming in a man of your girth. A more simple mode, I think, would suffice.”

  Sir Anthony winced. His wardrobe was his pride and joy. “What’s up with my clothes?” he demanded crossly. He looked down with some pride at the rich brocade of his coat, at his long grass-green waistcoat with its embroidery of wild roses, and at the fashionable height of his heels.

  “They are too tight,” said Philadelphia awfully. “They make you look fat.”

  The insult was so great that Sir Anthony’s hand instinctively flew to his sword. The erotic visions of bedding Philadelphia were being replaced in his mind by some quite sadistic ones of wife-beating.

  But Sir Anthony swallowed his hurt. He prided himself on being a man of reason. Hadn’t he himself felt strangely nervous because he had not even kissed her on the lips? She was reacting to the fact that he had not even made love to her!

  A slow smile crossed his face, and he carefully put down his teacup. Unaware that he had arisen and was walking purposefully around the table toward her, Philadelphia complained on.

  She was suddenly stunned into silence as Sir Anthony jerked her to her feet and kissed her resoundingly. Shock made her remain passive in his embrace. A sudden wave of revulsion, following immediately after, made her tremble and turn red as fire. Sir Anthony misinterpreted her agitation for passion and smiled slowly.

  “A lot more of that, my girl,” he said, laughing heartily, “and I’ll get less of your complaints.”

  Philadelphia poured herself another cup of tea with a trembling hand. She had never been afraid of anything in her life before. Now she was afraid of Sir Anthony. Very afraid.

  Philadelphia had firmly set her mind to the main goal of marrying a man, any man, rich enough to supply her with a wardrobe and a fashionable home. Her brief interest in Lord Charles had merely been because she considered him a decorative addition to her dress.

  Strangely enough, she had never thought about what her marital duties might entail. She had vaguely thought of a husband content with a few chaste kisses, and had not once guessed at the healthy masculinity that lay under Sir Anthony’s foppish clothes.

  Sir Anthony eyed her bent head indulgently. Give her time to recover, he thought, and then I’ll have another go!

  Philadelphia looked up and caught the expression on her fiancé’s face. “Mama!” she suddenly called loudly. “Mama! I have need of you!”

  This must be stopped now, she thought. Faugh! All that groping and pawing. Her gowns would be ruined!

  It is a pity Philadelphia had never met Mr. Braintree. Two hearts would have beat as one.

  Mrs. Syms came hurrying into the room, too big with news to wonder over her daughter’s agitation.

  “Mr. Syms has just heard that Lord and Lady Charles arrived at the Chase an hour ago,” she cried.

  “Charlie!” said Sir Anthony, leaping to his feet with surprising agility. “’Fore George! It will be good to see him again. I shall call on them now.” He bustled out, only remembering at the last minute to make his good-byes to his beloved.
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  It would be good to gossip with old Charlie again, thought Sir Anthony, as he waited impatiently for his horse to be brought round. He had had too much of women of late.

  It was a freezing cold, bright sunny day as the Welbourne coach turned in through the gateposts of Eppington Chase. Frost sparkled red and silver on the hedgerows, and one large scarlet leaf, brave survivor of autumn, hung like a small banner over the path.

  Jane was sitting on the very edge of the carriage seat, tense with excitement. “I am going home!” she cried, clapping her hands together.

  Lord Charles fought down a feeling of irritation. Had she not a good enough home at Upper-park? Instead he said, “Sit back and try to relax. You will harm the baby, jumping about so.”

  “Oh, but look there—and there!” cried Jane as the half-built home came into view across an area of bricks and mortar. Statues lay on the grass, waiting to be erected. The new ornamental lake looked raw and chilly, its waters frozen to black glass. Workmen scurried here and there like ants.

  “The west wing had been completed, exactly the way I wanted it,” enthused Jane, undeterred by his lordship’s jaundiced stare. “There was quite a part of it rescued from the fire. I feel quite kindly toward Mrs. Bentley. She seems to be carrying out my instructions correctly.”

  When the carriage stopped, he jumped quickly down and tenderly helped her to alight. He had delayed this visit for as long as he could. But when Jane had announced she was pregnant, he had been so overjoyed he was all too ready to grant her any wish and so had finally, if reluctantly, agreed to set out for the Chase.

  “This is a temporary entrance hall,” said Jane, leading the way into the west wing. “I will turn it into a grand reception room when the rest of the house is built.”

  The old Westerby housekeeper, Mrs. Butter-worth, was there to greet them and give my lord and my lady the news that Mrs. Bentley and her daughters had gone to the neighboring town to do some shopping and were expected back quite soon.