Harriet had twice re-filled the teapots from the big kettle on the range, and the tinkle of teaspoons on china was at its height when Lady Weston made some form of announcement, her voice easily cutting through the genteel babble.
“Of course I know who was responsible for the poor girl’s death. There was a young man - one of the under gardeners - paying her attentions. I had occasion to question him on the subject just a week or so ago. I sacked him, of course. I do not allow followers.”
In the sudden silence that followed this pronouncement there was the distinct sound of the crash of crockery downstairs. Both the Miss Fotheringays smiled a little more brightly and totally ignored it - as did all the guests, as courtesy demanded.
“When you say 'responsible for the girl’s death', do you mean…?” The Rector left the question unfinished.
“Oh, I am not accusing him of murder, Mr. Ravilious.” Lady Weston waved away the suggestion with one tightly gloved hand. “But I think it quite possible that when I sent him away - and really, what else was I to do? - the foolish girl could well have taken some nonsensical notion into her head. Girls of that age can be so emotional.”
Eyes widened around the tea table. Suicide? How…distressing!
“Dear me! And where is this young man now?”
“I have no idea,” replied her ladyship, “but I imagine the police will find him.”
The Rector sighed and reached for another scone. “Immorality, immorality! It lies at the root of all other sins. These young girls enter into unsuitable liaisons quite unthinkingly, with never a thought for what the results might be, and then…! And, as you say, Lady Weston, an emotional young girl. Highly emotional!”
“Did you know her, Mr. Ravilious?”
“Indeed yes. I tried to persuade her to attend Scripture classes at the Rectory on Sunday afternoons, but she replied that she had something better to do with her Sunday afternoons than to listen to more sermons!”
The slender curate tutted and shook his head. “And now we see the sad outcome!” he sighed.
“I knew it was a mistake to give the maids time off on a Sunday at all!” said Lady Weston. “But there, Sir William insisted they should have a few hours free each week.”
“Your ladyship would prefer not to allow the servants to attend church?” dared the curate, risking a very slight tone of disapprobation in his voice.
“Oh they can go to church,” said her ladyship, “half in the morning and half in the evening - Mrs. Lloyd sorts all that out (Mrs. Lloyd was the housekeeper) - or even chapel, if they prefer, although why they should want to attend worship at that ugly little hut the Dissenters are so proud of instead of our splendid St. Luke’s, I will never know.” Her ladyship threw up her hands and garnered a general response of nodding bonnets. “But I told Sir William it was a mistake to allow them two hours free outside of church hours. He would have his way, of course, and now we see what has come of it!”
In the general buzz of conversation that followed this last pronouncement, Miss Effie excused herself and trotted downstairs to the back kitchen.
“Oh Becky dear, we are down to the last scone! What shall we do? So embarrassing! Miss Harriet thinks you had better slip out and buy a cake from Budgens, something that will slice up really thinly - a square seed cake maybe, or perhaps a Victoria sponge, but it is difficult to slice a round cake as finely as a square one…”
“Don’t worry Miss Effie, I’ve already been out and got half a Battenburg. I knew as they’d all be round today to hear what her ladyship had to say about the drowning.”
“A Battenburg, Becky! Delicious thought! But rather expensive, I fear!”
“That’s why I only got half a one.”
“But will just half serve? There are so many guests!”
“Don’t you bother your head, Miss Effie, I’ve cut it real thin, it’s such a conwenient shape for that, and I’ve dusted just a bit of icing sugar over it - you’ll see - that’ll stop the most of the ladies from touching it ‘cos it’ll get their fingers all sugary and sticky. No, it’s only the Rector and that death’s head on a mopstick of a curate of his that you have to watch, but most of the slices will just sit there looking nice until they all go away. And then you and Miss Harriet can have it for your own supper.”
“Becky you are a marvel. Lady Weston said you were a treasure and she is quite right.”
Becky looked pleased. “Coo! Did she, Miss?” There was a pause. “I wonder what she’s after?”
* * *
The sisters came back from waving their last visitor off at the door and Harriet collapsed into one of the easy chairs by the window. “Goodness!” she said, “what an afternoon!” and closed her eyes.
“But such a success,” said Effie, who was peering through the stems of the red geranium in the window. This splendid specimen had quite taken over the entirety of the lower pane in the sash window and was now looking to colonise the upper portion, supported by an ingeniously hooked arrangement of little ladders. Along with the neatly draped net curtains it provided the perfect lookout for anyone interested in what was going on in the street below, since it was possible for the observer to peer around the rather sparse leaves while remaining camouflaged herself.
Becky came in and began removing the crumbs and cake remnants from the little plates, preparatory to stacking them on her tray. Harriet smiled gratefully at her. “Becky, dear. First of all I must thank you for rallying round so well at tea time…”
“Oh yes,” said Effie, “you did splendidly!”
Becky smirked and bobbed a small curtsey. Effie exchange a cautious glance with his sister. “But, er, did I hear?…was there something?…a sudden crash, so to speak?”
“What broke, Becky?” said Harriet.
“Only a mixing bowl, Miss,” said Becky, “nothing important. If it pleases you I could take a walk out to Benjamin Potter tomorrow morning and get a replacement. It’ll only be a shilling or so.”
“Oh!” Effie’s eyes brightened, “the pottery! I will go with you, Becky, I would enjoy the walk myself if it stays sunny; so nice to walk alongside the river and such a pleasant man, Mr. Benjamin!”
“We will all go,” decided Harriet. “If it doesn’t rain.”
CHAPTER 3
In which the Miss Fotheringays meet a faun
Of course it did rain. This is, after all, England we are speaking of. But luckily it didn’t rain for very long, and by the time breakfast was over (toast and weak tea; “I’m afraid the tea is rather pale this morning, Harry dear, but if we tell ourselves it is China tea then it won’t seem so bad as weak Indian and really, after the terrible extravagance of yesterday I didn’t think I could put more than one teaspoon in the teapot!), the rain had stopped and the sun was making an effort to break through the clouds.
The ladies’ pattens clinked along the High Street and over the bridge, but on the other side the way was a mere beaten path along the river and sadly muddy, so that it was a relief to have their long skirts held up from the mud. They did, of course, pick up a fair amount of damp from the long grass on the field-side of the path, but this was minimised by walking in a decorous line instead of arm in arm. It reminded Effie - whose mind, as we have seen, was of a frivolous disposition - of a line of ducks, or geese waddling behind their mother - and she was certainly convinced that the care needed to walk securely in pattens gave something of a waddle to her own progress.
However the disadvantage of mud and slippery ground was compensated for by the fresh smell of after-the-rain; that clean exhalation of fresh green from all the trees and bushes, and the sparkle of remaining drops on petals and leaves. The air was balmy - chill enough to make walking in layers of petticoats a comfort rather than a penance, yet with a softness to the breeze that promised a fine day. One instinctively breathed more deeply on such a day, and the eyes lifted to the gentle hills above the town, crowned with broad-leaved woodland and rich with the rustle and scurry o
f active life. The birds were out in force, too, as they always seem to be after a shower of rain.
“Such a beautiful time of year,” said Effie, “look - the yellow irises are out in the water, how charming they look reflected in the ripples, oh! and the ducks!” A small family quacked by.
Harriet smiled approvingly at the ducks and looked across the river to where the red brick granary warehouse came down to the river’s edge, just below the bridge, and - beyond that - the smooth greensward of St. Luke’s rolled down from its slight eminence to be lapped by the ripples. An enormous, dark cedar shadowed part of the grass, looking almost black against the bright, sap green of the lawn.
The earth, showing clearly where the river had undercut the bank, was a rich red clay and had been providing raw material for three generations of potters in the workshop that lay two miles or so outside the little town. The two sisters and Becky walked carefully along the river pathway, which had been well trodden down by idle strollers and fishermen over the years, as well as by the large feet of the heavy horses that pulled the barges, for the river was part of the canal system - although the barges were much less frequent than they had been.
The first sign of the pottery was a heap of spoil and, not far from it, a large pool which showed where clay had been dug in the past. This was now colonised by a lively population of frogs and newts, its surface speckled with small insect life and with reeds growing along its rim, from whence whirring dragonflies darted out to capture their prey, their flickering wings reflecting the sunshine in shards of light, although a low-lying mist still hung over the expanse of bullrushes.
Really, thought Effie, it seemed the sort of day when one would expect to come across fauns playing in a woodland grove, and she was still smiling at the thought when a faun rose up before her, in some alarm at her presence.
He was not really a faun, of course, but he would certainly serve until a real faun came along. The three ladies stopped dead, startled by his sudden appearance amongst the reeds; the faun seemed equally surprised and far more fearful - he cast a look over his shoulder towards the pottery workshop, then down at the bucket of water in his hand, and finally at Harriet, who was the leader of the line of ladies. “Good morning, Ma’am,” he said, and then smiled at her. It was the smile that confirmed Effie in her belief that he was a faun, that and the fact that he was bare to the waist, displaying a pale skin over a beautifully moulded torso. His mouth was wide for his narrow face, and his eyes were wide also, under rather heavy black eyebrows. Light eyes, flickering like sunlight on a shallow stream as it runs over pebbles, and shaded by long black eyelashes. His hair was dark like his brows, a rich brown black, not a blue-black, and curled almost down to his shoulders. Hastily the faun put down his bucket and reached for the white shirt that he had left spread out over the rushes. A faun in disguise as a mortal, Effie thought, and taking a bucket of water to…to…his deer, perhaps? She could imagine him as a herder of deer.
“Good morning,” answered Harriet, “we are on our way to the pottery, is Mr. Benjamin there?”
“Oh yes, Ma’am,” said the faun, “I was just bringing him some water for the clay.”
“Oh, you are working for Mr. Benjamin?”
“Just helping out, as you might say,” said the faun, “I’ll go ahead, shall I, Ma’am?”
“Certainly,” said Harriet. She smiled, “You can warn him that he is about to be invaded by three ladies.”
The faun nodded and smiled in return. Effie sighed. Young men had certainly not looked like that in her young days. It must be the Pre-Raphaelite influence, she thought, Nature copying Art. There had been a young man who looked just like that in one of Mr. Burne-Jones’ paintings… the Rector had brought a catalogue down from London… of course the Rector approved of the Pre-Raphaelites because so many of their paintings were truly moral and showed holy knights, and repentant women, but it had to be admitted that some others of their paintings, while not quite so religious in subject matter, were even more entrancing…
The pottery was dark, after the brightness of the day outside. The faun put his bucket of water down by the side of Mr. Benjamin, who, as the ladies entered, took his hands slowly away from the pot he had been forming on the wheel and darted a sharp glance at him; the faun merely shrugged, as one who had no choice in the matter.
“Good morning, ladies,” said Mr. Benjamin, turning back to the sisters. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just finish this one off before the clay dries at the rim, and then I can have the pleasure of giving you my full attention.”
“Oh, don’t worry about us,” cried Harriet, “we can amuse ourselves very well. It is always so fascinating to watch you work.”
“Such a privilege,” said Effie, “to see the way the clay does just what…and yet you hardly seem to do anything, just a little pressure here, and a finger there…and look, there it goes!…Truly a wonder, I always say, for you take a lump of common clay - and really, clay is so common, is it not? Nasty, dirty, messy stuff, one would say…but you make such beautiful things from it. Beautiful and useful… really, quite a wonder! But then, we ourselves are made from the common clay, as the Bible tell us - not that we are all beautiful… and some of us I fear not even useful…but that we are alive at all is miracle enough!”
“Here’s a bowl like the one that got broke,” called Becky, and the sisters both went over to the shelves of finished work to inspect it. Really, reflected Effie, it was another wonder that pots also seemed to have such a life of their own - Becky, for instance, never broke a pot, No, the pot ‘got broke’ - oh, foolish pot!
“Yes, this bowl will do us,” said Harriet, and nodded to Becky to lift it down.
“I’ll get that for you, ladies,” said the faun, stepping over and wiping his wet hands on his corduroy breeches.
“Unless the smaller one next to it would do, Becky?” suggested Effie, with a worried look at her sister.
“It’s alright, Effie dear,” said Harriet, “I don’t suppose there’s more than a few coppers’ difference in the price,” she looked enquiringly over at Mr. Benjamin, who had thrown a little water at the base of his newly formed pot and was now cutting it off the wheel with a length of wire held taut between two pegs; the pot slid a little way on the watery base and the potter deftly lifted it onto a drying rack. “There,” he said, and extricated himself from behind the wheel and its treadle arrangement. He bent down and washed his hands in the bucket of water that the faun had brought, wiped his hands on a piece of rag and strolled over to the shelves. He took the large, glazed terracotta bowl from the faun, hefted it between his hands and turned it over to examine the foot. He nodded, satisfied. “That’s a nice bowl,” he said, “that’ll do you. Three shillings and six to you, ladies.”
Harriet laughed, “It’s good to see a workman satisfied with his own work,” she said.
Mr. Benjamin smiled back at her, “if I weren’t satisfied with my own work, I wouldn’t have the heart to keep on doing it,” he said.
“What is that noise?” said Effie, suddenly, “I keep hearing something going ‘ping’, but it seems to come from first one place and then another…Listen! There it was again!”
“That’s the pots, Miss Fotheringay,” chuckled Mr. Benjamin, “I took ‘em out of the kiln this morning and they’re still cooling. They’ll keep on doing that for a few hours yet.”
“Really?” said Effie, “how very strange!”
Harriet counted the money out of her purse and laid it on the workbench. “Three shillings and sixpence,” she said, “thank you very much, Mr. Benjamin.”
“Thank you very much, Ma’am.”
“So you have a helper now,” she said brightly, “an apprentice?”
The pause seemed to go on just a second too long.
“We’ll have to see how he gets on,” said Mr. Benjamin, “‘taint everyone who has the skill in their hands, although most folks could learn if they tried long enough.”
&n
bsp; “Oh, I am sure I could never learn to do what you do, Mr. Benjamin,” cried Effie.
“No, well, ladies’ hands is maybe a thought too delicate for this work, Ma’am,” said Mr. Benjamin, “it takes a fair bit of strength to form even a small pot - you’d be surprised.”
“I bet I could do it,” said Becky.
“I bet you could at that,” said Mr. Benjamin. “But if all I hears is true, you’d be wasted making pots, lass, you’re better off using them to make cakes and suchlike - an’ I’ll tell you what - next time you break a bowl, jes you bring me one of your cakes and I’ll do you a good deal on a new one!”
“There, Becky, your cakes are famous!”
“Oh, why didn’t we think to bring Mr. Benjamin a cake? To be sure, after yesterday we have very little left in the larder, but…”
“One of your tea-parties, was it, yesterday?” asked Mr. Benjamin
“Oh yes, and absolutely everyone came, once they heard that Lady Weston was to be there!”
“Careful, lad!” said Mr. Benjamin, putting out a hand as the nice new bowl seemed to be in danger of slipping out of the faun’s hands.
“Sorry Mr. Benjamin, I was just…just trying to wrap it up.”
“So her ladyship was there, was she?”
“Yes, and all the talk was about this terrible accident at the Manor… if one can call it an accident, that is - and indeed I do hope that is what it turns out to be, although, as my sister says, it is difficult to know what the poor girl would have been doing in the gardens under normal circumstances… not that drowning can ever be called a normal circumstance…”
Harriet looked at the faun, fumbling unhandily with paper and string. “Lady Weston seemed intent on putting the blame on one of her under-gardeners.” There was a white look around the faun’s mouth now - although who would wonder, with the paper and string putting up such a fight?
The Miss Fotheringays and the Faun (The Miss Fotheringays Investigate Book 1) Page 2