“No! Surely not! Not Sir William! Really, Harry, you go too far! Why, we have known Sir William these twenty, thirty years, for indeed, I remember him as a young man at the Manor when Papa first brought us here in the year…when he first took the living at St. Luke’s - oh dear, Harry, I sometimes worry what Papa would say if he knew that occasionally we step across to the Dissenting chapel…not that dear Papa would ever have wished us to snub our neighbours, but there is no denying that he could at times be a little…always within reason, of course, always within reason.”
“I am not saying that I believe in Sir William’s guilt, Effie,” Harriet reminder her, “nor that it is necessarily true - merely that it could possibly be something that Mr. Budge believes.”
“Yes, of course.”
“If Mr. Budge does truly believe it,” said Harriet, holding her needle up the light to thread it with a new shade of wool.
“He must believe Sir William guilty of something to do with Millie’s death, or he could not hope to blackmail him, surely?”
Harriet frowned. “That certainly seems a logical inference. But…I can’t help wondering what he meant by his reference to ‘the Parson’. Do you remember, Effie, Mr. Benjamin told us that Silas said that people were always trying to get Millie to go to church, and he demanded of Sr. William what had gone on after church?”
“And he tapped his nose,” Effie nodded excitedly. “I wonder why?” She stared past the geranium leaves and out of the window, “Oh!” she cried, “talk of the…I mean, what a coincidence! If that isn’t Dr. Ravilious just crossing the road; now he’s stopped to talk to someone, who can it be? Oh, it’s Mrs. Alworthy’s young nursemaid, I wonder what she’s doing out at this time of day? Mrs. Alworthy always says she is such a good, steady servant, but really…and that blouse is certainly quite…such a bright shade of blue…oh, but now she’s going.” Effie craned her neck to try to follow the footsteps of the errant maid, but had to give up. “Harry!” she said in sudden alarm, “Do you think Mr. Budge was meaning to imply something about Dr. Ravilious?”
“We have to remember that Silas Budge was inebriated at the time,” said Harriet firmly. “And, Effie, no talking of this to anyone else!”
Effie shook her head vehemently. “Really Harry, as if I would!” she said, rather hurt.
“No, my dear, I know you would not mean to, but your tongue does run on sometimes.”
“Like a fiddlestick, Papa always used to say,” sighed Effie. “Poor Papa, I do hope he is at peace now; there always seemed so much to annoy him in this life, what with the Dissenters and…Harry!” she exclaimed. Harriet looked sharply up at her. “Harry! Do you think Silas Budge meant St. Luke’s or the Dissenting Chapel when he said ‘church’?”
Harriet stared at her sister. “Dr. Ravilious or Mr. Myers?” she mused, tapping her front teeth with her thimbled forefinger. “I wonder, Effie. I wonder.”
“The Dissenters are holding a supper meeting in the big room above the Dairies on Tuesday,” suggested Effie. “Mrs. Cooper at the Dairies said we should be sure to come…the discourse so interesting, she said, and the supper ‘plain, honest and plentiful, or she would know the reason why’. Which must mean that she and Mr. Cooper will be doing their best to provide an even more sumptuous spread…”
“…than the Alworthys did last week,” finished Harriet. “Well, Effie, as long as our neighbours are determined to praise the Lord with hams, butter and cheeses…”
“To say nothing of the cakes!”
“…then I think we owe it to them to go and applaud their efforts.”
* * *
“Effie, dear, are you ready?”
Effie gave herself one last look in the mirror and essayed a tentative smile at her reflection (not too wide a smile, for, to be sure, her teeth these days were not quite…), turning her head this way and that in the light of the single candle. Of course, it would have been nice to have her dressing table illuminated by a branching candelabra, but really, when one reached - let us say, the age of discretion…although what discretion had to do with being a spinster, Miss Effie had never quite worked out…only that discretion seemed inevitably to be accompanied by wrinkles…so that it was really quite a relief to only have the one candle to illuminate them…and after all, it was when one was young and giddy and there were young men anxious to dance with one at every assembly, then it was that discretion was most useful…to accept this one’s hand in the dance; to regretfully decline that one because dear Mama had just whispered that his reputation was not of the highest and that one should never, never allow oneself to be taken aside by him. Only dear Mama did not know that they had already spent some moments together in the conservatory, and most amusing Effie had found them, but then - she sighed - she supposed that young men of a rakish disposition must, by default, know how to amuse young ladies. Laughter, she had always found, was the great leveller, and a man who could make one laugh was a man one would always enjoy talking to, let him be from whatever level of society - or even beyond the pale of acceptable society altogether!
Effie patted her smooth braids one more time, adjusted the ribbons depending from her white cap and admired the sheen of the single candle on the silk of her black dress, then blew out the candle and tripped from her room to the head of the stairs. She could see her sister and Becky awaiting her below, in the light of the small, stained glass window on the half-landing and made haste to join them.
“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, Harry dear. Oh! Is it raining?”
“Not yet, M'm,” said Becky, waving the umbrella, “but I thought as I’d bring it just in case it should come on later. The streets is dry as dry at the moment, though, so you can walk easy, but I think you should tuck yourself up a bit,” she frowned at Miss Effie’s skirts, “or you’re likely to pick up a bit of grime.”
“Thank you Becky,” said Effie, making the necessary adjustments, “that is the trouble with black, it does show the dust so, which is strange when one thinks about it, as one is always hearing that black hides the dirt, whereas really nothing is further from…a serviceable light brown, I always think, or one of those charming soft greys that the Quakers go in for…and really, since the Quakers have such a reputation for industry, it is not surprising that they should choose…”
“I think a soft grey would suit you Effie,” said Harriet, “with your light hair. It would be quite charming, I think.”
“Grey!” cried Effie, “oh, I really don’t think I could…it would seem so disrespectful to dear Papa…not that he ever noticed what one was wearing…men do not, in general, I believe, or at least that is what our married friends always say…although Mrs. Packard does say that Mr. Packard always notices a new gown and asks where she got the money to pay for it…which is absurd when one thinks of it, for where else could she have got the money but from him? But grey, Harriet, do you really think so?”
“Yes, I do, and particularly at this season, when we are coming into the summer months. I think you should have a new dress and we could look for some soft grey stuff, a dove grey, one might say.”
“A new dress!” gasped Miss Effie, scandalised.
“Why not?” said Harriet.
But this was too much for Effie. “How can you, Harry? To say ‘why not?’ in that superior way when you know very well that with all the expenses, and the government talking of raising taxes, and the price of tea and coals being what it is…”
“We have survived the winter very well,” said Harriet calmly, “and there will be no coals needed for several months. To be sure, last Thursday was a little expensive and it would not do to carry on with such extravagant tea parties, but you know as well as I do that our friends will now all take their turns and we may rely on their hospitality for several weeks before it is our turn again. And if the worst comes to the worst,” she smiled one of her rare, mischievous smiles at her sister, “we can always turn Dissenters and rely on the Lord to feed the hungry at Al
bion Chapel.”
“Now, come along,” she continued, for Effie had stood stock-still in her shock at the thought of a new dress, “or we will be late for the discourse and it would never do to gain a reputation of only arriving in time for the tea urn!”
The sisters, trailed by the faithful Becky, walked carefully down the High Street, quiet now that all the shopkeepers had put up their shutters for the day, and with the sweetness of dusk falling all around them. Here and there they passed a patch of scented air as wallflowers tucked into a corner stolen from the general business of merchandising exhaled a last breath of the sunny, spring day before resting for the night.
There was a little knot of folk at the side entrance of the Dairy, for Mr. and Mrs. Cooper and their family had rooms above their business, and the Miss Fotheringays were made way for with gratifying deference, and ushered up the narrow, uncarpeted staircase. Narrow, and dark, and with a banister polished to a high sheen by the number of hands that passed daily up and down the stairs, but once at the top, and the door opened, they passed into a blaze of glory and colour, for the Dissenters’ supper meetings were an opportunity for the ladies to throw off their workday disguise and emerge as plump breasted birds of paradise - only, unlike those birds, the good wives of the Dissenting flock kept the gaudiest feathers to themselves and left the sober darks to their menfolk.
Resplendent in rose silk, with a treble fall of deep lace embellishing her prow, Mrs. Cooper sailed up to the Miss Fotheringays and herself led them to the second row. Indeed, she would have placed them in the first row which was, according to the normal self-effacing English custom, entirely empty, but the Miss Fotheringays were true to their origins and declined the honour, establishing themselves comfortably at the farthest end of the second row, where no-one could discommode them and they could settle themselves and their wraps safe from disturbance. Becky found herself a seat at the back of the room where she was fully prepared to enjoy the sight of her betters in their finery as long as that proved interesting, and where she could nod off unnoticed if her interest waned or if the discourse went on too long. It was a large room, redolent of hams and cheeses, and Becky’s stomach gave a little gurgle. It had been a long time since lunch but she had high hopes of a good supper.
* * *
As Mr. Myers’ flock rose at the end of the talk in a fluttering of draperies and prepared to descend on the feeding grounds, the Miss Fotheringays exchange a speaking look.
“Well!” whispered Effie
“Well indeed,” said Harriet, raising her eyebrows. She put a cautious forefinger to her lips and Effie nodded eagerly, the lace trim on her hat quivering along with its mistress. They garnered their belongings and moved at a genteel, not-too-eager pace towards the magnificent buffet, glistening with fat, clove-studded hams, and greasy with butter and cream. Some of the gentlemen were moving the chairs out of their strict lines and into less formal groupings, and Mr. Cooper bustled over to beg the Miss Fotheringays’ acceptance of a pair and promised to bring them the best that the buffet could offer
“And best it is, ladies, as I makes sure of myself,” he said, “I buys the best because I knows that my customers demand the best, and they can be sure of getting it at my shop!”
“Em-porium, George,” hissed Mrs. Cooper, and beamed at Harriet and Effie. They might be only a pair of impoverished old maids, but they were undeniably of the Quality - why, Lady Weston herself visited them and called them Cousin, as everyone in Rotherford knew, and it never did a business no harm to be associated with the best people in a place.
“A sliver of ham, Miss Fotheringay?” said Mrs. Cooper to Harriet, “it is a fine York ham, as my husband will tell you; George, take two plates to the Miss Fotheringays!” and she loaded the two plates with her own hands and shouted over her shoulder to her daughter Maud, who was presiding over the tea urn, to draw two cups of tea for the son of the house to bring to the two ladies.
Effie and Harriet settled themselves anew and carefully inched off their gloves and tucked them into their reticules before taking their plates from the politely hovering Mr. Cooper.
“Goodness, Harry, how shall we ever eat it all?…but such a shame to waste…and truly a magnificent ham…and cowcumber, and beetroot salad…very healthful, Mama always used to say, although one must be terribly careful of the vinegar…not to drip…impossible to get the colour out if…” Miss Effie stopped talking in order to eat.
“Got everything you want, ladies?” called Mrs. Cooper some half an hour later. The two sisters, intent on mastigating the last shreds on their plates, could only nod, but Mrs. Cooper seemed pleased enough. “I hope you’ve left room for the puddings,” she cried, “my Maud was making…overseeing, I should say… the making of a splendid trifle this afternoon, and we have jellies and creams.” She laughed fatly. “We don’t send our people away hungry at Zion Chapel!”
“No, indeed,” smiled Harriet politely, “truly, Mrs. Cooper, you seem to have prepared to feed the five thousand!”
Mrs. Cooper liked that. Laughing hugely so that the sparkling stones in the massive brooch she wore on her bosom glinted at her guests, she called over to her husband. “Hear that, George, Miss Fotheringay says we’m got enough to feed the five thousand”
“We can always rely on you for that, m’dear,” he called back from his corner where he and the other prominent members of the Chapter were discussing Mr. Myers’ speech. And indeed it had been a speech worth discussing.
Mr. Myers had begun the evening with his accustomed shafts against the Established Church, its Popery and Mummery and the disgrace of its well-upholstered Bishops, but then he had looked to the edge of his weapon and turned it against the Idle Rich, whom he said, while supporting the outdated and gaudy ritual of The Old Ways, forgot that Our Lord had been one of the working people, an honest carpenter, and instead had exploited the Poor Man and taken advantage of his Daughters. The audience had definitely perked up at this point.
“And while the rich man in his castle sits steeped in infamy, his hand red with the blood of the downtrodden,” thundered Mr. Myers, “what does the Established Church do? Does it punish the wrongdoer? Does it denounce him from the pulpit? No, it does not!” He brought his fist down hard on the, thankfully sturdy, lectern. “Does it succour the poor and innocent?” Mr. Myers’ voice changed and his face took on new lines of righteous wrath, “Oh, my friends,” he said slowly, “beware the insidious wiles of the false priest. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts, and those who appear to offer the right hand of friendship, while hiding the left hand of falsity - and worse” here his voice dropped to a thrilling whisper, “behind their backs.” A long pause while the prophet’s eagle gaze swept the room and his auditors trembled with excited apprehension. “Beware, beware and once more I say unto you, beware…”. His voice dropped away on the last word, which Miss Effie thought was the most dramatic thing she had ever heard since she had been taken to see Shakespeare’s Richard the Third when she was seventeen. She gazed enraptured at the speaker, and had to squeeze her hands tight together to prevent herself from breaking into unseemly applause. What a shame it was, she thought, that poor Mr. Myers could not be given his due meed - but she was mistaken. Unknown it might be at St. Luke’s for the Rector’s discourse to meet with anything but the most respectful silence, the Dissenters were a hardier bunch and clapped and roared with energy; some of the younger men even going so far as to stamp their feet and whistle.
“I thought it were disgusting,” said Becky, when the three had assembled on the glistening pavement (it had rained a little while they were at supper) after the Meeting, and were on their way home. Becky was, of course, walking a few steps behind the Miss Fotheringays, but she was quite used to addressing their backs in this way and had developed a very penetrating whisper so that her ladies had no difficulty at all in hearing what she wanted to say. “To talk about St. Luke’s and the Rector in that way.” She tossed her head and the roses on her bonnet (one of
Miss Effie’s, passed on to the maid last year and newly re-trimmed by her) bobbed in indignation. “I can tell you whose ‘right hand of friendship’ I’ll not have any of and that’s Mr. Myers hisself! Nasty, clammy hands he’s got - the very touch of them makes you think of a dead fish on a slab!”
“Really, Becky!” Miss Effie giggled in a sort of joyful horror.
“He was extremely vehement. He seems to have taken the poor girl’s death very personally,” remarked Harriet, thoughtfully.
“Hm, I wouldn’t mind betting as it was him, all along, bible-thumping old…”
“Now, now, Becky, mind what you say!”
“Well, it fair riles me to hear a man talk like that, and in public in front of a crowd of folk, all egging him on ‘cause to them it’s just a bit of fun and excitement. It’s…it’s…like, turning poor Millie’s death into a sort of sideshow, that’s what it is!”
CHAPTER 7
The naming of the Faun, and the vexed question of politics
As the Miss Fotheringays sat over their breakfast the next morning, consuming fingers of toast dipped in weak tea, Harriet spoke decidedly.
“I think it is time that we paid some attention to the timing of the events of poor Millie Budge’s death, Effie. We cannot simply go on listening to all these conflicting tales and hope to make any sense of the matter if we do not have the salient points firmly fixed in our minds.”
“That sounds very sensible, Harry dear,” said Effie, “would you like me to make some notes?” and she reached for the little notebook and pencil that always lay on one of the spindly-legged little side tables.
“Perhaps that would be useful,” nodded Harriet, and Effie hastily swallowed her last mouthful of tea and sat, pencil poised and eager to begin.
“First,” said Harriet, “when did poor Millie die?”
The Miss Fotheringays and the Faun (The Miss Fotheringays Investigate Book 1) Page 5