“Huh!” came scornfully from Tom. “I wish we looked utterly like him, then we’d not get such a ragging from the other boys.”
“You wouldn’t believe the insults we’ve had to endure, Auntilla,” put in Ben, fisting his hands on his hips in a mannish way that brought an unaccountable lump to Ottilia’s throat.
“Dear me,” she managed, trying to keep her voice even. “I suppose I need not ask whether you have indulged in fisticuffs to punish the offenders.”
“’Course we have,” said Tom. “We soon sent them to the rightabout.”
“Well, some of ’em at least,” amended Ben conscientiously. “We took a drubbing from the bigger ones.”
“Yes, we did,” agreed his brother enthusiastically. “I was sporting a beautiful painted peeper for days, Auntilla.”
“Great heavens, you must have been quite the hero,” said Ottilia admiringly.
Both boys gave out loud guffaws at this, and a light laugh escaped her husband, who had retired to stand before the fire and was resting one arm along the mantel. “I wish my own nurses had taken such a novel view.”
Ben looked round at him. “Auntilla ain’t our nurse, Uncle Fan.”
One of his eyebrows quirked. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I had understood she cared for you all these years.”
“’Course she did, but she ain’t a nurse, nor a guvnor,” said Tom.
“That’s governess, you donkey,” corrected his elder brother. “At any rate, Auntilla weren’t a governess or anything like that.”
“No, she was just … just…” Tom frowned, struggling for a way to express his concept of his aunt’s purpose in his life.
“She wasn’t anything,” Ben said firmly, to Ottilia’s amusement. “She was just Auntilla.”
“Yes, it was rather a mouthful for toddlers to manage.” A mental image of the two little mites Ottilia had first taken in charge superimposed itself upon the grown features before her. “I dare say you consider yourselves too old now for a hug?”
For an instant neither boy spoke, and then as one, they threw themselves upon her in the old way, and Ottilia found herself both laughing and crying together as she hugged first one and then the other impartially.
“Now look what you’ve done, you horrid creatures,” she complained, as at last they consented to release her. “You’ve turned me into a watering pot.”
The boys shouted with laughter, Tom remaining seated on the edge of the daybed close by with one hand possessively grasping Ottilia’s hip, while Ben took a stance on the other side of the bed, leaning over its back. The latter looked across to the fireplace, addressing himself to Francis.
“Uncle Fan, when are you and Papa going to get the body?”
It warmed Ottilia to see how the two boys had adopted their new uncle without question. But then they had ever been friendly souls, easy-going and comfortable with all. Just like Patrick, she reflected.
“We’re not getting the body, Ben. That is a job for the undertakers. But I have the key to the room where it is laid, so I must accompany your father.”
“Can we come?” asked Tom eagerly.
“Papa said no, Tom,” his brother reminded him severely.
“But I want to see the corpse.”
“You’ve seen hundreds of corpses.”
“A slight exaggeration, Ben,” Ottilia put in. She threw an apologetic look at her husband. “I hasten to point out, Fan, that they weren’t actually permitted to attend post-mortems, but these two imps have a habit of finding ingenious ways to do what one would prefer they did not.”
“Yes, but we never get to see the body before Papa starts cutting it up,” complained Tom, disregarding this recital of his and his brother’s misdeeds. “And we want to see where the murder happened.”
“We don’t know there has been a murder,” Francis pointed out.
“Auntilla, has there been a murder?” demanded Ben, turning his interested gaze on Ottilia. “Was it the madwoman who killed the fellow?”
“How in the world should I know the answer to either question?” countered Ottilia.
“’Cause you always know answers, Auntilla,” came scoffingly from Tom. “You just don’t want to tell us.”
Before Ottilia could think how to respond, Francis intervened. “I wish you will stop plaguing your aunt, boys. She is supposed to be resting.”
Two disbelieving faces went from Francis to Ottilia and back again. Then the boys broke out with scorn.
“Auntilla never rests.”
“She ain’t like Mama, Uncle Fan.”
“Anyway, she can’t rest now,” said Ben in a tone that clinched the matter, “because there’s a black fellow at the kitchen door who’s come with a message for her from the madwoman.”
Chapter 7
Ottilia had crossed the road and begun the ascent up the incline leading onto the gardens of Willow Court, the footman Hemp at her side ready with an arm to help her at need, before she realised they were accompanied. Turning, she beheld the creeping figures of her nephews a little way behind. Both boys froze on being spotted, their angelic looks belied by the almost identical expressions of guilt-ridden hope that leapt to their faces. Ottilia regarded them with a resurgence of the ancient exasperation that had so many times attacked her when she’d had them in charge.
“School does not appear to have changed either of you in the least.”
Tom’s face fell into a grin. “It has, for we’ve got even more chances for mischief.”
His brother cuffed him. “Ape!” Then, turning to his aunt. “It ain’t mischief, Auntilla. We want to help.”
“Do you indeed? How silly of me to imagine you are motivated purely by curiosity.”
Ben looked a degree sheepish and his own grin dawned. “Well, that too, of course.”
“I suppose you realise that your father, not to mention your Uncle Fan, will both upbraid me unmercifully when they arrive with Doctor Sutherland?”
The boys were moving already, leaping nimbly up the incline towards her.
“They won’t see us, Auntilla, never fear,” promised Ben.
“No, we’ll hide,” said Tom on a note of excitement. “We’re good at that.”
“As if I didn’t know it.” Ottilia looked at the footman. “I make you my apologies, Hemp. Short of tying them to a tree, I don’t see any means of preventing them from coming with us.”
But the footman was looking amused. “I do not mind, milady. The boys will be no trouble.”
Ottilia thanked him, refraining with difficulty from informing him that his confidence was misplaced. If one thing was more certain than another, it was that Ben and Tom would find some means of embarrassing her, unless she contrived to keep them occupied. An idea occurred.
“Well, if you mean to be of use, you had best do everything you can to find out about the sugar plantation and everything that happened there before the family came to England. I dare say Hemp will be able to tell you a great deal, if he is not too busy.”
She cast a glance at the footman as she spoke, but was given no opportunity to make a formal request, for the boys immediately began bombarding him with questions.
“Was it huge, Hemp?”
“How did you get the sugar out of the canes?”
“Did you see any pirates on the ship?”
“Are all the fellows big like you?”
“I’ll wager you’ve got a useful right, Hemp!”
A slow smile split the man’s face, showing a fine set of white teeth. He shook his head slightly and tutted, but there was a laugh in his deep voice. “Eh, boys! You make my head go round.”
“Beg pardon, sir.” Ben dug his brother in the ribs. “Stow it, Tom!”
Tom had opened his mouth to ask another question, but he closed it again.
“First let me take milady to Miss Tam,” said Hemp. “Then we will talk. You would like a lemon sugar drink?”
Both boys accepted this offer with alacrity and Ottilia thankfully resumed he
r progress towards the house. In a bid to inculcate her nephews with an idea of the seriousness of the matter, she related the circumstances of Sir Joslin’s death as they descended the very stairs down which he had fallen.
Much of the snow had melted as the day warmed up, and it was therefore not as much of a shock as it might have been to discover Tamasine walking in the gardens, attended by Mrs Whiting. Or was it guarded?
Hemp went forward and Tom leaned close to whisper to Ottilia. “Is that the madwoman?”
“That is Tamasine,” Ottilia responded sotto voce. “Pray don’t keep calling her the madwoman.”
“But is she mad?” pursued the boy. “She don’t look it.”
“Then why is she on a leash?” demanded his more percipient brother.
Startled, Ottilia looked more closely. Tamasine was indeed in some sort attached to the housekeeper, with a stout cord tied about the girl’s waist, its other end looped around the woman’s wrist. Ottilia could not judge the length of the lead that lay between them for they were close together as they moved.
Heavens, but was it truly needful to put the child in the sort of leading strings meant for a toddler? If Giles were to see this, might he be convinced or alarmed? For herself, Ottilia found it pathetic, underlining the dismaying plight of the fairy-like creature that was Tamasine Roy. Really, it was hard to believe her capable of conceiving of such a notion as to be rid of her guardian.
Hemp had by now reached the two females and both looked round at Ottilia. Tamasine waved. Enjoining the boys to wait where they were for Hemp, Ottilia went across. She had not seen Mrs Whiting other than briefly earlier, and was pleasantly surprised to find the woman’s manner a deal more welcoming than Miss Ingleby’s.
“Ah, you’ll be this Lady Fan I’m hearing about, ma’am. I hope you’ll forgive the shortcomings of the house on this occasion.”
Ottilia smiled. “One could scarcely complain under the circumstances, Mrs Whiting.”
The woman grunted, craning her neck a little from her stunted stature. “Good of you, ma’am, but I know you’ve been dealt short shrift.”
Feeling it prudent to refrain from responding to an obvious reference to the companion’s ill temper, Ottilia turned her attention instead to Tamasine, who was regarding her with the same look of intent interest she had displayed at the Dower House. Those first moments felt a far-off memory.
“I trust you are well rested, Tamasine,” she ventured.
No reply was forthcoming, and the girl continued to regard her in silence.
A sigh escaped the housekeeper. “A trifle in the sulks we are, ma’am. She doesn’t care to be attached, but it’s good for her to be out in the air and I can’t let her go off alone.”
“Where is Miss Ingleby?” asked Ottilia, feeling certain it was in general no part of the housekeeper’s duty to be minding the child.
“This business has brought much work on her,” said Mrs Whiting excusingly and a shadow crept into her face. “No one else to see to things now that Sir Joslin is gone. It’ll be different when Mrs Delabole gets here.”
“Tamasine’s aunt, I believe? Are you acquainted with her, Mrs Whiting?”
“No, for she never came out to Barbados. But the master kept up a correspondence with her.”
“Tamasine’s father, you mean?”
“That’s right. I only hope she’s willing to take charge of matters here, for otherwise I can’t think how we are to do.”
A fretful note sounded in the woman’s voice and Ottilia noted Tamasine glance at her. Then she let loose with one of her silvery laughs.
“What are you talking about, Whitey? Simeon is coming. He will manage everything.”
A rich colour overlaid the housekeeper’s features. “Yes, you would think that, wouldn’t you, young Tam?”
The girl’s gaze came around to Ottilia and her dazzling smile appeared. “Simeon is the best person in the world.”
A view evidently not shared by others in the house. “What can I do for you, Tamasine?”
The blue eyes widened. “For me?”
“You sent Hemp to fetch me.”
Mrs Whiting’s expression changed to annoyance. “That’s where he was, is it? I’ll warrant she’s forgotten all about it by now.”
Ottilia could not approve of the housekeeper speaking of Tamasine as if she were absent, but she held her tongue on the reproof hovering there and addressed herself to the girl. “Did you wish to tell me something perhaps?”
Tamasine laughed again. “I like you to be here. I wish you will come and live with us.”
“I can’t do that. My husband would be most disappointed to lose me, you know.”
Tamasine pouted. “But I need you.”
“How so? You have already a number of persons ready to serve you.”
“But you will not lock me in.”
So that was it. Ottilia could think of no satisfactory response to this remark. She changed the subject. “I wish you will tell me more about Simeon. He is your cousin, is he not?”
Tamasine frowned, her glance going to the housekeeper. “Whitey won’t let me tell you.” All at once, she thrust at the woman. “I don’t want you, Whitey. Why don’t you go away?”
Mrs Whiting stood stolid as a rock, setting her arms akimbo and meeting the girl’s gaze without flinching. She did not speak and Ottilia had to admit to inadequate experience to judge how such tactics should be countered. She could not forbear making an effort.
“I don’t suppose Mrs Whiting will mind, will you?”
She threw a meaning look at the housekeeper as she spoke.
The woman hesitated, and then shrugged. “Do as you will.”
Ottilia smiled at the girl. “There now, Tamasine. You may speak freely.”
But the child chose not to avail herself of this permission. “Lavinia does not like me to take cold. We will go inside.”
Upon which, she started off towards the house at a great rate, almost pulling Mrs Whiting off her feet. Ottilia deftly caught the woman under one arm and supported her until she was stably moving at a swifter pace than her bulk warranted.
“Wretched child,” she muttered under her breath. “Does it only to provoke me.”
Ottilia made no comment, only keeping pace beside her, watching the swish of Tamasine’s petticoats as she swept towards the entrance. She had found time to change out of the spangled confection into a double-layered seersucker gown with a green spencer atop, and she looked the picture of an English debutante.
The door opened as the party arrived at the house, revealing Lomax, who held the door, his expression discontented. “Back again, my lady?”
The tone had nothing of servitude in it and had the effect of hardening Ottilia’s resolve. “Yes, Lomax, I am indeed back — at the request of Miss Roy.”
He looked sceptical, but Mrs Whiting supported her. “She sent Hemp over. Lady Fan can’t know enough to ignore such messages.”
“Why should I ignore it?”
“I should have thought that was obvious,” said the butler, not even troubling to add an appellation of courtesy.
“Not to me.”
By this time, Tamasine had halted in the hall and was attempting to rid herself of the offending leash. At which moment, Miss Ingleby appeared from a room opposite the parlour.
“For heaven’s sake! Must I do everything around here? Could you not keep her occupied for half an hour, Mrs Whiting?” Then she noticed Ottilia and her eyes blazed. “What is this? Have I not made it abundantly plain your assistance is not wanted?”
“Indeed you have.” Ottilia could not help the snappy tone. “It appears Tamasine does not agree with you.”
“She sent Hemp to fetch her over,” Mrs Whiting repeated.
Tamasine broke into the argument without ceremony. “When Simeon comes, you will all be sorry.”
“Oh, do be quiet, Tamasine,” came irritably from Miss Ingleby. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The
girl paid no attention. Having divested herself of her end of the lead, she threw it in her duenna’s direction and sailed across the hall to the parlour. “Come, Lady Fan.”
Ottilia was a little amused by the imperious tone, but she took advantage and followed. An infuriated discussion broke out behind them, conducted in lowered tones so that Ottilia was unable to make it out. She found Tamasine hopping about in a state of high glee.
“They cannot stop me. They think they have bested me but they are mistaken.”
Her mind afire, Ottilia did not make the error of asking directly for enlightenment. “Well, that is excessively clever of you, Tamasine. But were you not going to tell me more of your cousin Simeon?”
Tamasine spun, throwing up her hands and smiling widely just as she had done in the snow in the early morning. Ottilia perforce waited until she should settle again. In a moment, the girl ceased turning and ran to the window, peering through the glass.
“Giles is not come.”
“He was here earlier, Tamasine. Do you not remember?”
Tamasine turned, fixing Ottilia with a stony stare, the blue gaze suddenly unnerving in its intensity. “They think I mean to marry Simeon, but I will outfox them. You will see. There is a reckoning to be paid and I am not yet done.”
A chill swept through Ottilia. Was this the voice of innocence? It seemed hardly credible the creature could conceive of some master plan and carry it through. And this sinister reckoning? Had it begun with the elimination of Sir Joslin Cadel?
Next instant, brightness re-entered the lovely visage and Tamasine danced across, seizing Ottilia’s hands in a somewhat painful grip. “I am glad you came. Will you be my companion?”
Ottilia lost no time in quashing this notion, whether or no it might turn the girl against her. It was an effort to speak lightly and with assumed insouciance. Who knew what might set off the child’s diseased mind to make her dangerous?
“Indeed, no, Tamasine, I am merely your guest. When one is married, you know, one’s first duty is to one’s husband. As you will find when you enter that state.”
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 82