The settlements were drawn up, and signed, and Annie discovered she was to have pin money in the sum of forty pounds every quarter. For someone who had never spent more than twenty pounds a year on herself, and that in the giddy season when she had attended five private balls, this was wealth unimaginable. Betty was to be her lady’s maid, for although she was only young, she was careful with clothes and had a way with hair. Aunt Hester had already engaged a replacement housemaid.
The day arrived, the church filled to capacity on the bride’s side and empty on the groom’s. Mr Huntly was attended only by a former colleague from the solicitor’s office where he had previously worked.
Annie felt no more than a momentary pang that it was her uncle who was to give her away, and not her father. Her mother, naturally, wept excessively. As Annie emerged into the auspicious summer sunshine on her husband’s arm, to be greeted by a crowd of well-wishers as Mrs Rupert Huntly, her mother was still weeping.
“Your poor, dear father!” she said, as she had for weeks now. “How proud he would have been to see you married so well, dear one. How he would have enjoyed bringing you to the altar, and giving you into Mr Huntly’s tender care. It is not the same with your uncle, for all he is my own brother. It is a father’s privilege to give his daughter away, and your poor, dear papa would have delighted in it.”
Annie had been tempted to say that if he had wanted it so much, he should not have died, but she swallowed the words. She would not for the world pain her mother by expressing such thoughts. Instead, she said mildly, “I am quite content for Uncle Tom to give me away, Mama. He has sheltered us and looked after us for six years now, and has treated me quite as his own daughter, so it is very fitting that he should be called upon to take the place of a father on this occasion.”
“He can never take the place of your own, dear father,” he mother said, with dignity.
“No, of course not, but since Papa is not here, Uncle Tom is the best possible alternative one could wish for.”
But her mother looked disbelieving.
There was a tasteful wedding breakfast at the Angel Hotel, chosen by the groom in sentimental memory of his meeting with the bride, and agreed to without demur by Uncle Tom. He had no wish to invite a great crowd into the shabby accommodation above his apothecary’s shop, and since Mr Huntly was prepared to put up the readies for it, he was welcome to call the tune.
The groom’s carriage was awaiting them in the yard, the final few tears were shed, handkerchiefs were waved and the newlyweds waved in return as they began their journey to married life. Since the valet and maid had already gone on ahead with all the luggage, Annie was alone in the carriage with her husband.
“At last you are mine!”
He was smiling. He had smiled a great deal since she had accepted his proposal, but now there was something of pure triumph in his face that made her lower her eyes.
“Ah, I love the way you do that!” he said. “So demure, so diffident, my modest little wife. It is what I have always loved best about you.”
“Is it?” she said, daring to look up at him again, and hoping to encourage him to say more in this vein. She knew that he loved her, for how could she not know when he had waited eight years for her? Yet he had never quite said it in so many words.
“Ah, you want compliments, do you? Of course you do! Shall I tell you how beautiful you are? You are very beautiful today, my little wife, a great credit to me. I am very proud of you.”
“I am glad of it,” she said. “I hope I shall always be a credit to you, and… and make you happy.”
“Oh yes, we shall be very happy in our own private heaven, just the two of us. You are so perfect that we shall go on very happily together, Annie.” He frowned a little. “Annie…” he said thoughtfully. “It is a very commonplace name which makes you sound like a housemaid, rather than Mrs Rupert Huntly of Willow Place. I shall call you Ann, I think.”
“Ann!” she said, shocked. “No one has called me that since I was baptised. Even my father called me Annie.”
“You are not a clergyman’s daughter now, Ann,” he said in tones that brooked no argument. “You are the wife of a gentleman of means.”
She bit back the obvious retort that she would always be a clergyman’s daughter. There was no point in antagonising him unnecessarily, not on their wedding day, so she lowered her eyes again and said timidly, “Then what should I call you? May I call you Rupert?”
He considered that before saying, “It is a little informal. Perhaps in the bedchamber it might be acceptable occasionally, but in general I shall expect you to treat me with the respect due from a wife to her husband and address me as Mr Huntly. Naturally, I shall accord you the same courtesy in public.”
“As you wish, sir,” she said, deflated.
~~~~~
Their honeymoon was ten days in Bath. During the day, they walked about seeing all the sights and gazing into the windows of the many enticing shops, and sometimes they drove about the surrounding countryside, but with no acquaintance there, their evenings were rather dull. They attended a concert at the Upper Rooms once, but Mr Huntly was not minded to dance and so they did not attend any of the balls.
From the circumstance of not having had a sister, Annie was unaccustomed to the close company of another person. She might occasionally have gone out with her mother or her aunt, but it would generally be for a few hours only. Most of her time had been spent alone, in her uncle’s preparation room or his office or in the cellar. Even when she was in the company of others, she was not a great talker. She would work in silence in the kitchen while the others chattered around her, and in the evenings she had her books to read. And she had always slept alone.
As a consequence, she found it oddly oppressive to have Mr Huntly’s company for almost twenty four hours a day. His face was the last sight she saw before she fell asleep, and the first to be seen on waking. He was with her throughout the day, for whatever they did, they did together. The only time she was not with him was when she bathed, or Betty was dressing or undressing her. She had never in her life spent so much time with one person, and yet it felt strangely impersonal. She was his only companionship, just as he was hers, yet she was never quite sure how to talk to him. They were not yet so comfortable together that she could tease him or share a joke, nor did she feel that she could neglect him while she read a book. He never read for his own interest, only religious tracts on a Sunday, so she would feel very selfish opening a book while he was in the room. And he was always in the room. She was never alone.
She told herself that everything would be different at Willow Place, for there he would have his own duties to attend to and she would have hers. They would not be so thrown together. A honeymoon was quite different from the reality of their everyday life, a time when they could get to know each other and grow accustomed to being married away from the distractions of mundane life. So she said nothing, and counted the days until they should go to Willow Place. Her home now.
The separate post-chaise for the valet, maid and luggage was dispensed with for their departure from Bath. Sheffield, the valet, sat beside Palcock, the coachman, while Betty sat inside with Annie and Mr Huntly. Their boxes were piled onto the back and roof of the carriage. This made the journey tediously slow and necessitated an overnight stop, in order not to overtire the horses.
Nevertheless, by two or three in the afternoon on the second day they came within sight of the smoke and spires of Salisbury, and turned aside onto a rutted country lane. They passed no villages or houses, there being nothing but heath and scrubby woodland to be seen. After another thicker belt of trees, the carriage passed through a high hedge, and into a park where sheep grazed in the distance. It was some time before the house came into view.
It was larger than Annie had expected. Mr Huntly had told her little about it except that it was a manor house of great antiquity, but the many leaded windows and rows of chimneys were impressive. The walls were of red brick lai
d down in a pattern, with wooden beams visible between them.
As they drew near, the doors opened and a line of servants emerged to greet the new mistress of the house. Three men and five women, she saw, as well as the coachman and valet she knew about. Her stomach twisted a little. Such a large household! How would she manage? But she remembered her mother effortlessly running the vicarage and gently guiding her aunt’s servants, and knew that she had been in training all her life for the rôle she was now to play. She straightened her shoulders a little.
Now another group emerged from the house — a woman in black, and three small children, the youngest carried by a nursemaid. Who were they? But there was no time to ask, for the carriage was already drawing to a halt. Sheffield leapt down from the box to open the door for them. Mr Huntly descended first, then, with a smile, handed her down.
“Welcome to Willow Place, Mrs Huntly.”
There was a flurry of names as he led her past the servants, who bowed or curtsied deferentially. Then to the lady in black. She was slender and delicate, so small she might have been mistaken for a child herself were it not for the cap on her head and the children holding her hands. And pretty! Annie was briefly envious of such enchanting loveliness.
“This is my brother’s widow, and his daughters,” was all Mr Huntly said.
“I had not the least idea he was married!” Annie cried, quite shocked that her husband had never thought to mention such a thing to her. “Do you live here, too? Or is there… a dower house or some such?”
She flushed a little, and threw a quick glance at Mr Huntly. “My brother-in-law very kindly permits us to stay on here.”
“How delightful!” Annie said. “I have always wanted a sister, and now I have one.”
“Oh, what a lovely thing to say!” the widow said, her face lighting up with a wide smile. “Your husband said you were charming, and so you are. Do come inside, for it is not as warm as one might hope for June. There, now, mind the step, Mrs Huntly. It is a little uneven. May I show you to your room, or…?” She looked at Mr Huntly questioningly.
“You may show Mrs Huntly her rooms,” he said curtly. “I shall ensure the boxes are unloaded safely.”
So saying, he turned and strode back outside, leaving Annie with Mrs Herbert Huntly in the hall. It was a fine medieval hall, all carved dark wood, the panelling and ceiling divided into solidly symmetrical squares, with not a curve to be seen anywhere. A few murky portraits of ancestral Huntlys did nothing to lighten the gloom. Near the stairs, a pair of framed sketches showed the exterior of the house and floor plan. A large clock embedded in the carved stone over-mantel ticked mournfully. The wooden floor made Annie think of the assembly rooms.
“What a splendid place for a ball,” she said involuntarily.
The widow giggled. “It would be, yes, if the Huntly men were inclined to dance. But perhaps there will be a ball to celebrate your marriage, who knows.” One hand which had been tucked out of sight behind her back now reappeared with a crumpled apron in it. “You caught me by surprise, rather,” she confessed. “I was still in the kitchen. You have made such good time! We did not look for you much before four or even later, and then we should have had to scramble to sit down to dinner on time.” She turned to the nursery maid, still holding the youngest child in her arms. “Dawn, do take the children back to the nursery. Isobel is so tired. Will you come upstairs, Mrs Huntly? Careful crossing the rug! Everything in this house is so old. I could never get Herbert to undertake any improvements, for in his eyes it is perfect. Perhaps you can persuade your husband to have a little work done, for I am sure he will do anything to please you. The chimney pots… one fell last winter, and likely there are others just as bad, and the stables need attention, too. This way.”
Annie, smiling at this honest recital, followed meekly. There were two staircases, each framed by a high stone arch, with a passageway between them leading to hidden parts of the house. The widow led Annie up the left-hand staircase and then along a long, dark passage past numerous doors. Only a window at either end let in a little light to relieve the gloom. Eventually, throwing open a door, she said, “This is your room.”
It was dark, as the whole house was dark, but above the dado, the walls were plastered and painted a pale lemon colour, and the ceiling between the beams was the same, which brought some lightness to the room. There was little furniture beyond a few narrow tables, cupboards and chairs scattered around the perimeter of the room, but the centre was dominated by a massive canopied bed with heavy velvet hangings of a rich, ruby red. A low fire burned in the hearth, and on every surface were bowls of delicate wild flowers.
“How lovely!” Annie said, with genuine pleasure, fingering a pale blue forget-me-not. “You have been busy in the hedgerows this morning, I can see. Thank you!”
The widow sat down on the edge of the bed. “I took Janet and Margaret with me — my two eldest. They were a little overenthusiastic, as you can see, but they would have every last bloom set out for you. I daresay there is not a bowl or a vase left in the house.”
“It was a kind thought, and makes me feel quite at home,” Annie said. “I look forward to meeting your daughters properly later.”
“You are not at all what I expected,” she said thoughtfully. “From the little that my brother-in-law told us of you, I imagined you as some great lady, a diamond of the first water and a paragon of every angelic virtue, so naturally I thought you would be terribly puffed up. But you are not in the least.”
“I should hope not!” Annie said, laughing. “I have no cause at all to give myself airs, being only the impoverished daughter of a clergyman, and quite dependent on my uncle, who is an apothecary, until Mr Huntly rescued me.”
“Oh, I like you!” the widow said, her eyes widening at this frank speech. “We shall be such friends, you and I.”
“I do hope so,” Annie said shyly. “I am very glad to find you here. Will you call me Annie?”
“And you must call me Judith,” she said, jumping up and throwing her arms impulsively around Annie. “Let me show you everything. This is your dressing room, just here. Come on through.”
Annie did so, stepping through the door into another world. The wainscoting was still there, and the heavy wooden beams across the ceiling, but the wood was washed with a pale coloured paint, and above it was a delicately patterned wallpaper with strange birds and blossoms. There were more vases of wildflowers, their delicate scent filling the air.
“This is beautiful!” Annie cried in delight.
“And over here is the connecting door,” Judith said.
“Connecting door?”
“To your husband’s bedroom. Do you truly like it? I used to call this room my boudoir.”
Annie finally realised. “But this is yours! This room, and the bedroom — they are yours.”
“Not any longer,” Judith said, with a gay smile, “and if you want to know the truth, Annie, losing my bedroom and boudoir is the very least of my concerns. Herbert left me more or less penniless, and there are no relations for me to turn to. If your husband had not allowed us to stay here, I imagine we should have been on our way to the workhouse by now.”
“Was there no settlement?” Annie said, horrified.
“None. The idea was that I should have a son to inherit, and so I should always be looked after. But there is no son, and I am not with child, so that is that. But I shall try to make myself useful in the house, and keep the children out of your husband’s way.”
And she smiled so bravely that Annie was deeply moved, for she and her mother had themselves been in just such a difficult position a few years ago. Her father’s living had not been enough to make any savings to provide for them, but at least they had had her uncle to help them, and her mother’s small portion. Poor Judith! Just a short time ago, she had been mistress of all this, the servants working to her command, her future secure. Now she was an indigent widow with three children, and their very lives, perhaps, dependent on
the whims of a relation. Yet her husband had been rich. How thoughtless of him to make no provision for his wife and children.
But at least Mr Huntly was taking care of them. Beneath his rather stiff exterior, he had a kind heart.
4: Compliance
Dinner was at Mr Huntly’s preferred time of six o’clock, with the valet and groom acting as footmen. There were two courses and several removes, but Annie noted that Mr Huntly twice commented on the overabundance of food, and privately decided that in future one course would be sufficient. The dining table was large enough to seat twenty or more guests, so they huddled at one end of it, Judith in black and Annie in a dark blue gown, the darkest she owned, which she wore in sympathy with the grieving widow. Mr Huntly wore a green coat, silk knee breeches and a gold brocade waistcoat which had looked very much the thing in Bath, but which was rather too ornate for quiet country living.
Little was said beyond the usual civilities of the table — food offered, joints carved, dishes passed about, praise given. Judith, who had chattered freely to Annie upstairs, was silent in Mr Huntly’s presence, and he himself ventured no subject for discussion, beyond the commonplace. Annie felt it reasonable to enquire about the fundamentals of the household, such as the time of breakfast, and when she might be expected to meet with the housekeeper each day.
“Mrs Cumber will await your convenience, naturally,” Mr Huntly said repressively.
“Indeed, but I have no wish to disrupt the workings of the household unnecessarily,” Annie said. “Judith, when was your usual time to meet Mrs Cumber?”
“Oh… quite early, as a rule,” Judith said, eyes lowered. “That way there is time for Billy to ride into Salisbury if there is anything needed.”
The Apothecary (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 3) Page 3