The Apothecary (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 3)

by Mary Kingswood

  That was so reasonable that she felt a little foolish in objecting to it.

  When he deemed that she was sufficiently fortified by chocolate to face the day, they made their way downstairs and began their tour of the rooms on the ground floor. The buttery, the peacock chamber, the blue room, the tapestry room all passed her by in a whirl of names and brief impressions of large, imposing rooms, rendered even more formidable in daylight. Only the fittingly-named little parlour was of more modest proportions, seeming homely by comparison. The furnishings were a little drab and tired with age, but there was not a speck of dust to be seen, and fresh flowers brightened every room. They came in time to the hunting room, although she could not see why it was so called, for the walls were lined with shelves filled with books.

  “A library!” she cried delightedly.

  “My study,” he corrected her. “I have caused some small alterations to be made, which will suit us better. Here is my desk, you see, and here is a smaller desk for you. Is it not an elegant piece of furniture? It is intended as a secretary’s desk, perhaps, but it is perfect for you. This way we shall be able to write side by side, in complete harmony.”

  “But this is your study!” she said, her heart sinking. Was there to be no escape from her husband’s presence? “I shall be very much in the way when you have to see your steward or receive callers.”

  “We shall deal with that when it occurs,” he said, with the smug air of a man who has thought of everything. “Is it not cosy? There is a table here where you may spread out your embroidery when you have completed your correspondence. This way I shall always be able to enjoy your company. It is almost eight, so Mrs Cumber will be here shortly. We shall receive her… let me see… yes, sitting here, on this sofa, I think.”

  Numbly, Annie sat as she was bid. She would not argue with him… she would not. For now, she would accept his wishes placidly, like the good wife she was, and hope to teach him to keep her on a looser rein in future.

  Mrs Cumber was a rather angular woman, who stood stiffly before them, her eyes flickering from one to the other. Mr Huntly, however, said nothing, and once the housekeeper realised that Annie was not about to make sweeping changes to the house, and was happy with her suggestions for dinner, she relaxed a little.

  “So you will not wish for two courses every night, madam?”

  “That would be an unnecessary expense. Eight or ten dishes with two or three removes will be perfectly adequate, but please try to have a fish dish every day, if at all possible. Mr Huntly is very fond of fish.”

  “Very well, madam. Will that be all?”

  “That will be all, thank you.”

  The housekeeper curtsied and would have turned to leave the room, but Mr Huntly said, “One moment, Mrs Cumber, if you please. How many housemaids do you have?”

  “Two, sir.”

  “You may let one of them go. Mrs Huntly’s lady’s maid is also a housemaid, and Mrs Herbert has indicated her willingness to do her share of the work.”

  Annie bit her tongue, for she could not challenge her husband’s decision in front of the housekeeper.

  Mrs Cumber looked nonplussed. “It would have to be Barbara, but… she’s been here for years, sir. Fifteen or more. Are you sure?” Again her eyes flicked to Annie and back. “This is a big house, and—”

  “Get rid of her.”

  Annie said quickly, “Let her work her notice, Mrs Cumber, then I shall be able to write her a good reference, and I am sure Mrs Herbert Huntly will do so as well.”

  When Mrs Cumber had left the room, Annie said, “In future, Mr Huntly, I would prefer to discuss any such alterations to household arrangements in private beforehand. I cannot yet judge the proper number of female servants required for an establishment of this size, and it is a little premature to dismiss any until it is certain they are not required.”

  “Hardly so,” he said. “Your maid and Judith may each undertake half the work of a housemaid. Therefore one housemaid is unnecessary.”

  “But we may find we need to increase the number of servants in the future.”

  “Then we will hire more,” he said, with an indifferent shrug. “I have letters for you, Mrs Huntly.” He went to his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a pile of unopened letters. He sorted through them and pulled out several. “These are yours. They came while we were in Bath. One of them is franked by a Lord Morpeth. I was not aware that you were acquainted with any peers.”

  “My old friend Lavinia is married to a son of the Earl of Morpeth,” she said absently. “You had these yesterday. I wonder that you did not let me have them at once.”

  “Letters are for the morning,” he said. “We may read them and write our replies sitting side by side here before breakfast. Is that not charming? Then the rest of the day is free of such chores. Sit at your desk, Mrs Huntly, and attend to your correspondence.”

  Annie sat and read her letters, which were mostly congratulations on her marriage, with a few tidbits of local news from her mother and aunt. She could not, however, write any responses, not with Mr Huntly alongside her, constantly asking if her letters contained good news, or whether she needed her pen mended. He devoted more attention to what she was doing than to his own letters.

  In the end, because he was becoming persistent in his enquiries as to why she wrote nothing, she took up her pen and wrote a few lines to her mother.

  “There are no wafers here, or sealing wax,” she said. “May I have some of yours?”

  “It will be my pleasure to seal your letters for you, and see that they go to the post office,” he said, holding out his hand, and she had no option but to give him the unsealed sheet.

  They breakfasted together in the buttery. Judith was absent, and Annie could only hope she was not on her knees somewhere black leading grates. Then it was back to the hunting room.

  “I still have a few letters to write,” Mr Huntly said. “If you have finished your correspondence for the day, you may fetch a piece of embroidery.”

  “There is no embroidery for me to work on,” she said. “My usual stitchery is of the more practical sort — hemming handkerchiefs and mending shirts. May I read while you work?”

  He smiled, and stroked her face softly. “Ah, yes, you are not used to the life of a lady, are you? Let me find you a book to read.”

  “I can do that,” she said hastily. “I would not for the world distract you from your important correspondence.”

  “It is not the least inconvenience,” he said, moving to one of the bookcases and unlocking the door. “Let me see… no, these are very dull, and you need not read sermons except on Sundays. Ah, here we are… a history of the county of Wiltshire, and all its important events and places. That will be very interesting for you, to learn about your new home. You may relate some of it to me at dinner tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said at once, although determined to choose her own books at the first opportunity. She was not hopeful of finding the latest novels on the shelves of Willow Place, but there must be something more enjoyable than sermons and local history.

  For a while, they worked without speaking. His pen scratched away as he answered the accumulated letters of the last two weeks, and hers likewise, for she found the book so dreary that she was obliged to make a note of anything she encountered that might safely be recounted over the dinner table before she forgot it. She hoped that would serve to convince him that she was, in fact, reading his chosen tome, but in fact her mind was bent on a more pressing problem — how to escape the suffocating hold he had over her. Every hour, it seemed, day and night alike, was to be spent in his company, and she could not find a way to avoid it. If she protested directly about any matter, he at once found a reasonable answer to her concerns, and she could not explain to him how stifling it was to have one’s life directed in so minute and relentless a fashion.

  Around noon, there was a reprieve of sorts, for Ransome, the steward, arrived.

  “You will not want me h
ere while you discuss business,” Annie said, jumping up and trying not to appear too eager. Here at last was her chance to meet the rest of the servants more informally, or to find Judith and the children, and check that all was well with them. Or perhaps she could—

  “This is the ideal opportunity for you to practise at the instrument,” Mr Huntly said. “I have set out a piece which would bring me great pleasure to hear tonight.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, curtsying demurely, but inside she seethed. How dared he! Was she to have no time to do anything on her own account? Or even to do nothing at all, if she wished.

  Still, playing the instrument was something she would enjoy, especially if her husband were not there to appraise her performance. Accordingly, she went through to the tapestry room where the instrument was, found the sheet music on top of it and sat down to play. It was the first time she had been alone for any length of time since her marriage, and the sense of freedom was exhilarating. There was an element of guilt, too, in feeling so joyous to be apart from her husband of less than two weeks, but she could not stop herself from smiling as she played.

  Nor was her release from his company the only source of satisfaction. She could look around her and know that everything she saw was hers to enjoy now. The instrument, the exquisite tapestries on the walls, the lovely old house, the servants, the estate yet to be explored… how lucky she was! She was Mrs Rupert Huntly of Willow Place, and that was something of which to be proud. And if her husband constrained her activities just now in the first flush of marital enthusiasm, perhaps that was a small price to pay for the life he had given her.

  She played, and for a little while lost herself in the music. At first, her fingers were tentative, but by the fourth time through the piece, she felt she had mastered it rather well, and stopped at the end well satisfied with her progress.

  Hearty applause from the doorway made her jump.

  “Bravo!” cried a cheerful male voice. “An excellent performance.”

  He was a gentleman, that much was certain, for his well-cut clothes, closely fitted to his form, and the artfully disarrayed hair betrayed as much. He was handsome, too, that much she would admit. Yet he was unknown to her, and therefore she should not be receiving him at all, especially given the teasing eyes and mischievous grin, which suggested the habitual flirt.

  “Are you here to see my husband? He is in the hunting room. I am sure the housekeeper or footman will show you the way.”

  He laughed, moving without invitation further into the room. “Now, where would be the pleasure in that? I had much rather stay here with you, and see if I can coax a smile to that pretty face.”

  Yes, definitely a flirt. “I had much rather you did not,” she snapped. She would not normally allow her temper to get the better of her, but he had startled her, and she was cross to have her solitude so rudely disrupted. And perhaps a little simmering vexation against her husband turned itself against this provocative stranger.

  “Oh, you are no fun at all! Where is the welcome for a fellow come to congratulate the blushing bride? You are the bride, are you not? I feel sure you are, although the blushing is conspicuously absent.”

  “You are impertinent, sir. I wish you will leave.”

  He laughed even more at that, and bowed ironically, yet he still made no move to leave. She was about to ring the bell to have him thrown out when her husband loomed in the doorway.

  “What is going on? Oh, it is you, is it?”

  “Indeed, it is I,” the stranger said, bowing again.

  “Mrs Huntly,” her husband said, “may I present to you my cousin, Adam Huntly of Wickstead Manor. My wife, Huntly.”

  “Another relative of whom I knew nothing,” Annie said angrily, too ruffled to mind her words. “Perhaps I should peruse the family Bible, Mr Huntly, so that I may be forewarned of the existence of sundry cousins and aunts and nieces.”

  For an instant, her husband’s eyes flashed dangerously, and she subsided, but Mr Adam Huntly laughed uproariously. “Ah, the lady has spirit, I think. You should have heard her ring a peal over me, Cousin. Told me I was impertinent, and she wished I would leave. My fault, of course, for entering the house from the stables and taking her by surprise. I beg your pardon, Mrs Huntly.”

  He bowed yet again, and she inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement. She would not forgive him for treating the house as if it were his own, but she appreciated the deft way he had turned aside her husband’s wrath.

  They moved into the peacock chamber, which Mr Huntly had decided was the appropriate place to receive social callers. It was an odd sort of room, dominated by a massive and rather faded tapestry of a garden with peacocks parading about. A few patches were marred by broken or frayed threads, and Annie wished she had the skill to mend it. The work took up the whole of one wall, obviously too large for the smaller tapestry room next door.

  Mr Huntly poured Madeira for the two men. When Annie asked the visitor if he would like anything to eat, her husband said curtly, “He will not be staying long.”

  “No, indeed,” Mr Adam Huntly said equably. “Cousin Rupert dislikes me, Mrs Huntly, but I cannot see why he should, can you? For who could possibly dislike so charming and amiable a fellow as I am? A discerning lady like yourself would not be so harsh, I am sure. You must have drawn the attention of any number of gentlemen before you disappointed them all by choosing my cousin, so I am sure you will be well able to recognise my innumerable good qualities.”

  “I recognise an outrageous flirt when I see one,” she said, but there was no longer any sharpness in her tone. Indeed, she was finding it impossible to sustain any degree of hostility against one who was irrepressibly good-humoured.

  They were exact opposites, the two men. Her husband was tall and thin and dark, all long arms and legs, with a saturnine expression in that moment. In his dark coat, he looked just like a spider. His cousin was fair, his expression sunny, as if life were a perpetual joke provided for his amusement. He was not much above average height, but well-proportioned, and his tightly-fitted coat owed nothing to buckram padding. Annie’s eyes were drawn to his powerful and shapely legs, and she had an unexpected wish to see him astride his horse, where she was certain his figure would appear to uncommon advantage.

  He had just risen to take his leave when the door flew open and Judith bounced into the room.

  “Adam! I have only just heard that you were here. How are you?”

  “All the better for seeing you, my dear Judith.” He bowed, and swept her hand into his, raising it almost to his lips. “You light up every room you are in, although I have to tell you that you have a rival now. You and Mrs Rupert are the twin suns around whom we lesser lights must orbit.”

  “What nonsense you do talk, Adam! Are you staying? We can manage an extra place for dinner. Oh! I beg your pardon, Annie. It is hard to lose the habit of issuing invitations.”

  Annie could see from her husband’s face that his cousin’s presence at dinner would not be welcome. “I believe Mr Adam Huntly is just about to leave, but doubtless there will be many other opportunities for him to join us for dinner.”

  “I shall look forward to it, dear lady.” His eyes twinkled merrily as he spoke. He bowed low over her hand, bowed to his cousin and without further ado took his leave. Judith accompanied him back to the stables, and Annie heard her high voice chattering away as they disappeared through the house.

  “Intolerable coxcomb,” Mr Huntly muttered. “Ransome is gone, my dear, so you may resume your reading in the hunting room.”

  How she longed to refuse! If only she dared tell him what she would truly wish to do, but that flash of anger in his eyes had made her cautious. It was too soon for confrontation, and perhaps he would himself loosen his grip on her in time.

  “Yes, sir,” she said meekly.

  6: Gooseberries (July)

  Annie settled somewhat uneasily into her new life. Mr Huntly still kept her close for much of the day, but his vigilanc
e was less relentless. He established a strict routine, for he quickly discovered that Judith had been rather a lackadaisical mistress, and the household had fallen into what he regarded as bad habits. Annie was permitted to spend half an hour each morning with the housekeeper, discussing meals and other domestic concerns, while Mr Huntly inspected the stables and met the gardener and gamekeeper, there was an hour of music practice daily, and after a week or two, her husband began to insist that she rest for an hour before dinner. She made no objection to this, for while he imagined her dozing on a chaise longue in her dressing room, she was in fact sipping her favourite kind of tea, reading books slipped quietly out of the hunting room, or writing long, chatty letters to her mother, her aunt or any number of friends and distant relations. There was sealing wax in the escritoire in the dressing room, so she no longer had to hand unsealed letters to her husband. Once sealed, she gave them directly to Mrs Cumber to be sent to the post.

  Mr Huntly still took upon himself the task of giving her any letters addressed to her, and questioned her about the contents. Once, when a letter from her mother arrived, he said, “What news from Guildford?”

  “Nothing of great moment,” she answered absently.

  “May I see?” He walked across from his desk, and held out his hand.

  She looked up at him in disbelief. He was so tall that when he loomed over her in that fashion he was somewhat intimidating, but nevertheless she said sharply, “You wish to read my private correspondence?”

  “Is there anything you would not wish me to read?”

  “Of course not, but…” He made it sound so reasonable, and yet she hated to let him see her letters. They were a small part of her life that was still her own, and now he wanted to make it his, too. Yet she could not refuse him. Wordlessly she handed it over, and watched as he scanned every line intently. Even if he never again asked to read a letter of hers, she was uncomfortably aware that he could, if he chose to.

  Shortly after their return from Bath, the congratulatory calls began. The number of families with whom they were acquainted was not large, Judith told Annie, but all of them made the effort to pay a wedding visit to the new bride. Mrs Popham, the vicar’s wife, was the first, gushing over her delightedly. Then Mrs Saunders and Mrs Grey, two sisters who looked alike and even dressed alike, beaming at Annie with matching smiles and wondering if she might like to join their project to stitch small shirts or chemises for the children in the work house.