“I cannot speak to the resident ghost, but the original house had every other disadvantage. My grandfather and his brother bought the two adjoining properties when they settled down to become gentlemen, two houses that were equally old and inconvenient. My great-uncle grew so disenchanted with his that he tore most of it down. Only the great hall survived, where our horses now reside in some splendour. My father disapproved mightily, but luckily he did not survive to inherit. When he died, my great-uncle made me his heir and took us all in. I rather like the Manor as it is now, although I envy you Willow Place. There is something appealing in a house with so much history. Shall we go inside?”
The rest of the family awaited them in the entrance hall, its floor tiled in muted shades of grey and a warm red. In a babble of noisy greetings, Jerome’s voice high above the rest, they were divested of cloaks and swept into a pleasantly-appointed drawing room. Annie allowed herself to be carried along with the throng. Cecilia and Lavinia did most of the talking, with Uncle Tom and Aunt Hester murmuring civil compliments in their wake. Adam was the urbane host, smiling and discreetly directing the footmen.
Annie was momentarily diverted by the presence of no fewer than four footmen, knowing perfectly well that Adam’s entire indoor staff consisted of the Turvilles and a younger man who acted as groom and footman combined. She quickly recognised Edward Ransome, the Willow Place bailiff, amongst the footmen. Another man, a younger, handsomer version of him, was presumably his brother, and Adam’s bailiff. No doubt there were other temporary helpers from village families or the surrounding farms engaged in the kitchens and stables.
The dinner was plentiful, not elaborate or exotic, but a well-chosen selection of good, plain food simply dressed, the meat tender, the fish flavourful and the vegetables fresh. Since everyone ate heartily, it seemed that such provision was to the taste of all. There was lemonade and beer as well as wine, for which Annie was thankful, being unaccustomed to strong wines. She was amused to see Lord Dillington sip his wine only when invited to drink, preferring beer the rest of the time.
She was seated between the viscount and her aunt, but since the former was much taken up by Cecilia on his other side, and the latter was entranced by Jerome, who sat opposite her, Annie was able to sit quietly and observe the company, as she preferred. Adam worried her most, for there was a marked degree of strain in his face. His eyes moved restlessly here and there, alighting momentarily on Annie, then quickly flitting away. He still smiled a great deal, teasing Lavinia and listening courteously to Mrs Dresden’s compliments, mingled with her reminiscences about the parsonage, but it was clear that he was out of sorts.
But he was not alone in that. Judith, too, was unusually subdued, saying little and eating less, and even the attentiveness of the younger Mr Ransome, in his role as footman, pressing her to this dish or that, was not sufficient to raise her spirits. But then she was seated between Benedict, who was practising his flirtation techniques on Lavinia, and the irrepressible Jerome, so it was possible that it was only the contrast that made her seem so out of frame.
Yet perhaps there was something more afoot. Annie was seated in the drawing room later, feigning interest in an interminable monologue by Cecilia. She had received a visit from Lady Alicia Ransome earlier that day, under the impression that some female at Wickstead Manor had induced her younger son into falling in love.
“As if we should know anything about the romantic inclinations of our bailiff!” Cecilia said. “John is a grown man and may please himself, I suppose, without interference from us or his mother. Although the family is all in pieces, so she is hoping he will marry for money, no doubt. Have you met her? Unpleasant woman! Oh, I had better say no more, for here is John now, and it would never do for him to overhear me talking so about his mother. What do you think of this dry weather? I am sure the farmers are very glad of it to get the harvest in, but for myself I should like a little rain.”
As the drawing room doors opened, and John Ransome entered in his guise as a footman, Annie caught a glimpse of two people in the hall outside, arguing fiercely.
Adam and Judith.
Now what was that about?
17: A Letter From Dublin (September)
The next day saw many departures. Lavinia and the viscount left early for their own modest estate, and Uncle Tom and Aunt Hester prepared to return to Guildford, although this time they would travel in Annie’s own carriage, driven by the newly restored Palcock. While the servants and Judith were busy loading the luggage onto the carriage, and Aunt Hester was upstairs with Annie’s mother packing the last portmanteau, Annie found herself momentarily alone in the great hall with her uncle.
“Well, Annie, I do not like to leave you here like this, not with a murderer still on the loose. Will you not come home with us for a while, at least until the fellow is caught and locked away from good Christian folk?”
“This is my home now, uncle. I shall be perfectly all right here.”
“Well, well, you are comfortably settled for the moment,” he said, gazing around at the unsmiling ancestors on the walls and the beamed ceiling. “This is a fine place, and worthy of you, niece. Your herbarium will be a credit to you when it is grown, and I shall send you some bulbs of conval lilies by way of your coachman. And Annie…” He hesitated, scratched his nose and then plunged on. “You know there will always be a home for you at Castle Street. Should it ever be necessary.”
“You are very good, uncle,” was all she said, for she could not explain to him that she would only do so if she were truly desperate.
He scratched his nose again. “Were you happy, Annie? For you do not strike me as a woman sunk in grief. Did Mr Huntly make you happy?”
How to answer that? She had not been unhappy, just… fretful. Chafing under the restrictions imposed upon her. If they had gone on in the same way, then she would have become very unhappy indeed, but perhaps Rupert would have mellowed in time. She would never know, now.
But she was too honest to prevaricate. “No, he did not make me happy,” she said quietly. “He was not unkind to me, and I never doubted his affection for me, but my happiness was not an object with him, only my obedience. Mr Huntly wanted a dutiful, submissive wife, and I am not well suited for such a rôle, I fear.”
“Ah. No, you have all the appearance of it, but within you is something… not rebellious, for you have never been that, but unyielding. When you have considered all angles and assessed every point of an argument, your opinion is formed and will be unshakable, unless presented with new evidence. You cannot be swayed merely by the wish to appease another person. That is what makes you such a good apothecary, my dear.”
She smiled. “I am not an apothecary, uncle. I would describe myself as an amateur herbalist, no more than that.”
He chuckled, but shook his head. “Well, well, I am sorry for what you tell me of Huntly. Does your mother know?”
“I have tried to explain it, but she does not quite understand, and now that he is dead—”
“Quite, quite. I shall say nothing to Hester, you may be sure. Ah, here are the ladies now. Well, we must be away, my dear niece. Write often, and tell us how you go on, and of any news of this murderer. It would be a relief to know— Yes, yes, my dear, I am aware you do not like me to mention the subject, but Annie is not a delicate flower to be shielded from every stray breeze, you know. She is a good and sensible girl, who is coping splendidly under difficult circumstances.”
“Of course she is!” Aunt Hester said stoutly, “but I am still very thankful that Mary will be here with her.”
“And so am I, aunt,” Annie said with a fond smile at her mother. “So am I.”
~~~~~
Without the disruption of visitors, Annie’s days settled into a comfortable routine. Before breakfast, she walked round her burgeoning herb garden and made her remedies in the still room. Then, she talked to Mrs Cumber. Breakfast with her mother, Judith and the three children was a pleasant family interlude. After breakf
ast, Judith took the children back to the nursery for lessons, while Annie’s mother went off to ‘give Cook a helping hand’, which involved the subtle supervision of all the indoor staff — tidying cupboards, rearranging stores and inducing an air of brisk efficiency into the house.
Annie herself retreated to the hunting room, of which she was now in sole possession. She dealt with her correspondence, made lists of oils and powders for her remedies for Billy to buy in Salisbury and attempted to keep the accounts up to date. As often as not, however, she curled up in one of the big leather chairs beside the fire and lost herself in a book. It was the only way she had found to set aside all the worries that gnawed at her — the missing will, the stranger in the garden watching the house, the unknown James Huntly, her own uncertain future, dependent as it was on her unborn child, and most of all, her husband’s murder. It was more than two weeks since someone had shot Rupert in cold blood not half a mile from the house, and still the villain had not been arrested. Who would do such a thing? And was Annie herself at risk? Or her child? Such thoughts scuttled round in her head during every waking hour, but with the right book in her hand she could send her mind to some other, less troubled, place, and that brought her an hour or two of peace.
Jerome arrived each day not long after breakfast to continue his searches for the will. He had completed his investigation of the attics, finding a great many dusty and moth-eaten treasures to be carried away triumphantly to the Manor, but no will. He had begun on the bedroom floor, and after a cursory greeting to Annie, dashed away with Edwin or Benedict.
Adam usually accompanied his brothers, and would linger in the hunting room after they had left, chatting to Annie about nothing very much. His former ease of manner was little in evidence, and he seemed distracted and tired, as if he were not sleeping well. Annie had not the heart to send him away, so she poured him a little Madeira and let him sit in the matching wing chair and say whatever he wished. She was sorry for the restraint between them, but his lack of openness made a return to their former closeness impossible.
One day he arrived looking a little brighter. “I have had word from Aunt Connell — Rupert’s mother in Ireland. James Huntly need not worry us. Here, read it for yourself.”
“May I?” The letter was written in a strong, feminine hand. ‘Kilcarlow, nr Dublin. 26th August 18— My dear Adam, I cannot imagine what Henry was about to be writing James’s name in the family Bible, for he is none of his handiwork. I am astonished he even knew I had a son. His father is my very dear husband, Mr Connell, and let no one say otherwise for it is a scurrilous lie which I shall deny to my dying breath. You may set your mind at ease for there is no one to come between you and Willow Place, if you should want such a monstrous uncomfortable barn of a house. I wish you joy of it. Mrs Bridget Connell.’ Squeezed into the side of the page was one extra line — ‘James died in infancy.’
“There, you see?” Adam said triumphantly. “It was all a misunderstanding on Uncle Henry’s part, and James Huntly is not his son. Even if he were, it would be no obstacle for he died years ago… ‘in infancy’. So Willow Place is yours or mine, and we need not concern ourselves with this mysterious brother.”
Annie read the letter a second time. There were several puzzling aspects, but she was particularly struck by the phrase ‘there is no one to come between you and Willow Place’. Her own name, and the possibility of a son, was not touched on. Had Adam neglected to mention her? And if so, why? The thought of murder rose unbidden in her mind, but she suppressed it ruthlessly. Adam had sworn his innocence on the Bible, and she could not believe his heart so black as to lie with his hand resting on the Holy Book. Yet clearly Mrs Connell believed him to want the inheritance — ‘You may set your mind at ease for there is no one to come between you and Willow Place.’
“Do you particularly want Willow Place?” Annie said carefully.
“Want it? For myself, no, since I have a perfectly good house of my own, but I very much want you to have a settled home. If you have a son, then Willow Place will be his, you will live here until he is married, and if you do not, then it will be mine, and I give you my word that you may stay here for as long as you wish. This James Huntly might have expected you to leave, but now you need never leave, and that is surely a good thing, is it not?”
It was a good answer, and relieved her mind somewhat. “And what of Judith?” Annie said. “You say nothing of her having a settled home, yet she has more need of such security than I. She has no jointure and three daughters to raise.”
“I have thought of Judith, too,” he said with just a hint of smugness. “If I inherit Willow Place, I shall make her an annuity so that she will have an income of her own. A modest independence, no more than that, for I do not believe the estate could bear too great a depletion, but it would make her comfortable.”
“Indeed it would! That would be a kindness indeed,” Annie said with heartfelt pleasure. “And if… if I should have a son… might I be able to do something of the sort also?”
“It would depend on the trustees appointed to manage the estate on his behalf, and that would depend on who is chosen as his guardian.”
“Who chooses the guardian and the trustees?”
“Rupert’s will, if we can ever find it,” Adam said with a rueful smile. “Being a man of meticulous attention to detail, I am sure his will made provision for such eventualities. Failing that, we would have to apply to the Court of Chancery.”
“We?”
He looked uncomfortable. “You would apply, naturally, but I should be very happy to assist in any way possible. Many men of business such as lawyers prefer to deal with another gentleman.” He chewed his lip, then said hesitantly, “You are a woman of quick mind and sound character, Annie, and perfectly competent to deal with your own affairs, but the general view of the world is that women should stay at home and tend to domestic matters. Having a man to speak for you can sometimes speed matters along. It is a pragmatic approach.”
She nodded, for the explanation made sense to her. “Yes, I can see that. When Aunt Hester inherited a small amount of money, Uncle Tom had to deal with all the details until the very point where my aunt’s signature was required. If it comes to that situation, I shall be very happy to have your aid, Adam.”
He smiled so broadly that his face, previously so unusually drawn, was lit up with happiness. He leapt to his feet and made her a sweeping bow. “Thank you! You honour me with your confidence, cousin. I had thought we were quite at outs, and it relieves me greatly to find that it is not so.”
She laughed at such exuberance, shaking her head at him, and forbore to point out that she was still at outs with him in other ways, and would continue to be so until he honoured her with his full confidence, and addressed her concerns regarding the man she had seen in the grounds at night.
While his joy at her approbation expressed itself in pouring himself another glass of Madeira, she reread the letter. “Tell me of Mrs Connell,” she said slowly. “Or Mrs Huntly as she once was. She left her husband some years ago, as I understand it.”
“Many, many years ago. Before I was born, I think. Yes, it must have been so, for Rupert was five, and Herbert would have been… oh, thirteen, perhaps. Old enough to go to school, anyway. But Rupert and his sister went to Grantham, to Aunt Dempster. Why this interest?”
“I am trying to work out where James Huntly fits in.”
“It hardly matters, surely? He is long dead, and is no get of Uncle Henry’s, so he is irrelevant.” Perhaps detecting something in her face, he set down his Madeira glass and abruptly sat up straight. “What is it, Annie? What do you read into that letter?”
“Henry Huntly wrote James’s name into the family Bible, so he clearly considered that James was his son, and not Mr Connell’s. Why would he think that?”
“Perhaps because he was still married to Aunt Bridget at the time,” Adam said slowly, frowning. “And yet… if Uncle Henry were here and Aunt Bridget were in Ireland,
no one in their right mind would regard the child as their own.”
“Exactly.”
It pleased her inordinately to be able to discuss the subject rationally with him. Rupert, she felt sure, would have dismissed her concerns at once, or would have formed his own conclusion and taken no notice of any counterpoint of hers. Adam, though, listened to her carefully. How much she had missed such discussions — the long, earnest debates with her uncle about the merits of this treatment or that for a particular patient. Or before that, with her father, who had been a great one for studying the weather. Many, many times they had passed an evening debating whether a change in the wind heralded rain or colder weather, and the implications for the vegetable patch or the orchard blossom. Even the local farmers had consulted him to see if it was safe to delay the harvest for another week or two.
“I wonder…” Adam said. “Is it possible that he had good reason to suppose the child was his? That they were reconciled for a while?”
“How would we know?” Annie said. “It was twenty or so years ago, and— Oh, but some of the servants were here then. Palcock, the coachman, was, and Dewey might have been under-gardener at the time.”
Adam jumped to his feet. “I shall enquire of them at once.”
Annie smiled and shook her head. “We shall enquire of them, cousin.”
With a bow, he acknowledged the amendment. They found Dewey busy in the herb garden, tidying up some overgrown sage and rosemary, but he was of no help to them, having trained at Lady Charlotte’s estate across the river, and only arrived at Willow Place a few years ago. Palcock was placidly polishing harness in the stables.
“Aye, I were here twen’y year ago,” he said, in answer to Adam’s question. “What you be wantin’ to know ’bout?”
The Apothecary (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 3) Page 17