He sipped his coffee and gazed at his step-mother over the rim of the cup. He was fond of her, and could not blame her for nagging him. After all, he had been shockingly dilatory about the business, he accepted that.
“I promise you I will marry this year, Mama, and it matters not a jot who it might be, so you may choose my bride for me, if you please. All I ask is that you do not haul me off to London or Bath to be paraded about like a prize bullock, and that you do not expect me to marry—”
“Good morning, Mrs Leatham, Mr Leatham.”
And there she was. Mildred Beacher, aged eight and twenty, and as deeply worthy a lady as had ever existed. The daughter of a highly-regarded man of the cloth at Salisbury Cathedral, she had been betrothed to the middle Leatham brother, Benjamin, for several years while he awaited a living. When he had died, she had been affianced to the eldest brother, Alfred, and now he, too, had died. Of a putrid fever, said the physician. Of boredom, and in terror of a lifetime with Mildred, more likely. Charles did not care to whom he was married, so long as it was not Mildred.
He rose politely, and held her chair for her. “Good morning, Miss Beacher. I trust you are well?”
“I am always well, Mr Leatham.”
No putrid fevers for her, unfortunately. He immediately chided himself for such unworthy thoughts, and bowed his head as she made her usual morning prayer to thank the Good Lord for food and the roof over their heads. Mildred was tedious company with her preaching ways, but he wished her no harm. She had moved to Starlingford after her father had died, and she provided companionship of a sort for Mama.
As soon as Mildred’s prayer ended, and the footman had poured coffee for her, Mrs Leatham said, “Have you seen the new occupants of Bursham Cottage yet, Mildred?”
“I? How should I have seen them?”
“You were in the village yesterday, so I wondered… well, no matter. I shall call upon them today. Do you wish to come with me?”
“I planned to take some pork jelly to the chandler’s wife whose baby just died.”
“Oh. Oh, well, in that case… Charles, do you—?”
“No, thank you, Mama,” he said firmly.
“I shall go myself, then. But just think, Charles — three young ladies, all unmarried. One of them will be sure to do for you, and no need to look to Bath or… or anywhere else,” she said hastily, with a glance at Mildred, who was fortunately engrossed in buttering her bread with methodical precision.
“You want me to marry Wishaw’s natural daughter?” Charles said in surprise.
“No, no! Their mother was his natural daughter, but she married very well. A linen merchant from… somewhere, I forget where.”
“Romsey,” Mildred said. “And he was a linen draper, I believe. A shopkeeper.”
“Well, well, we must all buy our linens somewhere,” Mrs Leatham said equably. “I am sure he was a very respectable linen draper.”
“I heard he left the family destitute,” Mildred said. “Living in two rooms, according to Mrs Christopher. Inheriting Mr Wishaw’s property is a great piece of good fortune for the daughters. I hope they are grateful for God’s mercy on them. Far be it from me to offer you advice, Mrs Leatham, but for myself I would not presume to call upon them until it is clear that they are sober and modest people, suitable to be acquainted with persons of quality such as yourself.”
“Oh, do you think—? Well, perhaps you are right. We shall see them at church, I daresay.”
“If they attend,” Mildred said darkly, biting crisply into her bread.
Charles escaped as soon as politeness allowed. If his father were there to exert a moderating influence, he could cope with his step-mother’s matchmaking and Mildred’s piety with tolerable equanimity, but Papa was feeling his age and rarely emerged from his bedchamber before noon now. Then he would summon his son to his book room, and there would be a tedious hour with the bailiff or the gamekeeper or the secretary, discussing the management of the estate, after which Charles would be dispatched to inspect roofs or fields or barn walls or, even worse, talk to tenants and farmers, and what could he say to such people? He had enough trouble making conversation with people of his own station, but discussing escaped pigs and crops that failed to grow was not something that came easily to him.
But until his father rose from his bed, he was free, and his feet took him, as so often, straight to the stables. There was nothing like a hard, fast ride to chase away his megrims and regrets. For a brief time, he could imagine himself back in the army, his fellows around him, united in a common purpose of the utmost importance. How could he ever have imagined, as the third son, that he would be needed for the succession? It was a cruelty of the harshest kind. No, again he had to chide himself for the thought. He was luckier than most, for he was young and healthy and the heir to a comfortable manor house and a substantial fortune. Unlike his brothers, he was alive. He had enjoyed five years of freedom, and now he would do his duty without complaint.
He rode hard across their own fields, then cut through Valmont’s Low Mead, and into Corran Woods. At first, the track wound about, overhung by low branches, and he rode with caution, allowing his horse to rest somewhat. But then he came to his favourite part of the ride, a wide, straight track a full mile long where he could allow his horse to have his head and gallop flat out. That was more like it! The thunder of hooves, the beast beneath him as exhilarated as he was, and his own pulse racing with excitement…
The only warning he had was a flash of white very close — too close — then his horse was rearing, hooves flailing the air, almost unseating him, then twisting in mid-air, plunging, kicking…
For a few moments, he was fully occupied, first in trying to stay on the horse, and then to bring him under control. But when he spun the beast around, there was the burst of white again — a sliver of pale gown visible beneath a dark cloak, and above it the terrified face of a child. No, not a child, he realised, a young woman standing on the track, her clothing so dark that she was impossible to see until the last moment. Only that quick flash of white as she moved had saved her life.
“What the Devil are you playing at?” he yelled at her, his anger at the near-disaster making him brusque. “What are you doing here?”
“There was a mouse!” she said. “You’ve scared him away now.”
“A mouse? For goodness’ sake, do you realise—?” Then, puzzled, he said, “Who are you, anyway?”
“Poppy Milburn, if you please, sir.”
“And where do you live, Miss Milburn?”
“Bursham Cottage, sir.”
He sighed. One of the linen draper’s daughters. “Then I shall take you back there directly,” he said in resignation.
4: Callers (April)
Caroline had had a difficult morning. Or another difficult morning, if she were being quite truthful. Only three nights spent in their new home, and already the cracks were showing. Molly and Susie were bickering, Martin was quite happy to spend hours in the stables grooming the horse but considered that gardening was beneath him, and Poppy kept disappearing. Poppy disappearing was nothing new, of course, but in Romsey that meant that she was at one of the neighbour’s houses, whereas here there were woods to get lost in, streams to fall into and, for all Caroline knew, cliffs to fall down and wild beasts to be attacked by. The countryside was a nerve-wracking habitat for three young women who had never lived anywhere but in a town, not to mention muddy. Never had she seen such a quantity of mud.
It would not have been so bad if Caroline had been able to sleep at night, but the soft bed, not shared with her sisters, was so unfamiliar that it kept her awake. And then there were the frightening sounds of the darkness — odd hoots and yowls and rustlings in the undergrowth, the wind howling round and rattling the windows, and Martin’s snores, audible even from the other end of the house as she lay fretfully awake.
Today had started badly, for Molly had let the kitchen fire go out. That meant that there was no hot water for washing,
and no coffee, either. Then breakfast was late, and when Martin returned from the village with their mail, there were three more bills, and a letter from one of Papa’s brothers wanting to know more about their legacy and peevishly querying why he had not been consulted on the matter, as the head of the Milburn family.
“Possibly because you have ignored us ever since Papa died,” Caroline muttered, tearing up the letter and hurling it onto the fire in disgust. “If he had ever offered us the least help in the past, I might have asked for his advice.”
“We had no need of his advice in this case,” Lin said. “We had Mr Stratton to help us, and Uncle Claud wouldn’t have wished to travel down from London, would he? I don’t know why you wanted to tell him anything about it, Caro.”
“Mere courtesy,” she said. “I shall not bother again.”
They were engaged in sorting through the multitude of items heaped up in the morning room. It was no easy task, and Caroline was already hot, dirty and longing for an opportunity to resume work on her lace again when there was a sharp rap on the front door.
“I’ll go,” she said eagerly, grasping the opportunity for a distraction.
A strange man stood there, respectably if drably dressed. In Romsey, Caroline could identify the profession or trade of everyone she met, but here she could not guess who the man might be. A farm worker of some sort, she supposed, by the mud caking his boots. She could recognise his expression, though, which was decidedly hostile.
“Miss Milburn?” His voice was local, she thought, but not well-educated.
“Yes. How may I help you?”
“You can help me, miss, by staying off his lordship’s land. I’ve strict instructions to shoot poachers on sight, and we wouldn’t want any misunderstandings, would we?”
“His lordship?”
He stared at her, as if astonished that anyone might not know who his lordship was. “Lord Elland,” he said, as if explaining to a child. “His lordship’s land begins just across the road, and you’d best keep off, if you know what’s good for you.”
“And your name?” Caroline said, trying to suppress the anger that rose inside her.
“Grison. His lordship’s head gamekeeper.”
“Well, Mr Grison, if you or any of your underlings mistake me or my sisters for poachers, then your eyes must be poor indeed. I don’t think poachers roam Lord Elland’s estates in long skirts and bonnets, do you?”
“What about your manservant, eh? What about him?”
“I am sure Martin is no poacher,” she said disdainfully.
“Aye, well… mebbe remind him. That’s all.” And without another word, he turned and stalked away, leaving Caroline in no very good humour.
Then, not half an hour later, she heard the steady clop of hooves on the drive. Looking out of an upper window, she saw another stranger arriving, with Poppy sitting before him on his horse.
Caroline flew down the stairs and flung open the front door. As she did so, Poppy raced past her into the house.
“Is that young woman in your charge?” said the man on the horse, his eyes hard as iron.
“She is my sister,” Caroline said.
“Then you should keep a closer watch on her,” the horseman said, his mount dancing beneath him, as if in a hurry to be away. “I almost ran her down in Corran Woods.”
“Then you were riding too fast or too carelessly,” Caroline said at once.
“I was no such thing,” he spat back. “That track is wide and open, perfect for a gallop. Your sister should be more aware of the possibility of a rider there.”
“Or a rider should be more aware of the possibility of someone afoot.”
His face reddened with anger. “She should not be there at all! Those woods belong to Lord Elland, and his gamekeeper is well armed to deter poachers, and perfectly willing to shoot trespassers. Tell your sister not to go there again.”
“I shall tell her no such thing!” Caroline said indignantly. “Lord Elland should not be permitting his gamekeeper to shoot anywhere likely to be used by local people. Do not defend him in such a strategy, if you please.”
For a moment, she thought he would explode, but then, with a great effort at civility, he said, “I beg your pardon, madam. My advice was intended to be helpful.”
He wheeled his horse, and took off down the drive, scattering gravel from his beast’s hooves as he went.
“Insufferable man!”
Caroline shut the front door with rather more force than was necessary. Nevertheless, she talked to Poppy and impressed upon her the need to keep away from Lord Elland’s land. A gamekeeper willing to shoot at anyone on his land was not something to be taken lightly.
~~~~~
APRIL
They had not been in the house three days when Molly found a couple of large fish outside the kitchen door. Two days later, it was a bag of rabbits, and then some pigeons. It was only on the fourth visit, a gift of more fish, that Martin managed to intercept the culprit and brought him to Caroline. He was a pleasant-faced young man, eyes shyly lowered, twirling his hat nervously in his hands. Since he carried a gun and various bags, just like Mr Grison, Caroline assumed he was another gamekeeper.
“This will not do, Mr… erm…”
“Carter, miss. Tim Carter.”
“Well then, Mr Carter, Mr Grison has warned us off his land and—”
“Oh — no, no! I work for His Grace, not Lord Elland. I’m one of the Valmont gamekeepers. All the Low Mead and the Hanging Woods are my responsibility… the whole southern end, in fact, and I’m allowed to make gifts if I want to. Not to everyone, mind, but you’re different.”
“Why are we—? Wait… Carter? Our grandmother was a Carter… the gamekeeper’s daughter. You’re a relation!”
“Yes!” He beamed delightedly. “Informally, of course, but that never mattered to us. I never met Great-aunt Lucy, but we talked about her and the babe she had by Mr Wishaw. He took good care of them, too, so there was never any bad feeling about it, not on our side, although he pretended not to know us.” He laughed. “But then he left the house to you! We must be second cousins… I think. My grandfather was brother to your grandmother.”
“That’s amazing. So a Carter is still the gamekeeper. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Carter.”
He grinned at her, willingly came in for ale and a chat, and in not much more than an hour they caught up with fifty years of family news.
Their earliest formal callers were the local clergyman and his wife, rather drably dressed, their clothes faded and carefully mended. Mr Christopher was a bluff and hearty man in his forties, while his wife was a quiet creature some years younger than her husband. He chatted easily about the village, the local tradesmen and the late Mr Wishaw. His wife said next to nothing, but there was a look about her that made Caroline suspect that she ruled the roost at home.
When he mentioned Mr Grison, Caroline pulled a face and said, “He warned us off Lord Elland’s land, and since we don’t want him shooting at us—”
“You need not fear Grison’s gun,” Mr Christopher said. “Lord Elland would never allow him to shoot wildly at people, not even poachers. It suits Grison to allow people to think he would, but you need have no alarm for your safety. Grison may seem unfriendly, but there is no harm in him.”
Caroline doubted that, but felt it polite to keep her thoughts to herself.
“How are you finding Wishaw’s servants? I was glad to hear you had kept them on.”
When Caroline told him about Martin refusing to work on the garden, Mr Christopher laughed. “He is not much of a one for hard work, but so long as you allow him to go down to the Wheatsheaf on a Saturday evening to meet all his cronies, he will serve you well enough. For the garden, you need a strong young man. Might I suggest my eldest son? Just the type of work he enjoys. Offer John a shilling a day, or even ninepence, and he will gladly scythe your lawns and dig over your kitchen garden for as long as you want. He helps out at the Starlingford
Home Farm from time to time, but it is seasonal work, and you know what young men of sixteen years are like — they have so much energy to burn that they need to be kept busy all the time. We should be very happy to offer his services to you for as long as you need him.”
Caroline was equally happy to accept, for she could see no other way to bring the garden back into some semblance of order.
The second caller, just a day later, was a Mrs Leatham, who arrived in a carriage complete with a footman on the back to deliver her card. ‘Mrs Ambrose Leatham, Starlingford’, Caroline read. She knew from the helpful vicar that the Leathams were one of the two important families of the neighbourhood, second only to Lord Elland, but she had not expected notice from either of them.
“Well, well,” she said to Lin as they stood in the hall examining Mrs Leatham’s calling card, the footman standing woodenly in the doorway. “Are we at home, do you suppose?”
Lin giggled. “I am not sure. What do you think, sister?”
“I think perhaps we might be, once we have got rid of these aprons.”
Poppy was not to be found, so only Caroline and Lin sat in the chilly parlour, the fire newly lit, to receive their visitor.
Mrs Leatham turned out to be a pretty young woman of not much above thirty, who offered condolences on the death of the grandfather they had never met, and enquired with minute interest into their arrangements at Bursham Cottage. She was not very interested in Lin’s plans for the garden, but their linens, plate and servants all came under her scrutiny, with a great many hints for the management of their household. This led without a pause for breath to her own family. She told them at once that she was her husband’s second wife.
“I was never blessed with children myself,” she said, “but I love my step-children just as much as if they were my own. I took the greatest pleasure in seeing the girls well settled with good husbands, and have always intended to do the same for the boys. Both Alfred and Benjamin were on the brink of matrimony when they died, and—”
The Lacemaker (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 2) Page 4