Stranger at the Dower House (Strangers Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  Across the road, however, was a pair of gateposts, each topped with a lion sitting on its haunches, one paw resting on a ball. The words ‘LOWER MAESWOOD GROVE’ were engraved on them. Beyond the gateposts, bereft of gates, the drive wound away enticingly between neatly trimmed shrubs, but until she knew the owner, it was best not to venture there. Happily, to one side was a narrow lane, just wide enough for a horseman or a small cart, and that looked perfect for a secluded walk.

  She set off at a brisk pace, at first enshrouded in trees and thick hedges on both sides, but after a few minutes gaps in the hedges gave her a view of her surroundings. To one side, the chimneys of the great house were just visible above encircling trees. The chimney stacks suggested a Renaissance style of perhaps two hundred years ago. On the other side was a wide field affording a clear sight of the church and a neat parsonage, and the clustered houses and cottages of the village.

  About half an hour further on, roofs and chimneys ahead alerted her to another community, and here she turned back. The clear, cold air and the exercise were invigorating. She had been right, then, to choose a country setting for her new home. It was not, of course, comparable to her own sweet garden and its familiar paths and trees and flowers — specimens she had planted with her own hands and loved almost as dearly as children. Still, at least she could still enjoy the clear air and open spaces to which she was accustomed. A town home, however practical, would not have suited her nearly as well for her present purpose.

  As she passed the field on her return, she saw a man there, engaged in the time-honoured tradition of throwing sticks for his three dogs to return to him. She stopped, leaning on the gate to enjoy the scene. It soon became clear that the man was working his way across the field in her direction, and it was not long before the most energetic of the dogs bounded towards her, scrabbling under the gate to sniff around her feet.

  “Well now, my fine fellow, you like my boots, do you?” she said, rubbing his ears gently. “What a handsome chap you are indeed. And here are your brothers to see me, too. Good day to you — to all of you. Well, how friendly you are!”

  Their owner arrived moments later, a little out of breath from rushing after them. He was a pleasant-faced man of around forty, and it was impossible to tell his rank from his clothes, for he wore exactly the sort of good quality but worn country clothes that Ned had chosen when he walked the dogs, that she had joked made him look like a gamekeeper.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Kenneth, heel, boy. Julian, here boy, at once.”

  Not a gamekeeper, then. Definitely gentry, by his accent. “Do not apologise, sir. Your pointers have provided me with a wonderfully nostalgic moment, for my husband always had two or three of them about him. This one in particular — Kenneth, is it? Ned had one just like it, exactly that colour. I could almost imagine myself looking at Jupiter now, except that he died… oh, seven or eight years ago now. Lovely dogs, sir. I envy you.”

  “There is a fellow who breeds them, over Woollercott way. Would you like me to let you know when next there are pups to be had?”

  “I should like that very much.” A dog! She missed Ned’s dogs, which had been banished after his death. She would have a dog… or maybe two. “Dogs are better company than people, very often.”

  He smiled, so that his eyes lit up with a mischievous twinkle. “Very true,” he whispered.

  As if at some unseen signal, the dogs suddenly took off across the lane, before disappearing into the grounds of the great house.

  The man laughed. “They can probably hear the boy singing in the stables. He only ever sings hymns, and when he gets to Rock of Ages, they know it is feeding time.”

  “What an excellent arrangement,” she said, much struck. “It should be employed for humans as well as beasts, I believe. The butler could give a rousing rendition of Praise to the Lord when announcing dinner.”

  “Of course, the choice of hymn might be an indication of the quality of the meal,” he said solemnly. “One would be suitably prepared on hearing Oh God, Our Help In Ages Past.”

  Louisa burst out laughing. “Oh dear! Yes, indeed.”

  “And now I must join my sister for breakfast, or else I will be eating in the stable yard with the dogs. Enjoy your walk, Mrs Middleton.”

  With a smile and a wave, he hopped onto the gate, up and over the other side, and would have been gone in a moment. Quickly Louisa cried, “Middlehope, but you have the advantage of me, sir. May I not know your name?”

  “You will find it out soon enough,” he called back, laughing. And then he was gone.

  Louisa had no doubt he was right. In such a small village, it would not take her many days to meet everyone of consequence, so she made her way home and tried not to think about the mysterious gentleman with his dogs.

  She summoned Marie and allowed herself to be readied to face the world. Today was a day of inspection of her new domain, so she kept on her old, plain gown in case of dust and dirt. There was yet an hour before her usual breakfast time, so she busied herself first with a tour of the nether regions, which were depressingly empty of supplies. There were two bays filled with coal, by the generosity of the Hall, and a few boxes of candles, but no staples like flour, eggs or vegetables, and not so much as a single stray bottle of wine in the large wine cellar. She would have to manage for now with the brandy she had brought with her.

  Her inspection was interrupted several times by the arrival of tradesmen hoping for her custom. She took all their names, and the free samples of their wares, and told them she would send orders very soon. Then she breakfasted on tea and the remains of the cherry cake, before settling down in her study — an echoing room containing only a desk, a chair and an empty book case — to begin her lists of essential purchases. Having always lived in well-run houses, she had never before encountered the problem of stocking a house from scratch. It was rather daunting.

  The door knocker sounded, followed soon after by the measured tread of William, the footman. Then female voices in the hall. She sighed. Callers, so early in the day! The voices and footsteps disappeared into the drawing room, and a tentative knock on the study door was followed by William’s head.

  “Sorry, mum. It’s a Miss Gage and a Miss Beadley… Beagley… something.” He looked at the cards he held in his hand. “Beasley. I put them in the back parlour, if that’s all right. Shall I light the fire, mum?”

  Louisa smiled, and held out her hands for the cards, scanning them quickly. “What were you before you came to me, William?”

  “Under groom at Edgecombe Manor, mum, but Mr Jarrold, what’s coachman there, said I were tall enough to go for a footman.”

  “So you are, and quick enough to learn the job, I am sure. Firstly, I am always ‘madam’, not ‘mum’. Secondly, that room is the drawing room, not the back parlour. Thirdly, always present cards to me on a silver salver… hmm, I shall have to find one of those. And yes, always light the fire if it is cool enough for one. If I have a fire in here or in the dining room, then you should always light a fire for visitors.”

  “Sorry, mum…madam.”

  She chuckled. “You will get the hang of it, William. Now then, stand up straight, shoulders back… ah, much better. Always remember that you are a footman now, and not an under groom any longer. So lead the way to the drawing room, and open the door for me.”

  Two ladies of middle years awaited her. Miss Gage was a spare woman nearer to fifty than forty, dressed in a severe style with no concession to fashion or, it had to be confessed, to good taste. Miss Beasley was a few years younger, her gown well-worn, but its outdated style partially concealed by feminine little frills. She had an anxious air and said little, beyond echoing her friend’s greetings.

  Miss Gage explained at some length about the contents of the basket they had brought — apples, some bottled plums, sugared almonds and preserves, but no wine — and then said, “Now, Mrs Middlecombe… Middleton, since—”

  “Middlehope,” Louisa said, smiling.
“It is an awkward name, and often confused, but it is ‘hope’ rather than ‘combe’ or ‘ton’ or ‘wich’. I am often addressed as Middlewich, for some reason, but that is a town in Cheshire, not me.”

  “Ah. I beg your pardon. Now then, I understand your cook will not arrive until next week — when do you expect her?”

  “Monday, I hope.”

  “Monday. Excellent. We have drawn up a rota, you see. You were at the Hall last night, and tonight you will dine with my brother and me at the Grove, and if you wish you may stay for the card party afterwards, but everyone will understand if such occasions are a little tame for you.”

  That was busy, to be organising on her behalf, as if she could not survive on bread and cheese for a week. Bother, she had forgotten to bring any cheese. She had forgotten a great many things, and now she was dependent on the charity of her neighbours. How galling. “I should be delighted,” she said politely. “I enjoy card games of all varieties.” A card party… was this one of the card parties Miss Saxby had mentioned? Miss Gage… sherry and a cold supper, she recalled.

  “Oh! Oh, how delightful!” Miss Gage trilled. “We might manage four tables, if all our regulars come. How splendid! And then on Wednesday you will dine with the Andersons, Thursday with Phyllida and her brother. He is the physician, you know.” Louisa thought rapidly — Miss Beasley… ratafia and a hot supper. “Friday is with the Drinkwaters, although you will not get a good meal there, I warn you now. Mrs Drinkwater tries to economise with meat, but that never answers. Then on Saturday it will be Lady Saxby at the Hall again, unless the squire steps in, but he rarely entertains at this time of year. And so on. We will make sure you are well taken care of until your cook arrives.”

  “How very kind you are,” Louisa said. “I cannot express my gratitude. So tonight I shall be with you and your brother. How charming! I look forward to meeting him.”

  “Oh, but you have met him already,” she chirped. “He told me he encountered you this morning while he had the dogs out on the Glebe. Yes, you already know my brother Laurence.”

  Laurence Gage. It had taken precisely three hours to put a name to the man with the dogs.

  3: The Wine Cellar

  Laurence had not thought much about the widow since the unexpected meeting that morning, except to be amused that she was not elderly and stout, as he had imagined. It had taken no great perception to work out who she was. Every coming and going in the village was known to Viola and reported over the dinner table at the Grove, and the unknown lady out walking could be no other.

  Viola had been quite cross with him for meeting her before she had, and he had endured an uncomfortable half hour over breakfast while she enquired with minute attention to detail into every circumstance of the meeting. Laurence could tell her nothing to the point, except that Mrs Middlehope was ladylike, around thirty years of age and well dressed.

  “Well dressed? What does that mean? Expensive? Fashionable? Elegant?”

  Laurence pondered that with a frown. “No,” he said eventually.

  Viola gave a huff of annoyance. “And is she beautiful or plain?”

  Another long pause to consider the point dispassionately. “Neither. Just… ordinary.”

  “But respectable?”

  “How can one tell?”

  “Really, Laurence! I see I shall have to wait until I meet her for myself.”

  “Much the best plan, my dear,” he said equably, turning back to the book he had propped open on the table.

  Naturally, Viola bustled off straight after breakfast to discover what she could about the newcomer, to share her disapprobation of Laurence’s lack of information and to visit the lady herself. Her report when she returned was not entirely favourable.

  “Her footman is a bumbling yokel, and she did not seem at all pleased at the trouble to which we have gone to take care of her while she settles in.”

  “She displayed no gratitude?” Laurence said, surprised.

  “Oh… well… she said she was grateful, but only in the mildest terms. I thought she would be more… effusive. But she seems to be respectable enough.”

  “How can one tell?” he said, just as he had before. It was a mystery to him how ladies could divine each other’s characters at a glance.

  “One just knows. Mind you, one can never be too careful with widows. She did not mention her husband to you, I suppose?”

  “Only that he liked dogs, so he must have been a sound fellow. What did you think of her person? Fashionable? Elegant? Beautiful?”

  “She is nothing special,” she said with a sniff. “Quite dowdy, I thought her. Nothing like dear Catherine.”

  He smiled. “Then we are in agreement. An ordinary woman.”

  ~~~~~

  As soon as Mrs Middlehope entered the drawing room that evening he saw his mistake. She was not in the least ordinary, or dowdy either. Unlike her rather down-at-heel appearance that morning, everything about her now spoke of expensive good taste, from the long silk shawl to her delicately embroidered slippers. A velvet gown the colour of ripe peaches draped over an admirably womanly figure, and neat curls framed a face that now seemed so far from ordinary that he felt his eyebrows lift in surprise.

  “We meet again, Mr Gage,” she said with an amused smile, her dark eyes twinkling merrily at his discomfiture.

  “Indeed,” he said, momentarily almost lost for words.

  “You look very different, dressed for the evening,” she said, chuckling. “I wondered if you were the gamekeeper when I first saw you, but now I see that you are indeed a gentleman. My husband was exactly so.”

  “Ah…” he said, wondering how on earth he was supposed to respond to such an opening. He could hardly tell her that she, too, had looked rather shabby on her morning walk.

  With a laugh, she made the point herself. “And so am I — oldest clothes for walking in the mud, and save the finery for evening.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to the children, waiting patiently to be introduced. “And who have we here?”

  “Oh… my daughter, Henrietta. She is fifteen, and Edward here is twelve.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Gage, Master Gage,” she said gravely, as the children made their courtesies. Turning to Laurence, she said, “Is Mrs Gage here at present?”

  “My wife died nine years ago,” Mr Gage said, assailed by the familiar wash of grief, still just as sharp as ever. That pain would never leave him.

  Before their guest could say anything, Viola said hastily, “You do not mind if we dine en famille, Mrs Middleton… Middlecombe? Only we have no tutor or governess just now, and Laurence does not like the children to eat with the servants. It is an indulgence, of course, but—” She broke off with a slight shrug and a glance in Laurence’s direction, as if to say, ‘You see how it is — their father spoils them’.

  “Middlehope, and I have always felt that children should be with their family as much as is possible. Tutors and governesses are not at all the same, are they?” Mrs Middlehope said, with a smile at the two. “Do you have your lessons at home, or is there a school nearby?”

  It was Henrietta who answered. “Papa teaches Edward, because he is too clever for school.”

  “Gracious!” Mrs Middlehope said gently. “I have never met a boy who was too clever for school before.”

  “He speaks four languages,” Henrietta said proudly. “Latin, Greek, Italian and French. All the men in the family are pol… poly…”

  “Polyglots,” Edward said.

  “That is very clever indeed,” Mrs Middlehope said. “And what about you? I daresay you are too old for lessons now.”

  “Oh no, Papa says that ladies must have informed minds, so I study history and geography and philosophy and literature with him, and Aunt Viola is trying to teach me the accomplishments of a lady.”

  Laurence had to smother a laugh.

  Viola, who firmly believed that children should be silent except when reciting their prayers, said sharpl
y, “Trying is very much the appropriate word. How many times have I told you not to monopolise the conversation, Henrietta?”

  “Oh, but the fault is mine, for I asked the questions,” Mrs Middlehope said mildly. “What a lovely house you live in. Is it Jacobean?”

  The discussion of the Grove occupied them until dinner and through most of the first course. Laurence was seated beside their guest, who had Edward on her other side, separating her from conversation with Viola. He knew that it fell to him, therefore, to talk to her. That was difficult, for the question uppermost in his mind, what an exotic flower like Mrs Middlehope was doing in sleepy Great Maeswood, was not one which could be asked directly.

  “You are from Durham, I understand, Mrs Middlehope?” he said.

  “My husband’s family lives near that city, but my father’s estate was in Hertfordshire.”

  “Was?”

  “He has been dead for more than ten years. Some cousins inherited, but I have not been back there since I married.”

  “Do you not miss it?” Laurence said gently. “When you have grown up in a place, the roots can be very deep and it can be a wrench to leave behind the familiar sights and sounds. I came to the Grove every summer as a child, moved here when I was ten years old and cannot now imagine living anywhere else.”

  “For you, perhaps, such an attachment was possible. No doubt your own son will grow just as attached to his home, and be just as reluctant to leave it. For a daughter, though, putting down roots and developing a deep attachment to any place is a dangerous undertaking. One grows up knowing that one will eventually marry and move away. Fortunately for me, my father did not inherit until I was twelve years of age, and we had lived in three different houses before that, so I never put down any roots. Since the estate was entailed in the male line, I had no expectation of continuing to live there. Mr Gage, this is an excellent claret. Do you have a local vintner? My wine cellar is entirely empty and I should very much like to fill it with wine of this quality. My father-in-law kept an excellent cellar which I greatly miss.”