Stranger at the Dower House (Strangers Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  At least the house itself was in good shape, for he had had a great deal of work done on it when Catherine was alive. Or rather, when he had been able to draw on Catherine’s money. For a few years he had been rich, and so the roof had been fixed, a number of windows and shutters replaced, the kitchens improved and every room redecorated. He had just begun on the estate improvements when Catherine had died and the money had dried up, and now every year was, not a struggle exactly, but a matter of juggling competing requirements.

  Catherine… Talking to Louisa about his marriage and having to describe the circumstances of it with unblinking honesty led him inevitably to Malcolm. He had not thought about his brother a great deal lately, but occasionally some incident would remind him, and then all the old feelings would surge up. Not anger, not any more. He had raged at Malcolm at the time, but that had long since faded. He could not be angry, for he was the one who had won Catherine’s heart. He had won and Malcolm had lost.

  What he mostly felt was bewilderment. How could they have fallen out so spectacularly, two brothers who had been as close as twins when they were boys? With only a couple of years between them, and their sisters all older, they had fallen quite naturally into a unit of two against the world. They had done everything together, and since Malcolm was far cleverer than Laurence, they had marched in step through their education, too. They had never even had a difference of opinion, until they met Catherine and Malcolm had declared implacable war. When he found himself on the losing side, he had left, never to return, not even for Catherine’s funeral.

  Malcolm had never married, choosing instead to pursue a lowly career as a schoolmaster at Harrow. He was an intellectual, too, who maintained his links with Oxford. There were letters occasionally to mark his steady march through the halls of academia — an award, a paper published or a lecture given to some prestigious society. Not that he ever gave Laurence notice of the latter before the event, so there was never the opportunity to attend. It was merely notification. Look how well your brother is doing, he seemed to be saying, even though you stole the love of his life. Look how he advances in the world while you idle away your life in your country retreat.

  Malcolm… his brilliant, imaginative, handsome, amusing brother. Why on earth had Catherine not fallen head over heels in love with him? Every other woman did, and Laurence had never minded, for he admired Malcolm quite as much as they did. It was only natural that women should adore him. Yet Catherine had not. What had she thought of him, that month in Bath? Seeing the two brothers side by side, watching them compete to win her, what had been her thoughts? He had never considered the question before, for the answer was obvious — she had judged them both and settled her affections on Laurence. It was as simple as that.

  But Louisa had somehow made it complicated. ‘And you had no curiosity? Or perhaps you do not wish to know what she thought, and that is why you never asked her and have not read her diaries.’

  Now he wondered whether his easy assumptions were valid. What had Catherine thought about Malcolm… about Laurence himself? What had she thought of their feud? She had never, ever mentioned it, but she must have noticed, and therefore she must have had her own opinion of it. Yet he had no idea what that was.

  There was now but one possible way to find out, and that was to read her diaries. Of course, they might contain nothing but details of dress fittings, balls attended, travel details. ‘Paid morning calls on the Scrutons, the Bannisters and Lady Adlington… My new blue silk gown arrived today, needs some alteration about the shoulders… Outing to Wells, little sun, the company very dull.’ But then again, they might not. They might reveal her true thoughts. ‘Mr Malcolm Gage is very handsome, but Mr Gage is far more gentlemanlike and agreeable.’ Surely she must have thought so, or she would not have married him.

  He woke one morning determined to find out. He went through to Catherine’s bedroom and unlocked the davenport, withdrawing all her diaries, all nine volumes, taking them to his own room and laying them out in two lines on the small writing desk there. So exquisite, the embroidered covers! The earlier ones were a touch less refined, perhaps, but all of them were works of art. Picking up the first volume, he slowly opened the cover, and read the first line.

  ‘Today I am sixteen years old — a woman. My childhood is in the past, and yet my future is shrouded in darkness. I cannot know what my life will be. Will I be happy or merely contented or even miserable? Will I be a wife and mother, or live out my days with a spinster’s cap? Will I live a long life or short? Will there be regrets or will I be confident that I made the right choices? None of this is known except to God, but however it may be, I vow that every moment of it will be recorded here, and whether it be good or bad, exciting or dull, memorable or forgettable, every word of it will be true to my nature.’

  He closed the book, and set it back with its fellows, then made a minute adjustment so that it was precisely straight. Did he want to read on? Did he dare? With a sigh, he gathered them up and put them into a locked drawer of the desk, then went to walk the dogs.

  He had not gone half a mile before he stopped, considered, turned round and walked home again, the dogs whining their displeasure. He had opened the first diary and now the desire to read on gnawed at him, and would not be appeased. Inside, the dogs disappeared to their accustomed spot before the study fire, but Laurence returned to his bedroom, shut the door and sat down at the desk. Unlocking the drawer, he withdrew the first volume and began to read.

  It was exactly as he had expected, the musings of a young girl on first stepping out into the world. The morning calls, the gowns, the first evening engagements, the excitement of the first ball, mingled with the mundane, the duty letters, the endless hours practising at the instrument, the quiet evenings at home.

  But this was not what he wanted to read about. He skipped quickly over the first two volumes, and went straight on to the third.

  ‘7th February. Today we arrived in Bath, such a busy place! People everywhere, and all fearsomely fashionable. Mr Slythe says that Bath is full of quizzes, and it is true that we are greatly stared at. As we entered the hotel, a man standing outside raised his quizzing glass at me in the rudest manner! The York House Hotel is very elegant, and we are assured of every comfort. Poor Mama was quite knocked up by the journey, although we came only thirty two miles today. Mr Slythe said it was forty, and I do not contradict him, but I could read the mileposts perfectly well. Tomorrow we are to write our names in the Master of Ceremonies’ books at the Upper and Lower Assembly Rooms, for everyone must do so, Mr Slythe says, and then we shall visit the Pump Room so that Mama may drink the waters. My room is…’

  Laurence was not interested in rooms or hotels or dinners. He flipped straight over the page to the next day’s entry.

  ‘We entered the Pump Room, a well-appointed place—’ He chuckled at this casual dismissal of one of the wonders of Bath. ‘—which was crowded with a multitude of people moving around the room and chatting together in groups. It is horrid to know no one and not be able to exchange greetings with anyone. Again the quizzing glasses were much in evidence, and I was repeatedly scrutinised as I walked through the room. I held my head high, however, knowing my new gown to be very much à la mode. Mr Slythe insisted we all try the waters at least once, and I drank all of mine, although it was quite horrid. Mrs Fossett said she liked it, but then she never complains about anything. She is the timidest creature. And then the most amazing thing happened. I turned round and there was the handsomest man I have ever seen and he was staring straight at me, his eyes burning into mine. I have read in novels of such moments, and thought it all very fanciful, yet it has happened to me, to him, to us — that instant union of two souls that is impossible to deny. I lowered my eyes at once, but when I dared to look again, he was still there, still watching me, still mesmerised.’

  Laurence lowered the volume, his breathing harsh. Not for one second could he doubt that she spoke of Malcolm. Laurence’s own features were
passable, and he had never been afraid to look into a mirror, but no woman would ever describe him as the handsomest man she had ever seen. He knew he should put the diaries away, should lock them up and throw away the key, but he could not. It was as if he had no will of his own. He must read on, though it pierced him to the heart.

  There was no more on that day’s entry, so he quickly scanned the succeeding pages. ‘The handsome man was there again… he smiled at me. Oh, such a smile! Such warmth, such joy in his expression to see me again!… He was there again today and we spoke for the first time! He has a brother, who made himself known to Mr Slythe and was introduced to Mama and so I was allowed to make a circuit of the room with both of them, with Mrs Fossett in attendance, and could talk to my admirer. He has a strong, clear voice, and talked about the Romans and what Bath was like when they were here, which was far more interesting than the usual how-do-you-like-Bath conversation. The more I see of him, the more I like him, and his admiration for me blazes in his eyes whenever he looks at me, which is a great deal.’

  Laurence closed the book, too overwhelmed with grief to read on. ‘He has a brother…’ That was all he was to Catherine, Malcolm’s brother. He remembered that day clearly. He was the one who had made the approach, first to the courier to enquire who the ladies were and whether they might be amenable to an introduction, and then to Mrs Haywood and Catherine and the chaperon. Mrs Fossett. He had forgotten her name until he read it.

  “Do stroll about the room with Catherine, Mr Gage,” Mrs Haywood had said, smiling at him. “I have not the strength for it, so I shall sit here while I drink my medicine, but I would not see Catherine tied to my side all the time.”

  He had held out his arm and she had rested her hand upon it, and he had felt as grand as a lord with her beside him. Malcolm had walked on her other side, but Laurence had talked to her first, the disparaged how-do-you-like-Bath conversation. She had answered readily enough, her clear blue eyes gazing at him steadily. And then Malcolm had talked to her about the Romans, dull stuff, and she had answered him very freely, too, and in all honesty, looking back on it from sixteen years later, he could detect no difference in her manner towards either of them. There had been no sign then of the union of souls, and not by so much as a blush had she betrayed her stronger feelings for Malcolm.

  They had met every day after that, at first just at the Pump Room, and later at the Assembly Rooms for concerts and balls. After ten days, he had asked Mrs Haywood if he might talk to her privately, and he had poured out his heart — that he was in love, deeply in love, but he could not afford to marry without some money. He spoke of the house that would be his, and very soon, for his father could not live much longer, of his income and his position in society. She had smiled and told him the good news — that Catherine had one hundred thousand pounds from her father, and she approved his suit.

  “It will be for Catherine to decide,” she had said. “I will not force her hand if she dislikes the idea, and she is still young, Mr Gage. She is but eighteen years of age, and an innocent in the world. It may very well be that she will not wish to settle for the first eligible man to offer, but you may try to attach her, with my good will.”

  He flicked through the pages until he came to that day. Had she known of his visit? She did not mention it but one section jumped out at him.

  ‘Mama called me to her room for a serious talk before bed. I am to marry the brother, it seems. It is all arranged. His father has a fine estate in Shropshire and as the elder, it will all be his, and mine too. She is very pleased with me for succeeding sooner than we had dared to hope.’

  Nothing else. She did not even give him his name, he was still just ‘the brother’.

  It was time for breakfast, and then there were lessons for the children, and later a parish meeting to attend, which went on longer than expected. Truman was a prosy fellow, always determined to have the last word. Then dinner at the Drinkwaters, which was as tedious as usual. It was almost midnight before John had readied him for bed, and he was free to pick up the diaries again.

  This time, he settled down beside the fire with two candelabra, a glass of Cognac at his elbow, and began to read the whole section more carefully, weaving his own memories with Catherine’s. There were the outings in the curricle he had hired, the walks in Sydney Gardens, the evening concerts, the times he had danced with her, the two evenings he had been invited to dine with her party at their hotel, the latter especially memorable because Malcolm had not been invited.

  But then the diary began to record the secret meetings with Malcolm, seemingly by chance. At least Catherine thought them so — ‘We happened upon Malcolm walking along Milsom Street…. I was sketching the Royal Crescent when who should happen by but Malcolm…’ When had she begun to call him by his Christian name? He flicked back through the pages — almost at once, in fact. Within three days they had been on intimate terms, at least within the private confines of her diary.

  There were other memories, too, darker moments unknown to Catherine. While she sailed through her days in sunny mood, apparently enjoying the attentions of both brothers, behind the scenes there had been so much bad feeling. The first row was almost at once, on the second day. Malcolm had spelled out his intentions with relentless logic, and Laurence had just as relentlessly pointed out that he was the elder, the one responsible for rescuing the Grove from ruin, the one with the better right to court the heiress. After that, they could scarcely be together without arguing. Or rather, Malcolm had argued. Laurence had doggedly pursued his original strategy, slowly getting to know Catherine, and then gaining approval from her mother.

  That was the point at which the rows had exploded into something much worse, and Malcolm had dropped all pretence. From then on, it was war. Laurence had the approval of Mrs Haywood, but Malcolm had the force of his own personality and an arrogant disregard for anyone but himself. “She loves me,” he said, over and over. “She is mine.”

  Yet at the time, Laurence had been aware of no such emotion in Catherine. She met them both with equal pleasure, talked to both, danced with both without the slightest sign that she preferred one over the other, or either above the many other partners who led her onto the floor at a ball. Only now, reading her thoughts at the time could he see how much she had loved Malcolm.

  ‘He is the most splendid man in Christendom… he loves me beyond all reason, he says, and I cannot say that I feel any less for him… if only I could be his, and be so deeply loved for ever.’

  Almost every time they met in secret, Malcolm spoke of marriage, of persuading her mother, even of elopement. Laurence had been aware of none of it. While his brother had wooed her in hasty clandestine encounters, Laurence had courted her openly with her mother’s blessing and had eventually made his offer. And she had accepted him, with a pretty little speech about obligation and gratitude and regard. He had won.

  He turned to the page where she had recorded the events of that fateful day. There was but a single line.

  ‘Mr Gage proposed and I accepted him. Mama is pleased with me.’

  Nothing else.

  19: Of Happiness

  Louisa spent the day in the attic with Esther and Marie, and occasionally Sarah and her feather duster if an item was too coated in dust to be touched, sorting through the contents of the boxes. Every single item was brought out into the open, to be examined and set aside if there was any possibility that it might have belonged to Miss Labett, the dead governess.

  There was not much. Some hairbrushes and combs, cheap perfume and rouge, some paste jewellery, half a dozen gowns, a couple of bonnets and a few undergarments of such poor quality that Esther was shocked.

  “Why would anyone wear such a nightgown?” she said, holding up an item so thin that candle light was visible through it.

  “She saved her pennies for the outer garments,” Louisa said. “She was all show, Miss Labett was.”

  By the middle of the afternoon, she was satisfied that everything was co
rrectly identified and left it to Captain Edgerton to make what he could of it, but she had seen little that would be of help. The set of hairbrushes bore the engraved initials ‘DL’ but otherwise there was nothing to tell of Miss Labett’s history.

  Esther disappeared to the kitchen and Marie went off to do whatever a lady’s maid did, for Louisa had never enquired. What was she to do for the hour or so before dressing for dinner? After the dusty atmosphere of the attics, she was minded for some fresh air, and as she still wore her oldest clothes, she collected her gardening gloves and pruning shears, and began work on an overgrown bush in the shrubbery.

  She had not been working for long when a rustling in the undergrowth was followed by Kenneth’s inquisitive muzzle, his tongue lolling.

  “Well, boy, how kind of you to visit. Where are Ian and Julian today? Ah, Julian, there you are. And where is your master, eh? He cannot be far behind, I am certain.”

  The dogs snuffled happily round her feet, then bounded off through the shrubbery again, the sounds of their movement diminishing into the distance. Curious, she laid down her pruning knife and gloves, and set off in pursuit. It was not easy going, for the bushes towered above her head and made it hard to know in which direction she was travelling. She could not get seriously lost in her own garden, however, and once or twice she heard noises ahead which kept her on the right track. So it was that in a few minutes she emerged at the secret arbour, and there they all were, the dogs and their master.

  The dogs greeted her happily, but Laurence… her heart turned over in fear at the sight of him. He sat inside the arbour, elbows on knees, his head resting on his hands, the picture of utter dejection. He looked up at her approach and gave her a wan smile.

  “My dear Laurence, whatever is the matter? What has happened? Are you ill?”

  “No, no. Nothing of that sort. No great disaster, beyond my own stupidity,” he said, his tone dispirited.