She detailed every small change she made to the house — the colours chosen, the wallpapers and which supplier had the best quality, the furniture ordered, the work on the gardens. Then there were the calls made and received, the dinner engagements, the balls, routs and parties, the summer outings and the Christmas feasts. She enjoyed these, seemingly, noting the gown she wore for each one, and the way her hair was arranged. ‘My new pale blue silk with the demi-train much admired. Mr A stared at me all through dinner, and whispered in my ear that he thought the colour matched my eyes and that I looked like a cornflower he would like to pluck. Was asked to play three pieces after dinner.’
The months passed by and turned into years, and the relentless chronicle of Catherine’s life continued. Henrietta’s birth was a mere footnote — ‘A girl, healthy. The wet nurse is sent for.’ Laurence’s three week battle with a particularly virulent putrid fever, where even Dr Beasley had despaired, was ignored, noticeable only by the purely domestic nature of the diary entries. After his recovery, there was a return to visits and dinners and balls, but no mention of her family.
Gradually the awful truth dawned on him. There had been no growing love for him in Catherine’s breast. Her husband drew neither admiration nor respect from her. There was not even a sign of affection for her children. None of them were even worthy of mention.
Anguish gnawed at him with unbearable pain. How could he have been so deluded? Catherine had been the centre of his life, his beautiful, perfect wife, but to her, it was as if he did not even exist. None of them existed. She cared nothing for her husband or children.
He closed the book, curled into a ball on his bed and lay as if dead.
~~~~~
Mr Willerton-Forbes returned from Hereford with a satisfied twinkle in his eye.
“A most interesting expedition, Mr Gage,” he said, as Laurence greeted him in the hall. “Most interesting.”
Laurence swept him into his study, shooed a grumbling Edward out to get some fresh air, and put two glasses of Madeira on a small table set between two chairs. “Tell me all, Willerton-Forbes. I am minded for some interesting news.”
For answer, the lawyer produced a folded paper from an inner pocket. “This is a true copy of an entry in the Harstock parish register of burials.”
‘Elizabeth Anne Haywood, wife of John Haywood’, he read. “Mrs Haywood is dead? Oh, but— The date! This is years before I met Catherine. So the Mrs Haywood I met is a second wife?”
“Not quite.” Mr Willerton-Forbes’ smile widened. “The attorney you deal with there, Mr Turnbull, was unwell and could not see me, but I have talked to the parish clergyman and his sister. What I learnt was most interesting, Mr Gage.” He took a small sip of Madeira, then linked his hands across his ample stomach. “Mrs Haywood died when her daughter was eight years of age, but there was a governess, a Miss Fossett.”
“Miss Fossett? Catherine’s chaperon in Bath was a Mrs Fossett.”
“Indeed. The chaperon is Miss Fossett’s sister-in-law, who joined her at Myrtle House to assist with the child’s education. The father left the matter entirely to them, for he travelled about a great deal. He was a wool merchant — wool, and many other things. A bit of a dabbler, as one might say. Did you know that?”
“That he was in trade? Certainly. There was no secret about it, and it was of no consequence to me. It was always likely that I would be forced to accept a wife of that ilk.”
Another sip of Madeira, the glass set down with a sigh of satisfaction. “The two governesses seem to have been well-regarded locally, and the parson said that Miss Haywood grew up to be a very pretty-behaved girl, rather quiet, but docile. That was her father’s influence, for he believed women should be submissive. Despite her background, he wanted her to be ladylike in every way, beyond reproach.”
“She was certainly that,” Laurence said pensively. “It was her elegance and demureness that first drew me… after her great beauty, of course.”
Willerton-Forbes smiled. “Ah, yes, a diamond of the first water indeed. That was much mentioned. But misfortune struck Miss Haywood at the age of fifteen, when her father died. The will was read, everything was left to Miss Haywood, with the attorney and a banker as trustees, and the clergyman and his sister as guardians. There was nothing unusual about the will. Miss Haywood had no other relatives, and so the guardians and trustees agreed that Mrs and Miss Fossett should stay on to look after her until such time as she married. An attorney called Slythe joined the ladies at Myrtle House. He was some kind of relation, at least they called him a cousin, and they felt they needed a man in the house.” He raised his glass again. “And now the tale becomes rather… peculiar. Miss Fossett began to call herself Mrs Haywood.”
“What!” Laurence said, dumbfounded. “And had she married Haywood?”
“Almost certainly not. The late Mr Haywood would have included her in his will if it had been so.”
“Can she do that? Just call herself Mrs Haywood?”
The lawyer pulled a rueful face. “A lady may call herself whatever she wishes, so long as there is no underhand motive. She made no claim on the estate, which would have aroused great concern, and never herself mentioned a marriage. She simply called herself Mrs Haywood. And the oddest part of all was that Miss Haywood called her Mama, and spoke of her as her mother.”
“That is true, and I never suspected anything untoward when I met them all in Bath,” Laurence said. “This is quite beyond belief.”
“Oh, not that, Mr Gage,” Willerton-Forbes said sadly. “Never underestimate the human capacity for outrageous behaviour.”
“You are cynical, but perhaps as a lawyer you have seen the worst of humanity,” Laurence said. “What I cannot understand is why Mrs Haywood… I mean Miss Fossett would do such a thing. Was she deranged?”
“Far from it,” Willerton-Forbes said. “It was a very clever scheme. The two governesses had in their hands a very valuable property, an heiress with a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds, as well as the house. However, she had trustees who guarded that fortune assiduously, and once Miss Haywood married, it would be gone for good, and their comfortable lives likewise. So they hatched their scheme. The first priority was to get Miss Haywood away from her protective guardians and trustees.”
“So they went to Bath,” Laurence said.
“Indeed. It was not unreasonable, for the local gentry would have nothing to do with the daughter of a wool merchant, fortune or no, and Miss Haywood had to be found a husband. The guardians agreed, and the trustees advanced a sum for the project.”
“Then it was nothing to do with Mrs Haywood’s health. They went to Bath to snare a husband for Catherine and tie up the settlements to their benefit.” He recalled the words of Catherine’s diary on her betrothal — ‘She is very pleased with me for succeeding sooner than we had dared to hope.’ It had all been carefully planned. “I was very stupid,” he said in a low voice. “I suppose that is why I was chosen.”
“Not stupid, but naive, perhaps. Inexperienced in the world, and with no father to guide you. I have no doubt that Slythe was very persuasive where the marriage settlements were concerned. Probably he recommended a local attorney to advise you?”
“He did! An accomplice of his, no doubt. And insisting that the money be managed by a bank in Bath… to get it away from the oversight of the trustee, no doubt.”
“Most assuredly. I do not wish to alarm you but can you be sure the capital is safe?”
Laurence laughed. “You are cynical indeed! Most of it is perfectly safe in the funds, and the bank writes to me once a year to advise of the interest earned, and of the investments they have made. I have no reason to doubt the bank. But give me your honest opinion, Willerton-Forbes — is there anything that can be done about this?”
“Possibly. The settlement papers and your wife’s will refer to Mrs Eugenia Haywood, but there was no such person, and Miss Fossett has no claim whatsoever on you, none at all. You could make a case fo
r setting aside the terms of the will, on the grounds of false pretences. The English judiciary are very nice in their notions of what is due to the husband of an heiress, and most strongly disapprove of governesses who inveigle a share of their charge’s fortune. There is a more straightforward method, however. According to the will, you are the sole trustee for your daughter’s inheritance. You have the right to instruct the bank to make all future interest payments directly to you. That would leave Mrs Haywood to sue for the restitution of her income, if she dares. My principal concern just now is to ensure that the capital is secure, and that Slythe and the Fossett ladies cannot abscond with it. What do you say to a trip to Bath, Mr Gage?”
“Excellent idea. I am engaged to this affair at the Manor, but I can leave after that. What those three did was reprehensible, and must be stopped.”
“Those four, Mr Gage,” Willerton-Forbes said heavily. “Your wife must have been party to the deception, for it could not have been accomplished otherwise. I am afraid she must take her share of the blame.”
It was another chip in the pedestal upon which his perfect wife had stood for so many years. He had not known his wife at all. Such thoughts drove him back to the diaries, for he felt that surely there could be nothing more to distress him. More gloomily, if there were further miseries to be unleashed upon him, it was as well to get them over with. After dinner that night, therefore, he retired early to his bedroom and settled down to read, determined this time to reach the end and know the worst.
He had stopped reading some two years after Henrietta’s birth, the third anniversary of his marriage to Catherine. To celebrate, he had taken her to Bath for a week to see her supposed mother. The diaries mentioned the trip, but there was no reason given, and the descriptions of the joyful reunions did not quite match his memory of the event. Catherine had seemed pleased to see her friends again, but had greeted them with her usual serenity, he had thought. Yet the diary spoke of ‘…the greatest delight… such ecstasy to be together again… they make so much fuss of me that I feel greatly cherished… how shall I bear their loss when I leave this dear place?’ Even when they made their farewells, there was no sign on the surface of the turmoil within, and she had never invited them to Great Maeswood. The disparity was unsettling.
‘Malcolm has written to me. He still loves me and wants us to be together.’
The words jumped off the page at him, so that he almost stopped breathing in shock. He had written? They had been in touch? Quickly he read on, but she continued calmly, ‘It is impossible and so I shall tell him.’
Nothing else. He breathed again, aware of his rapid heartbeat, a sudden shaky feeling like a fever. Dear God, they had written to each other! Malcolm was estranged from the family, yet he had written to Catherine. He scanned the rest of the page, then the next and the next, flipping the leaves with trembling fingers, but there was no further mention. Gradually his racing heart slowed.
Then another mention. ‘I have seen him! He was in Market Clunbury, just across the street as I came out of Parker’s. He made no attempt to speak to me, merely watching me. I lowered my head and hurried away.’
A few weeks later there was another letter, which she copied out in all its anguished, lovelorn glory. Then another sighting, in a village as she drove through in the barouche. Twice more he was in Market Clunbury, and once in Shrewsbury, in the abbey, bizarrely, for Malcolm had always had to be dragged to church by main force. Love, it seemed, was even enough to overcome his aversion to the Christian faith.
Edward’s birth was marked with the same brevity as his sister’s — ‘A son, very skinny but noisy.’ Almost at once there was a flurry of letters from Malcolm, lovingly transcribed by Catherine. ‘I burned it, as usual’, she said of one such. But then she had replied. ‘Three pages, closely written, and even that was insufficient to express all that I feel for him, my life’s true love, my one sweet darling. If only we could be together! If only there was a way!’
Almost a year before she died, it seemed that she had found a way after all. Malcolm began to appear in the woods, and Catherine stole out to meet him. Every page of the diary was filled with her ecstasies over meeting him again, with his words of love, the way he looked at her, the tender way he held her hand or stroked her cheek. There were stolen kisses, passionate embraces and tears of despair. Laurence could hardly believe that this ardent woman was the demure wife who never raised her voice and never showed the least emotion to him or the rest of the world. Presumably everyone must have some inner turbulence from time to time, well hidden by outward restraint, but the disparity here was overwhelming.
Eventually the inevitable happened. ‘We are united. I am his at last!’ she crowed.
Laurence was scarcely aware of the tears on his cheeks. But after the tears came anger, as the pedestal upon which his angelic wife had stood finally came crashing to the ground. Catherine could not have been further from an angel. She had betrayed her husband, her children and her marriage vows, spoken before God, and Malcolm had been her seducer. His own brother! They had quarrelled over her, as they had quarrelled fleetingly over many things in their boyhood, but to discover that Malcolm had betrayed him so utterly was unbearable. He was unspeakably wicked. They were both wicked.
And the worst of it was that the child, the third child whose birth had killed her, might not have been his at all, but Malcolm’s. The pain of it lanced through him, leaving him groaning in anguish.
Laurence hurled the diary against the wall, buried his face in his hands and uttered a growl of pure rage.
22: A Ball At The Manor
The next morning was Saturday, and the carriage was ordered for ten o’clock sharp to convey them all to Cloverstone Manor for the annual ball, that is, Laurence, Viola and Mr Willerton-Forbes. Henrietta and Edward had already left, together with the servants and luggage, for there were special events for the children, as well.
Laurence was in no mood at all for company, and might well have cried off had it not been for the prospect of seeing Louisa there and perhaps having an opportunity for some private conversation with her. She, he knew, would listen to him uncritically and perhaps bring some balm to his troubled mind. He had not seen her for some days, not even walking the pups, for the groom seemed to have taken on that task, and he was growing anxious for her. The Deerhams had at last gone home to Shrewsbury, only to be replaced by an even worse guest, Lady Mountsea. Viola had contrived to call on the baroness within two hours of her arrival, but when Laurence had asked how Louisa was bearing up under her deluge of visitors, she had looked at him in amazement.
“Bearing up? Why, she is perfectly delighted to be so honoured, naturally. Dr Deerham is such a distinguished gentleman, and Lady Mountsea is so gracious and affable, I never saw anything like it. One would never suspect her humble origins. Mrs Middlehope must be so happy to have her sister-in-law with her again.”
Laurence saw that he would not know the truth until he could see Louisa for himself.
Squire Winslade was his usual genial self, and received them in the Great Hall, where all the guests were gathering. Cloverstone Manor was a fine house, and the Great Hall was magnificent, but it had a somewhat neglected air about it. The marble floor tiles were stained in places, the beautiful painted ceiling faded and the flags and shields that adorned the walls were grey with dust. Still, there was a good fire blazing and bowls of arrack and rum punch, which was, not surprisingly, where Laurence encountered Louisa. His first lift of the spirits at the sight of her was immediately banished by shock. So pale and strained! She had a haunted look, and the reason was standing beside the fire, loudly relating some detail of her journey from Durham to a glassy-eyed Susannah Winslade.
“How are you?” Laurence whispered to Louisa over the punch bowl.
Her face lit up at the sight of him. “Oh, I am so glad you are here! Shall we hide behind the suit of armour and get quietly foxed?”
“That sounds like a splendid plan. Did everything arrive
safely from Durham?”
She pulled a rueful face. “Not quite. I have my pianoforte at last, but the books—! No one seemed able to work out which were mine and which belonged to Roseacre. I left a detailed list of which shelves were mine, but there has been some reorganisation, seemingly, and everything has got muddled up.” She sighed. “I shall get them all eventually, I am sure.”
“But you have your man-cook, I trust?”
“Yes! Last night we had sautéed pullet with a foie gras sauce and apricot soufflé. It was wonderful! Oh, good day to you, Miss Gage. I am so sorry that my visitors kept me away from your card party this week, but it was their last evening with me. I shall certainly be there next Tuesday.”
“Oh… oh, yes. You will not mind if I whisk my brother away for a moment, I am sure? Laurence, will you come and translate the Latin inscription over the fireplace for Lady Mountsea?”
Louisa smiled and said all that was proper, but the strained expression was back on her face, and Laurence himself was irritated by the interruption. A whole week since he had seen Louisa, and she was as pleased to see him as he to see her, yet Viola was set on ripping him away from her side.
“Must it be this very minute, Vi?” he said, a little more sharply than he had intended.
Viola looked startled and then dismayed. “Oh, well… but Lady Mountsea, Laurence… Surely…?”
Stranger at the Dower House (Strangers Book 1) Page 22
