Sweet Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 20)

by Hamilton Crane

  After she had settled into the familiar rhythm she allowed her gaze to focus beyond her own palely convalescent image to that of her husband, propped against a mound of pillows with his nose buried deep in Under Drake’s Flag. It seemed a shame, in a way, to disturb him, but ...

  She coughed and said, “George.”

  Major-General Sir George Colveden (baronet, Knight Commander of the Bath, holder of the Distinguished Service Order, Justice of the Peace) turned a page. He and his friend Admiral Leighton shared a devotion, nurtured in boyhood, to the works of G. A. Henty. Secondhand shops and jumble sales occasionally provided Meg Colveden with another volume for her husband’s still-growing collection: the complete set he would have loved as a child had failed to materialise in those far-off days. When a chance remark advised the Buzzard that the general had acquired In Freedom’s Cause for Christmas, the naval proposed to the military man a short-term exchange for their mutual edification and delight. No doubt the ginger beard was at this moment bristling with just such excitement as did the toothbrush moustache.

  But ... “George, do listen.” Her ladyship, having reached one hundred strokes, tripped in her slippered feet lightly across the floor and climbed into bed beside one who barely noticed her presence, so thrilling were the adventures of Sir Francis and his crew.

  “George,” said Lady Colveden, this third time waiting until the end of a chapter. Sir George, with a grunt, looked at her vaguely from a distance of four centuries. “George, have you noticed anything about Nigel over the past few days?”

  “Nigel?” The baronet blinked at the wardrobe, as if expecting to see the form of his son and heir materialising from behind its mahogany bulk. “What about him?”

  “I think he’s met a girl.” Sir George blinked again. “You know what he’s like when he has,” enlarged her ladyship. After a moment, Sir George nodded. Nigel in love—a state into which young Galahad Colveden was all too prone to tumble upon the slightest provocation—exuded an air of suppressed distraction by which nobody who knew him well was fooled for long.

  “Can’t say I’ve noticed,” said Sir George as his wife, cuddled under the eiderdown, waited. “Mind’s been on other things,” he said, as if she hadn’t known. “Blasted weather, for one. If the ground doesn’t dry out soon—”

  “George, please. I have enough ploughing at mealtimes, and if I hear the word ‘hedging’ once more I shall scream.” Ten dainty aristocratic toes kicked at the eiderdown and let in a blast of cold, emphatic air. “You and Nigel do nothing but moan about the weather—or rather, you do.” Her ladyship smiled. “That’s what first made me wonder, because Nigel hasn’t moaned half as much as you since the night of the darts match.”

  “Darts?” The baronet frowned, then grinned. “Cupid, you mean. Well, high time the boy settled down. Make him a full-blown partner. Save buying spoons.”

  Lady Colveden sighed and ignored this ingenious suggestion. “No, not Cupid. The match at the George, when Murreystone were such bad losers and Constable Potter had to phone for reinforcements. I think he met her there.”

  “Potter?” Sir George, whose preferred pub game was dominoes, had drifted most of the way back to Drake. “Respectable married man. Can’t see Ned Potter, of all people, carrying on with a Murreystone girl. Nobody else from Plummergen either, come to that.”

  Lady Colveden let out an exasperated little cry. It was true that PC Potter (husband to Mabel, father of Amelia) was as unlikely a target for illicit passion as Nigel was likely for the licit; it was likewise true that no Plummergen male who valued village tradition would ever court a Murreystone maid. The legendary feud had been in full documented swing by the time of the Civil War, was believed to have flourished during the Wars of the Roses, and was thought to date from the ninth-century invasion of Romney Marsh by marauding Danes, when Murreystone (claimed Plummergen) had refused to go to the aid of Plummergen five miles away—or, as Murreystone still insisted, when Plummergen had made such refusal.

  It was true: but it hadn’t been what she’d meant. She thought. “George,” exclaimed Lady Colveden, popping up from under the quilt, “you don’t think that’s why he hasn’t told us about her?”

  “Who?” enquired Sir George absently as he turned another page. “What?”

  “Nigel!” cried his wife, then winced in case her cry had reached beyond the bedroom wall to the ears of her sleeping son. “Nigel,” she repeated quietly, wrapping the eiderdown around her shoulders. “No, somebody would have told us if he had. Besides, I’m sure he never would,” she reasoned, nestling into the pillows for reassurance. “He’d know it wouldn’t work ... unless both of them moved away from here.” She stifled a yawn. Sir George took no notice. “Post Restante for letters,” she went on dreamily. “An ex-directory telephone number ... an assumed name ...”

  “Name?” As his wife fell asleep, Sir George woke up. “Tina ... Something.” He continued to take no notice as her ladyship’s eyes flew open. “Pretty girl. Red hair. Staying at the George: hasn’t been too good recently.”

  Lady Colveden experienced the conflicting emotions of irritation that her spouse had apparently known all along and hadn’t told her and concern for the welfare of her only son. “She’s been ill?”

  “Run down, they tell me.” Sir George huffed through his moustache. “No surprise, living in London. Do her good to have some fresh air and honest rations.” He turned to twinkle at the startled face on the pillow beside him. “Bit too thin for my taste, of course.”

  The implied compliment was ignored. “Do you mean you’ve actually met her? And never told me? Honestly, George.”

  “Not our business, m’dear. If Nigel wants us to meet, he’ll arrange it. Friend of Miss Seeton’s,” he added as her ladyship shook her head for this masculine obtuseness. “Bumped into them on the canal bridge, sketching. Girl’s a model.” He strained to recall exactly what aesthetic composition Miss Seeton had been attempting to describe. “Wrong time of year, she said. No flowers.” He frowned. “Tina ... Miller? Doesn’t sound right—though she did say the hair was perfect.”

  “Oh, George, I wish you’d paid more attention. Flowers? And what has her name to do with her hair? But never mind,” said her ladyship happily, sinking back under the bedclothes with a smug look on her expressive countenance. “I really ought to call on Miss Seeton to thank her for sending such kind messages while my cold was so bad and for letting Martha change her day to help in the house. I’m not infectious any longer, and think how rude she’d think me if she saw me drive past tomorrow without stopping ...”

  Five minutes later, Sir George finished another chapter. “Never do to be rude,” he agreed, with another twinkle; but Lady Colveden was fast asleep, her lips curved in a smile.

  “An attempt—and I fear a poor one—at something in the spirit of Millais,” explained Miss Seeton, blushing for her artistic presumption as she modestly displayed (the hostess will always follow her guest’s conversational lead) the most recent pages of her sketchbook. “Ophelia, you know, except that I thought before she drowned—reaching out to hang her flower garlands on the overhanging branch, except of course that there is no tree. But far safer to balance on the bridge than on the bank, with the grass so very slippery after all the rain. And her hair is quite beautiful—as, indeed, is she.”

  “So George says,” said Lady Colveden, adding ingenuously: “And I gather Nigel thinks so, too, though he’s hardly said a word to us, of course. She sounds a nice girl. Do you think she would be offended if I invited her to tea one afternoon before she goes back to Town?”

  “I think,” said Miss Seeton after a moment, “she would be delighted.” How much could she say without being thought interfering; without betraying a confidence? “But perhaps, plain rather than chocolate biscuits and fruitcake,” she said, “if I may make the suggestion. She has no plans to return to London just yet, as far as I know—though there is, of course, no reason why she should inform me of such plans—but chocolate is no
t one of her favourites, I do know that.”

  Tina had come on wonderfully since her first encounter with Miss Seeton’s crisp common sense, though the cure was not yet complete. She no longer drooped, but held herself erect as she walked and risked the occasional smile when hailed by passing Plummergenites as she waited at the bus stop. The Murreystone darts match had been a turning point. Charley Mountfitchet, fearing disturbance to his guests, had warned both Miss Holloway and Mrs. Ogden that if they wished to dine off trays in private, he would be happy to arrange room service to suit their convenience, provided they didn’t leave it until too late to tell him. Mrs. Ogden, thanking him with a laugh, had soon settled for sandwiches at the bar. Speaking, she said, for herself, she found things a little on the quiet side, even for somebody close to retirement age. She had always been one to enjoy a bit of liveliness once in a while.

  Tina, faced with the same choice, had hesitated. A meal in her room, away from watchful eyes guessing how much, or how little, she ate, was very tempting ...

  “You’d be putting us to no trouble,” Charley assured her, thinking her hesitation due to courtesy. “It’s what we’re here for—and we grudge no extras for any friend of Miss Seeton’s, o’ course.”

  Miss Seeton’s new friend blushed and remembered the gentle scolding of her mentor. “I’ll ... eat downstairs, thank you,” she said, and felt that she had overcome another obstacle on the road to recovery.

  It was inevitable that Tina’s path should cross that of Nigel Colveden, she being a beautiful young woman and he an always susceptible young man. Tina was leaving the dining room to take a final stroll before retiring upstairs to contemplate the events of the day: Nigel was huddled with a few cronies by the reception desk, discussing where no Murreystone ears could eavesdrop Plummergen’s last-minute tactics and strategy. Tina’s glorious hair gleamed richly gold in the light of the chandelier; Nigel caught his breath. Their eyes met ...

  It was inevitable that Nigel, driving to Brettenden the next day and seeing one of the George’s guests at the bus stop, should offer her a lift. The guest to whom he was so quick to make this offer was not—although they had met and chatted in the public bar the previous night—Mrs. Ogden ...

  “I believe he took her out to dinner the day before yesterday,” Lady Colveden told Miss Seeton over the teacups. “He tried to give us the impression it was an ordinary Young Farmers’ night, but you know what Nigel’s like when there’s a girl involved.” Miss Seeton, smiling, nodded without speaking. Could there be anyone in Plummergen ignorant of Nigel’s lovelorn likeness? “With my cold,” said her ladyship, “I suppose I haven’t been paying as much attention as I ought, although as George says, Nigel is old enough to know his own business.” She sighed. “And I’m a nagging, nosy mother to want to know—oh, it’s kind of you to disagree,” she added as Miss Seeton uttered a muted protest, “but I am, really.” She giggled, then sighed. “I can’t help wondering if it’s more serious than usual. You know how George always teases the poor boy whenever a new girlfriend appears on the scene.” Miss Seeton achieved another silent, smiling nod. “Well, unless it’s been out of deference to my convalescent nerves and I haven’t heard him, I don’t believe he’s said a word. Don’t you think that must mean something?”

  Miss Seeton, who had little personal experience of matters of the heart, ventured the opinion that it might: or, again, it might not. Sir George, she understood, had been much preoccupied of late with the weather. (Lady Colveden emitted a groan and told Miss Seeton that she could say that again.) The normal family pleasantries (continued Miss Seeton with a reciprocating twinkle) could well seem out of place at such a ... such an anxious time.

  “You mean he won’t start teasing until the sun shines? I’d never thought of that, but of course you could well be right.” Lady Colveden reached out to help herself to a slice of Battenburg, then quickly drew back. “Oh, dear—my waistline. George will be furious if I have to buy any more clothes ...” Her lovely eyes, mischievously glowing, met those of Miss Seeton. “Except for special occasions, that is. Do you suppose it would be tempting fate if I started planning my wardrobe?”

  Miss Seeton poured them both another cup of tea while she considered the matter. “A new hat,” she suggested after a moment, “might perhaps be an acceptable compromise ...”

  Whereupon the tea party chatter became a paean of praise to the millinery skills of Miss Monica Mary Brown (of the celebrated Brettenden hat shop) and moved on to a discussion of the relative merits of May (silage-making), June (ditto hay) or July (harvesting of various vegetables) for the wedding of a farmer’s son.

  chapter

  ~ 13 ~

  TINA HOLLOWAY ADMIRED with the eye of an aesthete the display in Monica Mary’s window. However strongly tempted, she did not fall. She had come to Brettenden to buy not a hat but sketching gear to add to the little she had summoned up enough energy to bring with her from London. Miss Seeton’s benign influence still held: the girl’s spirits were improving by the day, her confidence growing. A few days spent sightseeing—one morning in the company of a delighted Nigel Colveden, the rest of the time bus-hopping by herself—had proved the final (and best) spur Tina could have wished to start work, for once entirely on her own account rather than being, as she’d been for most of her working life, dependent on the patronage of others. She had always suspected that she might be able to draw, if not paint, as well as any of the artists she had met. She’d had plenty of time to think, as she posed hour after tedious, poorly paid hour, about ... all sorts of things. About likely subjects for her own masterpieces—those masterpieces she could now see only her chronic lack of self-esteem had prevented her from trying to achieve ...

  Tina shook her head dismissively at a frivolous confection of vibrant pillar-box feathers curled about a mocha velvet base. Scarlet and chocolate. She felt it was ... symbolic: and she would have none of it. Who, of those she had met, had done most to impress that lack of self-esteem upon her—had done so for what she now saw had been to suit his own egotistical purpose, with no thought at all for how it might suit Tina Holloway? Antony Scarlett ... who had oh-so-persuasively smothered Tina (dainty butterfly Tina, barely escaped from the miserable chrysalis of adolescent puppy-fat) in layers of chocolate blubber and called her Christina—no, even her identity had been smothered out of existence. Kristeena, he’d told her it was better spelled, and she’d believed him, blinded by his glamour, by the aura of success he exuded, by the envy she saw in the eyes of other girls as he made his grand entrances with her on his arm—weighing him down. She saw that now, too. On how many of those envious girls had his roving eye lighted? How many silent messages had passed between the glamorous figure in the swirling black cloak and the slim young females with all the energy, vim, pep the once-more-overweight Tina—Kristeena—lacked?

  But those days were gone—as was Tina’s urgent desire to confront her Scarlett Svengali and either beg him to take her back, skinny—in his cruel phrase—as she now was, or attack him for destroying her creative soul. She was free for the first time in years. She could be ... herself: the self she wanted to be. Slim, attractive Tina Holloway, an artist—as was Miss Emily Seeton—in her own right, with her own individual style.

  Miss Seeton had given Tina more than encouragement and the first stirrings of confidence: she had also given her the address of the Brettenden art shop from which she bought much of her equipment. Coloured crayons, lead pencils, pastel and charcoal sticks, cartridge paper by the block or the individual sheet: Tina in her new, buoyant mood resolved to have nothing but the best—and (symbolism again) more of it than she needed. The money she had inadvertently saved over the past months by not eating more than she needed (despite Antony’s frequent demands) had caused feelings of guilt whenever she saw a bank statement: but she would feel guilty no longer. She would spend her money now on what she, not another, wanted. She would start again. A new life was ahead of her. She was restless, eager to begin as she turned to w
alk away from the milliner’s. Brettenden High Street, without knowing it, had just witnessed the ultimate rebirth of Tina Holloway begun in a Plummergen cottage ...

  Miss Molly Treeves and Miss Emily Seeton bumped into each other in the post office. As one bought stamps, her friend bought groceries; the first to complete her purchases waited for the second to join her in a companionable stroll back down The Street towards their separate homes.

  “Definitely on the mend,” said a beaming Miss Treeves, as—having listened with some sympathy to Molly’s pungent opinion of the telephone engineers who were being so slow to correct a fault that had plagued south Plummergen for the better part of twenty-four hours—Miss Seeton made polite and tactful enquiry after the health of the Reverend Arthur, who had suffered a slight relapse. “He even asked for another egg this morning.” Miss Treeves tapped the basket on her arm. “With Marmite soldiers instead of plain bread and butter, which he never feels like doing when he’s really under the weather.”

  “That is excellent news,” said Miss Seeton, fully appreciating the effort involved in dipping dainty fingers of bread into runny yolk rather than spooning it mouthful by tentative mouthful. Feeling a little guilty that the relapse might in part have been caused by her accepting of Molly’s invitation to tea the other day, she added: “You must allow me to give the dear vicar some of mine, with my compliments. Brown eggs seem so much more cheerful than white, don’t they?”

  Molly chuckled. “Don’t tell Arthur, but the last time we ran out, I boiled white ones in weak tea. It works very well, provided the shells don’t crack. Some people might not think so, but I think they taste almost as good—and then, if they don’t, with a cold in his head he won’t notice the difference—all in a good cause, you know.”