A Deadly Betrothal

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘He was good-looking and had a way with him,’ said my aunt. ‘Yes, Marjorie was quite wild for him. And her three years older than him; not the thing at all, to my mind. Her parents forbade the match but she ran away to him and they were so outraged that they refused to give her a dowry. Perhaps if there had been some money in the bargain, it might have made a difference. Marjorie had a son the following year, and two years after that, George Harrison found another woman and then he ran off. He did it for money. The other woman was a childless widow who had inherited a healthy fortune. He abandoned his wife and child, took most of what savings he had and went off – to Sheffield, I think. Thirty-four years ago, that was. He did leave Marjorie the business, and she sold it for what it was worth – which wasn’t that much – and found herself a cottage not far from her parents. They helped her a little after that, I believe, but not over-generously. Well, she deserved no better.’

  She said that with a raised chin, visibly expecting me to argue. I had run off with Gerald, after all. I smiled. And waited.

  ‘Well,’ said my aunt, taking up the tale again, ‘her parents died, within a few months of each other, and just after that, Marjorie’s sister Catherine was widowed and Catherine came to live with her. Catherine had money, and property too, something to bring in rents, so they were comfortable enough. They moved into a bigger house and I think had quite a contented life together. But now Catherine too has died, and … well, see for yourself.’

  She went to the sideboard and fetched the scroll, which she handed to me. ‘This is a letter from Marjorie.’

  I took it. Aunt Tabitha’s letter to me had been a plea for help, but it was nothing more than a mild grumble compared to this. Marjorie Harrison’s writing was wild, the wording disjointed, with sentences that ran into each other. She was desperate; she did not know what to do; she implored her old friend to come to her, to help her, advise her. She was sending for her brother-in-law Edmund as well. Catherine had died ten days previously and …

  I was going to write soon anyway; we haven’t been in touch as often as we should but of course I would have written to tell you, only there was so much to do, to arrange, the funeral was so distressing, it rained all day, though many people came, which was a compliment to dear Catherine, and some of the guests stayed the night but they all went the next day and only a few days after that, I hardly know how to write it, I can hardly believe it myself, dearest Tabitha, I beg you to come to me. I don’t know what to do … George has come back …!

  ‘I wanted you to see this,’ said Aunt Tabitha, ‘and not just because it explains why, when you arrive after being sent for, you find me preparing to rush away to somewhere else. I …’

  ‘Women are all fools!’ That was Uncle Herbert again. ‘Just hysterics, making something out of nothing. All this fuss because her husband’s come back to the home he shouldn’t have left in the first place. Alderton!’ His shout brought the butler, not exactly running, but close to it. ‘Get Verney! My valet! Bring him. I want him to help me to my room. I can’t stand all this female fussing! Hurry up, man!’

  But the valet was already there, and had probably been hovering nearby in case he was needed. Like the butler, he was new since I had last been to Faldene, a brisk, strong fellow who took no notice of the rest of us, but supplied a powerful shoulder for Uncle Herbert to lean on. The two of them left the hall.

  ‘Your uncle,’ said Aunt Tabitha bitterly, ‘is like an angry bear, all the time. It’s the pain, and not being able to move about freely, and I can understand that, but he behaves as though it were my fault, which it isn’t, and sometimes I don’t know where to turn! I won’t be sorry to get away, even to another crisis! It will give me a rest from him and the crisis won’t be mine, after all. And Ursula, I want you to come with me.’

  ‘But … will Mistress Harrison want to accommodate me and my servants? She doesn’t know us and perhaps she hasn’t room …’

  ‘There’s an inn nearby where you can stay. It’s called the Running Horse; it’s a comfortable place. That’s not a difficulty. Ursula, you have a certain reputation – for … for dealing with situations. You know the world. You may be able to help.’

  THREE

  A Glossy Black Pelt

  Just what Aunt Tabitha expected me to do wasn’t clear. Was I supposed to persuade George Harrison to go away again? If so, she must think I had magical powers of some kind! I couldn’t imagine how I would set about it.

  But I had long ago sensed that Aunt Tabitha’s hardness wasn’t the whole truth of her. When I read the pleading letter that had brought me to Sussex now, and on that occasion years ago, when she called on me for help, I had glimpsed another Aunt Tabitha, who needed aid and kindness from others. Life with Uncle Herbert had probably never been easy. The hardness was perhaps a suit of armour that she had donned in self-defence. Faced with Marjorie’s desperation, my aunt, like me, had wondered what on earth she was supposed to do about it. What she wanted from me now was probably just support. Aunt Tabitha, who had been so harsh with Ursula the little girl, who still couldn’t stop herself from pinpricking me, nevertheless needed the adult Ursula to lean on, and it was not the first time.

  ‘Very well,’ I said.

  Aunt Tabitha despatched a groom with a note giving Mistress Harrison notice of our arrival and I sent Brockley and Dale back to Withysham to fetch some luggage for the three of us, and to let the household there know that I would be away for a few days. I didn’t worry about Harry. When he was very young, he had always cried if I went away but Tessie had always been there for him, reliable as the Pole Star. Now, he had become quite easy about it, while I disliked being parted him. He looked like his father, which meant a good deal to me.

  I sometimes wondered about that. With Matthew de la Roche, I had known great passion, but also much unhappiness, for he supported the dispossessed Scottish queen, Mary Stuart, and her spurious claim to Elizabeth’s throne. Physically, we struck such sparks from each other that I sometimes wondered why our beds didn’t burst into flame, but he was Elizabeth’s enemy, and in the end, he was mine too. He was dead now. But I would never forget him, never quite be done with him, because of Harry.

  The Brockleys came back with bulging saddlebags and reported that Harry had taken the news with equanimity and gone happily off for a riding lesson with Joseph. No doubt Tessie would be on hand, I thought, smiling inwardly, and she and Joseph would seize the chance to do some more courting. I and the Brockleys spent the night at Faldene and set off with Aunt Tabitha the next morning.

  My aunt and uncle rarely travelled and didn’t keep a coach. Aunt Tabitha and her tall, stern maid Annette therefore made the journey to Marjorie Harrison’s home in a small cart, with a leather canopy that could be put up if it rained. They both dressed elegantly, however, Annette in dark blue, Aunt Tabitha in green and blue brocade. Their ruffs were pristine, their hats fashionable, and although they were surrounded by baggage and the cart was drawn by one of Faldene’s hairy-heeled plough horses, the two of them sat stiffly upright all the way, exuding as much dignity as they would in a ceremonial coach.

  The groom who had been sent to warn Mistress Harrison that we were coming had returned, only to find that he was to go straight back again, this time driving the cart. He was elderly and looked annoyed but of course he dared not say so. Faldene servants were always respectful. Those who weren’t, didn’t stay at Faldene long. Dale, who was not fond of riding, even pillion, shared the cart, sitting at the back, while Brockley and I were on horseback as before.

  We were there before noon. I had vaguely supposed that Marjorie Harrison’s home would be a country cottage of some kind, suitable as a residence for two husbandless sisters. It proved, however, to be a tall, narrow house on the north side of the little town of Leatherhead. There was a mews at the back, to which the groom took the horses and the cart while the rest of us walked through a small front garden, where hollyhocks and foxgloves and larkspur were in bloom, and climbed the steps
to the front door, which opened before anyone could knock. A plump woman with greying brown hair and a lined, worried face appeared and instantly flung herself into Aunt Tabitha’s arms, crying: ‘Oh, I am so glad to see you, Tabby! It’s been so dreadful! Dreadful! What am I to do? It’s a nightmare!’

  I marvelled that there was anyone in the world who could call my formidable aunt Tabby, and she herself said: ‘Come, Marjorie, let’s all get inside and talk about it, shall we?’ in her usual no-nonsense voice, but when she disengaged herself, I noticed that she did it gently, and kept an arm round Marjorie as they led the way indoors.

  Brockley and Dale brought the luggage in and put it down in the entrance hall, and then followed us into a parlour. It looked dusty and untidy, as though the distraction in the house had infected its contents. There were no rushes on the floor and the thick and probably costly rug of glossy black fur in front of the empty hearth was sadly in need of brushing, for there were crumbs strewn on it. The beautifully embroidered cushions on the two settles were all askew.

  The room was already occupied, by a small, sweet-faced woman, fair, with bright blue eyes, and two young people, a boy and a girl who looked as though they were in their mid-teens. The boy was thickset and ginger, with features in the process of maturing, and already including a beak of a nose. The girl, however, closely resembled the woman and was obviously her daughter. They stood up as we entered.

  ‘My sister-in-law, Lisa,’ said Marjorie. ‘Wife of George’s brother Edmund. And her twins, Jane and Thomas. They’re fifteen years old. Lisa, this is my old friend Mistress Tabitha Faldene, and her niece, Mistress Ursula Stannard, and here …’

  Her voice checked uncertainly. I expected that. I often met this situation. Dale and Brockley were to me much more than just servants. I had long since come to see them as close friends, almost relatives, and I expected other people to accept them as such and not try to banish them to the kitchen quarters. I didn’t say so, however. Once again, I held my peace in Aunt Tabitha’s presence though this time, I did so with just a trace of malice, leaving the explanations to her.

  She obliged, primly. ‘These are Roger Brockley, my niece’s manservant, and Frances, who is his wife and also Mistress Stannard’s tirewoman. She regards them as family members rather than servants.’ Her voice expressed her low opinion of this attitude but she didn’t enlarge. ‘My maid Annette you already know, of course.’

  Annette showed signs of wishing to leave us, but Marjorie shook her head and said: ‘No, no, Annette, stay, like the others,’ and the fair woman said she was pleased to meet us.

  She had a lisp, I noticed. The word pleased actually sounded more like pleathed. Suddenly, a memory surfaced. Surely she had been among Eric Lake’s relatives when he and Kate were married! The boy and girl respectively made a bow and a curtsey.

  We were all invited to seat ourselves and as we did so, a maid hurried in with a tray bearing a flagon of wine, some glasses and a platter of pasties of various kinds, hastily assembled, by the look of them. The maid’s cap was lopsided and there were stains on her apron. Marjorie didn’t appear to notice. She said, ‘Thank you, Mary,’ dismissing her with a wave of the hand, and it was Annette, in response to a nod from my aunt, who distributed the wine and pasties. Marjorie took a long drink from her glass and then put it down with a bang and tumbled out her story.

  ‘I’m thankful to have you here! I’m sorry I had to call on you, Tabby, but I need … I need help, support, something! It was bad enough that my sister – my dear Catherine – should die. It was just a cold or so it seemed, but it went to her chest and … oh, I don’t want to describe it all. I watched her die. Poor, poor Cat. And then there was the funeral to arrange, and I had to see a lawyer about Cat’s will; she left everything she had to me. She has looked after me, darling, darling Cat! I thought: I must be glad and grateful and try to be brave. I must find some other friend to share my home … but I didn’t expect to be saddled with the companion I’ve got! One morning – only a few days after the funeral– there was a bang on the door and I opened it myself as Mary was busy and … I didn’t recognize him at first! I asked him who he was and what his business was and he said, Don’t you know me, my dear Marjorie? I’m George, your long-lost husband. I’ve come home.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it! It’s thirty-something years since he went and I’d never set eyes on him in all that time. He ran off with a red-headed whore called Alice Devine. Not much divinity about that one! A widow, sitting smugly on what her husband had left her and on the lookout for another man. She wasn’t even pretty! I saw her a few times, before she went away with George. She had a house near us in Guildford – that’s where we were living. Plump, plain, practical, that was Alice. Well, off they went to Sheffield – she was born there. George told me; he did write to me once or twice. He started a new furrier’s business there, using her money mostly. With her money, he could afford good pelts and an assistant and smart premises to work in, and he could build his business up properly. You have to have something behind you to get a business going – he said that to me, many times, while we were together. I should have guessed what would happen!’

  There were tears in her eyes as an ancient wound began once more to throb. ‘We were so poor when we were together,’ she said. ‘It was hard for George; I did understand that. He tried to build up a business but he just couldn’t … couldn’t … get the foundations laid, so to speak. Some of his customers would buy furs elsewhere and bring them to be made into cloaks and hats and so forth, but George wanted to be able to offer them furs himself, a choice of good ones, to provide a complete service. Customers would like that. But it would only work if he could lay in a supply of quality furs and that was the difficulty. He needed capital for that and he didn’t have it. He tried and tried. I’ll give him that. He tried.’

  ‘It must have been hard indeed,’ I said sympathetically.

  ‘It was awful! First of all, he wasn’t known, so work came in slowly, and when he did get it, he would try to give a prompt service, and he used to curse the winter, the grey days and the dark evenings, because it was so hard to work well in such bad light and we couldn’t afford enough candles. He used to get angry with me for using candles in the house but of course I had to use some! And on top of that, to buy furs, he needed to travel and that cost money as well as the pelts themselves, and he couldn’t buy the quality he wanted or the quantity and anyway, buying meant going away and while he was doing that, he couldn’t make things at the same time … he needed an assistant but we couldn’t afford that either. I tried to learn to make things but skins aren’t like fabrics; stitching them is quite different. I never acquired much skill and that made him angry too. He always seemed to be angry. He sometimes talked in his sleep – cursed in his sleep, cursed not having enough money. I came to feel afraid of him. He resented it that other men were able to make money while he couldn’t. All the time, there was this undercurrent of rage … I lived with it, day in and day out!’

  She broke off for a moment, wiping her eyes, before adding: ‘I tried not to mind. I loved him! I’d chosen to run away to him and I was ready to stand by that choice. But it was so hard, so hard. He wasn’t afraid of work but no matter how he toiled, we couldn’t seem to drag ourselves out of that … that morass of poverty. Sometimes we didn’t have enough to eat.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said inadequately.

  ‘And then,’ said Marjorie bitterly, ‘he met Alice Devine. She had plenty of money. Buckets of it! And she fell for him, hard! He boasted that she would do anything for him. He left me for her. I sold the Guildford business; he told me I could, but he only did that for our son’s sake; he said as much! Not that it was worth much, anyway. My parents wouldn’t take me back though they did give me a small allowance. I moved into a little cottage with a low rent. I could just about survive. I brought up Robert, my little boy, as best I could. But when Robert was fifteen, he left home to go into service and then my parents died and Catheri
ne was widowed and everything changed. She joined me and together we found this house and we made a life together.’

  She sighed, a sigh heavy with nostalgia. ‘We were happy! Cat and I used to enjoy music and embroidery, and we would go to church and walk round markets together, and entertain our neighbours … all trivial things, you might say, but it was a life that suited us. But now! George comes back!

  ‘He said: Alice has died and I’m on my own and I don’t like it. I’m nigh on fifty-seven years old now and I can’t work as hard as I did and without her behind me, well, the business has failed. I’ve sold what stock I had – I didn’t get much for it – and I’m prone to catching cold and my colds often settle on my chest; I need a woman to look after me. I’ve got a horse and a pack mule. I believe you’ve got room for them. I’ve kept my eye on you, all these years, you know. There’s always those will send news if they’re paid for it.

  ‘And I can guess what he meant by that,’ said Marjorie viciously. ‘Cat and I had a gardener, a man I never liked much. He used to work for my parents but after they were gone, and Cat joined me, he asked us to take him on. When Cat came, we could afford it. George knew him slightly. George told him to try and work for me! I questioned him and got him to admit it. He’d been taking money from George to pass on news of me! I’ve dismissed him now!’

  Distracted she might be, but Marjorie was clearly still capable of wielding authority. ‘A spy, that’s all he was! But what am I to do about George? I tried to say I wouldn’t let him in, but he just laughed at me and said he was still my husband in the eyes of the law and the church and what was mine was his. He said that in law, this is his house. How can I get rid of him?’ She paused for breath and I said: ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Upstairs, in my back bedroom. Having a rest, he says, not that he needs one. He may be prone to colds but he hasn’t got one now! He’s not in my room. I wouldn’t go that far, husband or no!’ said Marjorie. ‘But he’s eating three meals a day … wanting his clothes looked after; his hateful smart clothes; dear God, before his business failed, he obviously had the chance to buy fine clothes and how he enjoyed it! He disrupts the whole house … I could kill him! I could kill him!’