The Dead of Haggard Hall

by Marie Treanor

  “What?” he demanded. “Are you well?”

  “Are you?” I countered.

  Confusion I hadn’t seen before troubled his eyes, dragging down his brow, and then his eyelids like hoods. “Of course.”

  “Who is in that carriage?” I asked.

  His eyelids lifted, and I saw at once he had himself back under control. Even the swirling emotion was muted, clearing as he gazed into my face without blinking. The silence went on too long, then his hand fell away from mine and he began to walk on.

  “I don’t know,” Patrick said. “But whoever it is, is vulgarly early.”

  “Or eager.”

  “That would be more worrying,” he said ruefully. “Let’s go and find out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The early arrival had clearly caused a certain amount of panic in a household that had expected to have several more hours to prepare before receiving guests.

  When we emerged from the formal garden to the front of the house, the stable staff were leading the horses away and servants were bustling inside with luggage. I drew my hand free of Patrick’s arm, and he let me. I had a curious impression that the man who’d begun to open himself to me, even if just a little, was closing himself back into a cocoon. Or a hard, impervious shell.

  He might not have known exactly who’d arrived, but the crest on their carriage meant something to him and he clearly didn’t expect to enjoy their company. Walking beside me up the steps, he was a like a child stiffening himself to bear a beating.

  “…so sorry for descending on you like this,” a musical female voice was exclaiming inside the hall. “But we put up last night in some truly awful inn. I never slept a wink. The bed was like a brick—a lumpy brick—and I swear I could hear every breath of whoever slept in the next room. He snored like a pig, I assure you! So we left at first light. I hadn’t realized we were so close, though! Please just pretend we aren’t here.”

  The speaker didn’t look as if she’d just suffered a sleepless night. Immaculately clothed and groomed, she shone with vitality, swirling around the foyer like a summer breeze in her fashionably wide gown trimmed with flower-printed flounces. Her gleaming honey-blonde hair framed her face in the most natural sausage curls I’d ever seen.

  Although the hall was full of bustling servants, and Susan and Henry Faversham had clearly wandered out of the breakfast room to see what was happening, the main recipient of the lady’s chatter appeared to be Emily, who had probably bolted downstairs from her bedroom to greet her early guests.

  She bore it well, laughing and answering warmly, “I wouldn’t dream of pretending any such thing, and wouldn’t want to. Would you like to join us for breakfast, or would you rather rest in your room after your awful night?”

  “Breakfast would be wonderful,” the lady exclaimed. “You are such a kind hostess. So pretty and unflappable. Oh Hugh, isn’t she so suited to Arthur?”

  For the first time, I became aware of the lady’s companion, a slight, sleek, handsome man as perfectly dressed as she in an exquisitely tailored coat. He wore a neat little moustache, which gave him a rather dashing air. But what interested me more was that when I finally noticed him, his attention was focused not on his hostess but on the area just inside the door where Patrick and I stood.

  “Hugh” turned his head almost reluctantly, and yet his face split into a most amiable smile as he bowed to Emily. “Absolutely. Utterly enchanting.”

  While Emily blushed and laughed, the lady’s erratic gaze fell on us. And passed on, much as her companion’s had done a moment before. Well, I am of no social significance; I wasn’t surprised to be ignored. Then I realized it wasn’t me they were ignoring. It was Patrick. His very stillness told me that. It came to me that such stillness was unnatural for him. Even leaning against the door and watching my mother’s séance, part of him had always been moving, restless, unquiet. When I cast him a swift glance, even his normally mobile expression was unchanging: veiled, neutral.

  Plus, you could have cut the tension in the hall with a knife. As the servants cleared out of the way between us, I saw that Susan and Mr. Faversham appeared decidedly uncomfortable, while Emily was looking rather wildly around her, as if in search of Arthur to save her from some horrible social nightmare I couldn’t see, although I could feel it all around me.

  Then Patrick moved, touching my elbow to propel me with him as he strolled with odd deliberation across the floor towards the lady. Oh dear, was this Caroline, the Lady Jordan who was his lover? I squashed the upsurge of jumbled jealousy, antagonism and curiosity, tried to appear merely amiable, although I suspect I was in fact invisible. Certainly, the unknown lady was looking everywhere else with a sort of determined casualness.

  “Margaret,” Patrick said politely. “How are you?”

  For an instant, the scene seemed to freeze. Not Lady Jordan, I thought with relief, but no one else looked remotely relieved. Emily looked quite agonized.

  For a moment, I thought the guest called Margaret would commit the unforgivable rudeness of ignoring Patrick’s greeting—which, I suspected was also the source of Emily’s social agony—and I wondered what on earth he could have done to inspire such hatred.

  In the end, she spared him a glance at once cold, haughty, and brief. “I am well, thank you,” she replied stiffly. Her gaze flickered over me without interest.

  “Allow me to present Mrs. Cartwright,” Patrick said, only faintly sardonic. “My sister-in-law.”

  Rose’s sister? Of course! The hostility and the awkwardness suddenly made sense. Rose’s family had blamed her husband for her death.

  “Margaret,” Patrick continued as if completely unaware of the atmosphere, which I knew he wasn’t since he was at least partially responsible for creating it, “Mrs. Darke, a particular friend of Emily’s.”

  I had the oddest impression this last, unnecessary label was designed to protect me in some way. And certainly Mrs. Cartwright’s ill humour vanished into a smile, like the sun breaking through clouds.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Darke?” she said warmly, offering her hand, which I took. “Delighted to meet you. This is my husband, Hugh.”

  Hugh Cartwright, thus brought into the group, bowed over my hand with perfect civility and pronounced himself charmed before turning of his own volition to face Patrick. And suddenly the air positively crackled between them.

  “Patrick,” Cartwright said with a wide smile that never got near his pale grey eyes. “Why am I surprised to see you here?”

  “I can’t imagine. I am frequently here.”

  “And are we to have the pleasure of your mother’s and brothers’ amiable company at the Hall?”

  “Sadly, no,” Patrick replied steadily. “My mother’s health is not up to the journey.”

  “Now that does not surprise me. Poor lady.” Although there was obviously a barb in Cartwright’s words, I couldn’t understand it.

  Patrick did. “I’ll pass on your concerns,” he said stonily.

  With obvious relief to have got the awkward moment over, everyone else began to move towards the breakfast room, all apart from Patrick and Cartwright who, although they hadn’t even shaken hands, still stood close together in the centre of the hall. A more distant and less sensitive observer than I might have imagined they were reunited friends, delighted to be together again.

  Certainly, Cartwright’s smile widened impossibly. “But you haven’t yet felicitated me upon my marriage.”

  “I felicitate you.” Patrick bowed his head slightly towards the shorter man. “But I trust you don’t expect me to smile upon it as you smiled upon mine.”

  Cartwright jerked away as though slapped, his eyes darting to the others as if worried they could have overheard. Only I did. Encountering my curious gaze, he blanched, but turned on Patrick like a cornered cat.

  “Hardly. Too many open windows in summer
,” he almost spat and strode after the others.

  “What,” I said slowly, “was that all about?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Patrick said distractedly. He was watching the retreating backs of the others heading into the breakfast room.

  “Then why did you let me hear it?”

  His gaze dropped to me. “I did, didn’t I? I don’t know. Perhaps I want you to dislike me so you’ll have nothing to do with me.”

  “I already dislike you and have nothing to do with you.”

  His lips quirked into a spontaneous smile that caught at my breath and my heart. “Liar.”

  Before he could say more, Emily scuttled back across the hall towards us. “Cousin Patrick, I am so sorry,” she said, low-voiced. “Arthur said I should invite them for form’s sake but assured me they wouldn’t come.”

  “It’s all right,” Patrick soothed. “I have no wish to dictate one way or another who you invite to your home, and I promise not to thrash him in public. In fact, I’ll keep out of their way for a little.” He gave a rueful wink which seemed to encompass both of us and strolled off towards the staircase.

  “Why would he thrash Mr. Cartwright?” I asked, interested.

  “Lord, I don’t know,” Emily said flustered. “I was talking more about Margaret, Rose’s sister. She tells everyone Patrick either drove Rose to suicide or killed her himself.”

  “Hence Mr. Cartwright’s remark about windows,” I murmured.

  “Oh dear!” Emily said in distress. “And I was looking forward to this too.”

  I took her arm and gave it a squeeze. “I think, in his own way, Mr. Haggard was promising to be good.”

  “I think you understand him better than I do. I shall go back and breakfast with my unexpectedly early guests. If you see Arthur, tell him to hurry. Oh and we haven’t even had time to prepare the flowers for their room.”

  “I’ll see to that,” I promised.

  * * * * *

  By dinnertime, I was flagging and wondering if there was any way I could avoid the ball. However, since my presence, useless or not, seemed to be necessary to Emily’s comfort, I metaphorically gritted my teeth and got on with it.

  Oddly enough, it was one of the guests who raised my spirits most. Since Emily was in her element organizing a garden game called pall mall for her guests, I seized the opportunity to enjoy a few moments of solitude in the library before going to change for dinner.

  My original idea was to search for the house plans Patrick had mentioned, but as I crossed the threshold, I doubted I’d get around to such activity. I’d already sighed loudly and collapsed into a wing-backed chair before I registered the amused woman sitting by the window with her book open. She was perhaps around my own age or a little older, stylish without being fashionable, attractive without being strictly beautiful. A mischievous if understanding smile lurked in her eyes.

  “That bad?” she said sympathetically. “Or are you just girding your loins for the next round?”

  “Definitely girding,” I said, straightening in my chair, “but I won’t say loins unless I know you’re a married lady.”

  The woman laughed. “For twelve years, so I know all there is about loins. You must be Mrs. Darke.”

  I blinked. “I suppose I must, but I didn’t expect to be well known in this company.”

  “I’m Caroline Jordan and have known the family forever, so I’ve heard all about you.”

  “Oh dear,” I said without thinking, not so much because I was afraid of what had been written about me, but more, I think, because she was so totally unlike the lover I’d imagined Patrick to have—beautiful and brainless and flirty, which this woman was very clearly not.

  “Not necessarily,” she said now with mock caution. “I hear you’ve had a bad time since coming here.”

  “Oh no,” I refuted. “Well, apart from the accident.”

  “A terrible thing,” Caroline observed. “I heard about it while Patrick was staying with us.”

  I blinked, pouncing with glee on the idea that her blatancy meant they weren’t really lovers at all. Ha, Patrick Haggard!

  “I didn’t want him to come here after that,” Caroline admitted. “I knew it would rake up all these memories. But he seems in good spirits, considering. I think I have you to thank for that.”

  “Me?” I said startled.

  “You intrigue him: a down-to-earth spiritualist.”

  “I’m a teacher by profession,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster.

  She smiled. “Don’t be offended with me. I’m afraid I say whatever is in my head.”

  She did too, chatting easily for about ten minutes on subjects as varied and innocuous as pall mall, storms, and large house parties. More than once, I laughed without meaning to, and realised I liked her.

  “Guests are difficult,” she finished “They can’t all like each other and won’t all get on. I fail to see why I should give myself such torture in my own home, so even if Sir Neil were up to it, I wouldn’t do something like this.”

  “Your husband doesn’t keep well?” I asked, carefully neutral. It seemed worse, somehow, to be sneaking behind the back of a sick man. Why did I like either Patrick or Caroline? Just because they were different?

  “No, he’s rather frail,” Caroline replied with a genuine note of sadness in her voice. I felt it too. Surprisingly, Carline was fond of her supposedly cuckolded husband. My belief grew that Patrick had been joking with me when he’d confessed to a love affair with her, though I couldn’t quite see the humour. Perhaps he’d just been trying to annoy me.

  Scarily, I knew an urge to ask her outright and curbed it only with another question which was preying on my mind.

  “Do you know what is between Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Haggard?” I asked her.

  “Ah. Now, Cartwright’s is an unhealthy marriage, in my opinion,” she said. “Not that anyone cares for it, least of all the Cartwrights. He was staying here with other guests when Rose died, and he was one of the loudest voices blaming Patrick.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Does he hate Patrick?”

  “Actually, I think he rather liked him once, but he’s a gossipy, dilettante kind of a man. Although he’s amusing, he’s not really Patrick’s type. He was a school friend of George’s, used to spend holidays here tormenting Arthur and Patrick in the way boys do. When they grew up, I believe Hugh came to rather admire Patrick for a while…” She shrugged. “Then, for whatever reason, he returned to abetting George in putting Patrick down when he could. And then, flirting with Rose.”

  “Mr. Cartwright was in love with Rose?” I asked, startled.

  “Well, she was a loveable kind of girl. To men. I wanted to slap her. Anyway, Cartwright made a great show of being cut up about her death, spent a lot of time with Margaret, and finally married her last year.”

  “They hurt each other,” I said slowly, remembering my conversation with Rose’s ghost. “Rose and Patrick. Was that how she hurt him? By flirting…by an affaire with Cartwright?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” Caroline said firmly. “Other people’s marriages should stay private. One never understands them from the outside. On the other hand…Cartwright and Margaret make a pretty poisonous combination, so I wouldn’t let them too close. If I were you.”

  Having plenty to mull over, I elected to change the subject. “Are they still playing pall mall?”

  Caroline glanced out the window and let out a shout of laughter. “I doubt it. Come and see.”

  I rose and came to stand beside her chair to look out onto the lawn, where two lines of hoops had been set up. But it looked as if the game had degenerated into horseplay. Most people stood around laughing while Arthur weaved around the hoops, using a stick to slam the ball around them rather than through them as he ran the length of the course. On the other row, Pa
trick pushed an elderly gentleman in a wheeled chair, swerving around the hoops while the chair’s occupant bashed the ball on with his stick held out to the side of the chair. When necessary, Patrick helped by kicking the ball in front of him.

  At one point, the elderly gentleman whacked Arthur on the rear with his stick in passing, and Arthur decided to switch courses, chasing them instead until Patrick skidded all the way around a hoop and doubled back the way he’d come, threatening to ram Arthur with the wheeled chair. The old gentleman seemed to be howling with laughter.

  Caroline smiled. “He’s so enjoying himself. Patrick’s good for him, makes him feel young again.”

  I blinked. “You mean that is…?” I broke off.

  “My husband, yes,” she said serenely.

  * * * * *

  Although early, dinner was a much more glittering affair than normal. I found myself seated between two most personable gentlemen. One was a youngish widower with an appreciative gleam in his eye; the other was the academic-minded second son of a baronet with a sweet smile. I found I enjoyed the company of each and promised to dance with both.

  Across the table, I noticed Prince Bela placed between two young ladies vying for his attention and had to hide a smile. Bela, like myself, was a victim of Emily’s efforts at matchmaking. It was for this, I suspected, that she’d changed Susan’s original seating plan.

  My suspicions were confirmed when she followed me up to my bedroom to change, yet again, for the ball.

  “What do you think? Which of them did you like best?”

  “I found them both charming,” I said. “We got on famously.”

  “Which of them will you dance with?” she asked, walking across the room to my wardrobe.

  “Both, if they remember,” I replied,

  By then, she was rummaging among my meagre clothes. “What were you planning to wear?” she asked. “Do you really not want my burgundy silk?”

  “It wouldn’t fit me without more alterations than we’ve time for. Besides, the style is very much yours, and I am too old and staid for it.”