‘My dear Mr Campion, you must be chilled to the very marrow. Come in, my dear young friend.’ Lady Chase extended a warm and friendly hand. In the kind firelight she appeared one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen – not for her features and figure alone, but for the sweetness of her smile.
‘Pray, sit down here, Mr Campion.’ She indicated the chair closest to the fire and adjacent to hers. ‘I have so longed for one of our comfortable chats. Although I have been back in your parish such a short time – no more than four months, I think? – you have quite become part of my family. Now, are you still pinched with cold, or has a warm meal restored you a little?’ She paused while a footman brought in more logs. ‘Thank you, Jenkins – and some more candles over here, if you please.’ She picked up her tambour frame as if she needed to justify her request to a man whose only function was to serve her, smiling kindly as he set a branch beside her. ‘I will ring for tea when we are ready.’
As Tom Fletcher’s young cousin left the room, I broke the news of Mrs Kemp’s passing, receiving a sad press of the hand and a promise of a few shillings for the funeral.
When we were alone once more, she shook her head quizzically. ‘I’m afraid I cannot offer you the sort of entertainment you could expect in the salon – yes, indeed! Lady Dorothea has a pleasant little singing voice. Lady Bramhall accompanies her very well on the harp. I would have expected so foolish a creature to abandon her accomplishments on marriage, but she must have more sense than is immediately apparent. How do you find the family?’ she asked, a twinkle in her eye.
‘It is not how I found them but how I find you, your Ladyship, that concerns me. Are you unwell?’ Truth to tell, she looked in as a perfect bloom as a widow of middle years might wish.
She pressed a slender finger to her lips. ‘I am suffering from nothing more than a severe attack of ennui. Sir Marcus is almost as conscious as he ought to be of the impropriety of making a long uninvited visit, and his poor wife ran out of conversation within three hours of having stepped inside the entrance hall – where you were no doubt received this very day?’
‘I was indeed, ma’am.’
‘A custom more honour’d in the breach than the observance,’ she smiled. ‘Dear me, what notion does the man have of living in a house like this? Does he not realise the absolute necessity of keeping warm? Which reminds me, my dear Mr Campion, this continuing rain greatly concerns me. As we know, more than Mrs Kemp may be at risk.’
I smiled sadly.
‘As our little committee agreed on Monday,’ she continued, ‘I have told Furnival to make sure any barns left empty – and there are all too many, after such a poor harvest – should be prepared to accommodate families driven from their homes. One can be set aside for young men, another for young women. I would dearly like to keep families with young children together, but he does not see how it can be managed. So I have suggested that the nursery wing here at the Court be opened up again. It will not accommodate many, but that is better than nothing. Poor Furnival is horrified, of course.’ Her steward was ever torn between his desire to do the best for the estate and the late duke’s insistence that his tenants’ welfare was also his responsibility. ‘But we want no more deaths.’
‘You are all goodness, my Lady.’
She shook her head in irritation. ‘Goodness? You know that I am merely doing my Christian duty. You will inform me of any households experiencing particular hardship, Mr Campion, just as you told me about Mrs Kemp. As I hope I will one day make clear to Furnival, I disdain the increasingly fashionable notion that you can distinguish between the deserving and the undeserving poor. In this weather poverty is even-handed, and so must we be in redressing it.’ Her voice changed, taking on a curious inflexion. ‘Sir Marcus tells me the roads are quagmires, so sticky and deep that they hardly permit wheels to traverse them.’
‘This is their reason for protracting a visit that brings you so little pleasure?’ Knowing I would be forgiven, I spoke freely.
‘Indeed.’ She leant forward confidentially. ‘Mr Campion, Sir Marcus mentioned a court case the other day – to establish the succession, as he put it. Such a commonplace man, but capable of inflicting such great hurt.’ She struggled to master her features. ‘If I am to retire to the Dower House, I would rather it were to make room for someone…’ She spread her hands helplessly. ‘Will Lady Bramhall ever…?’
In my view Lady Bramhall was rather to be pitied than otherwise, at having to assume a duchess’s mantle, and, moreover, having to replace the present Lady Chase in the villagers’ affections.
I replied, more in hope than in expectation, ‘Pray God that she will never have to attempt to take your place. Let us trust that one day—’
She raised an eloquent hand. ‘There are dark days, Mr Campion, when even my faith fails, and I fear that Hugo will never return. But yet, as his mother, I would know if he were no longer alive. I believe I would know the instant he died. And here – here – I know he lives still!’ She pressed her hand to her bosom, averting her eyes.
‘Pray God you are right,’ I said quietly.
She made a visible effort. ‘And now, Mr Campion, tell me if Lady Dorothea has stolen your heart yet. Ah, you blush. You cannot answer me.’
‘Indeed, I cannot.’ For blush I fear I did.
She patted my hand. ‘It is time you fell in love, my young friend. A parish needs not simply a vicar but a vicar’s wife. Your good Mrs Trent, excellent housekeeper as she is, can never be a substitute for the helpmeet you need – and, dear Tobias, deserve.’
My neck, my face, my very ears now aflame, I said, ‘However much an ordinary man may wish for a beautiful wife, the clergyman must value virtue even more.’
‘And you suspect that Lady Dorothea might not be virtuous?’
‘I cannot think that Sir Marcus would permit her to sink herself so far socially…’ I began with caution.
‘If he knew the truth of your birth he would not regard it thus. But I tease you, Mr Campion. Let me offer you tea. I cannot think whither my manners are fled.’ With a gracious smile, she reached for the bell-rope.
A card table set between us, the rest of the evening passed in a gentle game of cribbage.
At last, I was led from her presence down the back stairs, both of us laughing at the mild conspiracy into which we had been forced. But it was conspiracy of another sort that sprang to my mind – the sort that featured in Mrs Radclyffe’s novels. Here in these cold, dark corridors one might imagine – if one were that way inclined – that armed men lurked in deep recesses, that abducted maidens were locked inside the rooms within. In fact, the only figure I saw was that of Furnival, the steward, running gnarled fingers through his snow-white locks. He nodded but made no attempt to pause for conversation. Then I glimpsed the weary features of that unhappy governess, whose name had never been vouchsafed me. As before I bowed, offering, I hoped, the sort of smile one might give to a child caught in mild mischief.
‘Miss…?’
But, without a word, she bobbed a curtsy and scuttled back upstairs, like a church-mouse startled by a flaring candle. How could the daughters of the house ever learn their manners with such a craven exemplar? No one expected a young lady in such an ambiguous situation, neither family nor servitor, to be full of social grace, but she should at least have a modicum of poise. And why had she left a trail of damp behind her? Had she been out in this rain? The candlelight had been too weak to show if her hair or garments had been wet, but undoubtedly the corridor showed large muddy footprints.
As an excuse for being seen in the domestic quarters, I made it my business to call in on Mrs Sandys, the housekeeper, in an attempt at social ease so far denied us. Why Lady Chase had kept in her establishment such a gloomy and pinch-faced woman defeated me. She had certainly provided her with a generous-sized sitting room, and a fire the villagers must have envied. Although there was a handsome bookcase, full of enticing volumes, Mrs Sandys was engaged in sewing, her needle stabbing aw
ay at the cloth in a way I always found disconcerting. Her ladyship could make sewing calming and peaceable; Mrs Sandys’ activities suggested barely suppressed violence.
‘I come to thank you for your continuing generosity to my parishioners,’ I said, though I knew all too well that the liberality was her mistress’s.
She nodded curtly, still driving the needle through the innocent fabric.
‘And now I have to ask you another favour, Mrs Sandys,’ I continued. ‘That young governess of the Bramhalls looks very unhappy, and I fear she may not be eating properly. Tell me, is she as…well treated…as she deserves to be?’
‘Miss Southey?’ Mrs Sandys sniffed.
‘Indeed,’ I said firmly. At least I now knew the poor creature’s name. ‘Does Miss Southey have a fire in her room, for instance? And hot water in the morning? Dear Mrs Sandys, consider her position, amongst strangers, serving a family that does not, in my view, value her as it ought.’
Mrs Sandys bit her lip at my rebuke. Hoping that such a hint would be effective in improving the poor young lady’s lot, I turned the conversation. I had spiritual care over the whole household, and would have the pleasure in preparing the younger ones for confirmation in the spring. Unfortunately, it was also sometimes my lot to remind a young man that he must marry his sweetheart before their baby was born.
But tonight Mrs Sandys mentioned no miscreants and I soon left her to the doubtful pleasures of her needlework.
The rain had ceased. Although there was no moon, the starlight reflecting on the puddles was enough to illumine my path home. Titus, irritated at quitting the temporary warmth and keen to return to his own cosy stable, indulged in unwontedly spirited napping. Once we had established who was in control, however, I let him pick his own way through the ruts.
I told myself I wished to review the whole strange evening, from the huddle in the hall to the charitable concerns of my patroness, and indeed the poor self-effacing Miss Southey. In truth, I wanted only to think of the beauty of Lady Dorothea. But it was only a few short months since I had been in love with another female, and one very different from this. Poor Lizzie. I had never declared my passion for her and now it was too late. Would it be an insult to her memory to love another?
Even as I thought of her, I fancied I heard her moan, as she might have done in her dying moments. Rebuking myself firmly, I nonetheless pulled Titus to a reluctant standstill, straining my ears for another sound. The copse in which I had found her dear body was scarce a mile away – on a night as still as this a sound might easily carry that far.
There was nothing. Unless—
I stood in the stirrups, peering into the ghostly darkness. I believe I actually called out loud, ‘Lizzie? Lizzie, is that you, my love?’
The unmistakable sound of a cow lowing in a nearby byre replied.
Shaking my head at my folly, I gave Titus his head and we wended our way home.
‘Could it be,’ I stammered at last, ‘that she has come back to haunt me?’
In the warm breakfast parlour of Dr Hansard’s house, bright and cheerful with morning sunlight, a fire blazing in the grate, the words sounded ridiculous even to my ears.
‘Because you were attracted to another young woman? What nonsense you do talk, my dear young friend,’ Dr Hansard exclaimed, his words and tone at odds with his affectionate squeeze of my arm. His deep blue eyes fixed mine with stern kindness. ‘Did I, did my beloved Maria here, imagine our former spouses would rise from their graves to complain that after decent periods of mourning we would marry again? The thought is unworthy of you, a man of the cloth. Pray, have some more of Maria’s best ham, Tobias, or she will be the one offended.’
She clicked her tongue. ‘As if Tobias could ever cause offence. I know how much from your kitchen finds its way to the tables of the poor – I honour you for your generosity! – but here you must indeed eat your fill. Indeed you must, out in all weathers as you are.’ It was not only I who usurped Edmund’s role as physician.
‘No more than Edmund,’ I parried.
‘But you do not have a wife to look after you.’
Despite her kindness, I shook my head, staring dismally at my plate.
She poured herself more chocolate, then leant forward animatedly. ‘Now, if a woman might offer a word of advice on this matter of the heart, it is that you should say nothing of your former love to this new object of your affections. A lady does not like to think she is competing with the dead.’
My blush was painful. ‘Nor is she. I have scarce met her.’
‘She has clearly made a deep impression on you,’ she laughed. ‘Her blue eyes, pink lips, clear complexion and lustrous hair – she must indeed be a paragon.’
‘A paragon? But true beauty lies in the soul,’ I insisted, as I had to her ladyship, ‘not in such outward show. Truly, Mrs Hansard, with one word you have opened my eyes to my folly. It lies not only in thinking myself unfaithful to Lizzie, but in imagining I could have fallen in love on such superficial acquaintance.’ I smiled across the table at them both. ‘Thank God I am blessed in my good friends. And yes, if I may, I will have another slice of this excellent ham. And that beef too.’ As she heaped my plate, however, another thought occurred to me. ‘But I still find it hard to believe that the first sound I heard was a cow. If it was not ghostly moaning I heard, what was it?’
‘That is a question I can take more seriously,’ Dr Hansard said. ‘Indeed, when I go on my rounds today, I will ask everyone I see. But I think the answer is not in your ears, Tobias, but what lies between them – your over-fertile conscience and imagination.’
CHAPTER THREE
Despite my parish work and the brevity of our acquaintance, try how I might I could not keep Lady Dorothea out of my mind. Sir Marcus had promised a morning visit for the following day, but none came, nor on the day after. Though I flatter myself that no one would have noticed from my demeanour, I blush to confess how disappointed I was.
However, I was no child to be in a sulk, so I went about my Master’s work with the lightest heart I could manage. One of my daily delights was to pray in our ancient church. On this occasion, however, the cold and damp almost bit into me – and I was not of a rheumatic disposition. I looked about me. The ancient stone almost bled moisture. I must remind Simon Clark, the verger, to bring in braziers on Saturday night to take the edge off the chill in preparation for the Sabbath’s divine worship. It might be the only warmth my poor parishioners enjoyed that day, or indeed, any other, till the weather eased.
Chafing my hands and trying in vain to ignore a vicious chilblain, I heard voices and – God forgive me – I almost ran to the door. Even as I approached, it creaked open to admit Sir Marcus’s party. It included, to my delight, Lady Dorothea, who smiled at me with every appearance of pleasure.
Our breath billowed and wreathed about us as I ushered them into the nave, ensuring that the heavy door closed behind us. If we had no form of heating, at least we could be spared the wind driving rain right through the porch. Truly, if the gale shifted but a degree to the north, I feared the rain would be transformed into snow.
Lady Dorothea, wrapped in dark furs, looked as charming as I had hoped, her golden curls peeping from a flattering hat. But I was in the House of God, and must turn my thoughts from the earthly to the spiritual. Smiling impartially at the Bramhalls, I spread my arms expansively. I had, after all, the care of a most lovely building, and felt something of the pride I fancy a mother might feel for her child.
‘As you can see,’ I began, ‘the building itself dates back to the days before the Conquest—’
‘This is the sort of organ that Mr Handel played in London,’ she exclaimed, darting forward impetuously, and indeed, far more abruptly than etiquette demanded. ‘And in a church as poor as this!’
But I was not offended. Indeed, much as I might have wanted to extol its more obvious wonders, such as the solid Saxon pillars and the wonderful stained glass the Almighty had somehow defended agains
t Puritan forces, I smiled at her enthusiasm.
‘It was a very generous gift from a friend of – of the family.’ I did not wish to mention the missing heir’s name and stopped abruptly. ‘We still have a talented band of villagers who play in the gallery up there when there is no organist – or no one to operate the bellows, which is often the case.’ I did not add that it was often I who had to take my place at the instrument.
No one seemed to notice either her faux pas or my indulgence.
‘I told you she knew her music,’ Sir Marcus declared, his voice echoing robustly in his pride. ‘Did I not, Campion? As excellent a musician as you’d find.’
Perhaps regretting her impulse, she shook her head delicately but firmly. ‘I may be knowledgeable but I am not at all accomplished.’
The distinction interested me. Surely it showed a fine mind. My next words came unbidden. ‘But you do play?’ Images of evening entertainments sprang unbidden to my mind. We might even be partners in a duet!
‘I sing a little. But I do not play nearly as well as my sister-in-law,’ she declared with a kind smile at Lady Bramhall.
‘Lady Chase has already extolled your talents, Lady Bramhall,’ I said kindly.
She blushed and fluttered her hands deprecatingly. For the first time I realised that they looked as strong and capable as mine.
‘If I worked the organ bellows, you would favour us with a little music?’ I asked Lady Dorothea, contriving now to ignore, as I was sure she wished to be ignored, the older lady.
‘Not unless I could play without removing my hands from this muff!’ she laughed.
Shadow of the Past Page 3
