The Dead Queen's Garden

by Nicola Slade

  Short and thin, Melicent’s lank dark hair was strained back and caught up into a net, and she drooped now beside the other two women trying to look as if she was participating in their conversation. Charlotte, seized by her usual reluctant and exasperated pity, watched the former governess who, for a wonder, was defeated by the other ladies’ polite indifference as she trailed over towards Lily’s prize visitor. Lord Granville’s shoulders slumped and he abandoned his surreptitious attempts to scrutinize the ladies. He too headed across the room and Lady Granville now directed her disapproving gaze elsewhere, her brows meeting once more as her irrepressible lord attempted to lionize the guest of honour.

  ‘Well now, Miss Nightingale,’ he beamed, attempting to engage her in conversation, apparently undisturbed by the repulsion clearly expressed on her face as he edged towards her. ‘This is a great occasion, is it not? A new little fellow ready to take his place in a good old local family?’ His face softened for a moment and he poked his head forward to peer hopefully from beneath his rampant eyebrows. ‘I must present my own young stripling to you, ma’am, a very promising lad.’ However he failed to discover his own son, though Charlotte bit back a smile as she caught a glimpse of that very fair head going purposefully towards the dining-room. As though he felt her gaze upon him, the boy looked round and saw her, his blue eyes alight with mischief as he grinned and made good his escape. Frustrated in his search, Lord Granville disconsolately turned back to the lady he had expertly penned in the bay window. ‘Tchah, he is not to be seen; well, well, lads will be lads, will they not? Now, my dear ma’am, you must allow me to be of service to you. What can I procure for you?’

  ‘You may procure for me a large sum of money,’ came the startling response as Miss Nightingale’s weary features lightened for a moment and a fleeting colour warmed her pale, sickly-looking complexion. At Lord Granville’s sudden, astonished silence, the famous lady waxed eloquent and her eyes gleamed with a zealous fervour. Charlotte, listening unashamedly, thought that here must lie the clue as to why Miss Nightingale had abandoned the seclusion of her sick room to mingle with so many people who were at most mere acquaintances, and, in the main, total strangers.

  ‘I am collecting funds towards setting up a new nursing order and I shall be most happy to accept your banker’s draft for five thousand pounds.’ She held his stricken gaze with a basilisk stare and added, ‘See, I have written your name at the very top of this list of today’s guests, some of whom have already been delighted to subscribe. I took the precaution some days ago,’ she explained, ‘of discovering from our hostess, the names of those who were invited to attend today and as you, my lord, are the gentleman of highest rank present, to you must be the honour of setting a generous example by heading the page. To that end, I have left a large space for you to write in the amount.’ Her tone brooked no refusal and she added, ‘Here, my lord, on this desk I have laid out both pen and ink. It only remains for you to set the amount and sign your name. My bankers will do the rest. You see? We are agreed, are we not, upon five thousand pounds? Now, I will save you some trouble by inscribing that amount. You have only to append your signature – here.’

  As Lord Granville, mesmerised by the famous lady’s insistent gaze, set his signature obediently upon the paper, Barnard’s voice rang out in a cheerful bellow as he stood foursquare on the staircase visible to all, through the wide open doors to both the drawing-room and the dining-room.

  ‘Well, well, here we all are,’ he began, stubbornly ignoring his wife’s pained expression and little whispered hints. Charlotte distinctly heard her peevish complaint, ‘You should have begun with, ‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen….’

  ‘I’m glad to welcome one and all on this happy occasion, by God so I am, and I know I speak for Lily too, hey, m’dear?’ He beamed down at his proud little wife who was clad sumptuously for the great day in a silk taffeta dress in a cheerful but unlikely tartan of purple and yellow trimmed with gold fringing which, Charlotte observed suddenly, emphasised Lily’s growing resemblance to portraits of Her Gracious Majesty when young.

  ‘I pride myself on a master stroke,’ Barnard preened. ‘That is, when I realized young Algy’s christening would be so near to Christmas, it seemed only fitting to celebrate the day along with all the trappings of a grand Olde Englishe Yuletide.’ Charlotte smiled fondly at the large young squire who had proved such a good brother to her. He was getting into his stride now, she grinned, and looking more and more jolly and festive by the minute.

  ‘Well now, before we drink a toast to the hero of the hour, let us raise a glass to Absent Friends.’ Barnard frowned in an attempt to make his genial features look solemn as he continued, ‘Lily’s father is sadly unable to be here as Lily’s stepmother presented him with a bouncing pair of twin boys, not an hour before he was due to set out.’

  Charlotte slid a glance at her sister-in-law who was failing to look delighted. She already had one infant half-brother, who had displaced her from her position as heir to her father’s estate, and now here were two more. Barnard, serenely unaware of his wife’s seething resentment, proposed another toast. ‘As many of you know, my mama and my uncle are at present taking the cure on the Continent, so here’s to them too, and let us hope we can soon celebrate their return home.’

  Across the room, Kit Knightley caught Charlotte’s eye and briefly lowered his left eyelid in a fleeting wink. He and she had both been instrumental in expediting the redoubtable elder Mrs Richmond’s exile abroad after the death of Charlotte’s husband, and they were united in their fervent prayer that she should certainly never reappear at Finchbourne Manor.

  Barnard was making another speech. ‘You have already heard the Waits who are here to entertain us with their carols, and they’ll be in full voice again once I’ve said my piece. Sad to say though, the Mummers, who were to perform their play for us, have been obliged to stay away, as three of their number have gone down with the measles. Never mind that though, the wassail bowl is ready and waiting in the dining-room along with Olde English delicacies such as frumenty and … and other such,’ he finished hastily as his memory clearly failed him. He mopped his flushed forehead with a large spotted silk handkerchief and wound up his welcome address by inviting his guests to hasten to the dining-room so they might enjoy the feast and join him in raising a cup of the wassail brew to little Algy’s future happiness.

  Charlotte waited till last to allow the guests first onslaught on the mountain of food piled on the vast mahogany table. She cast an anxious glance round the room, exchanged a covert smile with the young Granville lad, and met Kit Knightley’s quizzical smile as her brows knitted in a slight anxiety.

  ‘Why are you looking so worried, Char?’ He came over to her, a broad-shouldered man, brown-haired and blue-eyed, his pleasant face shadowed by signs of anxiety that were not entirely eclipsed by his present amusement.

  ‘I’m just hoping Gran doesn’t eat too much of that rich food,’ she explained, waving a hand towards the table. ‘She has the constitution of an ox indeed, but I’ve never seen so many pies and pastries in my life and I know what she’s like where food is concerned.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ Kit laughed, as they observed Lady Frampton industriously shovelling spoonfuls of frumenty – which looked to Charlotte like a rather stodgy porridge – into her greedy mouth, at the same time as she selected sugar plums, candied fruit and other delicacies to pile high on her plate. She added a large slice of rich cake, generously topped with candied fruit, an innovation that was, Charlotte was relieved to notice, eliciting loud praise from the guests. Captain Penbury was vying with the old lady beside him as to the speed with which he crammed mince pies one after the other into his own mouth.

  ‘Oh dear, they look as though they’re having a race,’ sighed Charlotte turning away in despair. ‘The captain certainly shouldn’t be eating so much of this food, he’s very lax. He is supposed to be on an invalid diet to accommodate what he always calls his “trouble amids
hips” where he still carries a musket ball dating from an ancient naval engagement.’

  With her pouting attendant a dutiful three paces behind her, Lady Granville sailed across the room, with a nod to Charlotte and Mr Knightley. She brushed aside all eager questions from the other guests regarding the murder of her poor maid, and inclined her large stately head towards Miss Nightingale. That lady, with his lordship’s signature firmly on her list of promised donations, was now sitting with a group of potential benefactors.

  ‘Ah, thank you Sir, you are most generous,’

  Charlotte heard her being gracious to a hapless neighbour, as he bowed to her stronger will and signed his name to her list. ‘And you, madam? I’m sure you will not hang back for such a worthy cause?’

  Lord Granville, who had been looking shocked at the predatory manner in which she proceeded to milk her hapless fellow guests, now assumed an even more miserable expression as his lady hooked a proprietorial hand into his arm.

  ‘Ah, Lady Granville.’ There was a beadily-ingratiating smile on the face of the Lady with the Lamp as she raised her head from her notes and observed the newcomer. ‘I am sure you will wish to match your husband’s generosity by making a donation on your own behalf to my proposed training school for nurses?’

  A chilly stare was the initial response she received followed by a decided shake of the head. ‘I think not.’ Lady Granville’s response was cold, abrupt and, it had to be admitted, rude. ‘If you have ensnared my husband and trespassed upon his well-known goodwill – and, as I have observed, the goodwill of many of the other guests already – then that must suffice you, along with those remaining parties whom you no doubt intend to approach. Come, my lord, I cannot see our son, Osbert, anywhere and I am becoming anxious about him.’

  Charlotte had to conceal a gasp of admiration at this fearless refusal.

  ‘How brave,’ she whispered to Kit Knightley. ‘To give a set-down to Miss Nightingale, who is the most intimidating female I’ve ever encountered. She’s even more daunting than a fearsome landlady of an outback lodging house where we once stayed. She was rumoured to have summarily disposed of seven husbands.’

  Kit’s blue eyes creased in a smile and Charlotte remembered Will Glover’s comment, ‘Ate ‘em all on the wedding night, probably.’

  The heroine of the Crimean War, plainly gowned but tall and imposing, half rose in her seat, while her gathering frown struck fear into the guests in her immediate neighbourhood; but her quarry was gone. Lady Granville had dragged her lord away and was now bearing down on the groaning table where her son, trapped by his greed, was unable to escape. Charlotte watched with sympathy as the anxious mother loomed over the boy and began to pick out delicacies from the table and pile them on to his plate, frowning heavily as Captain Penbury whisked one particularly choice morsel away moments before her ladyship’s hand descended to it.

  Suddenly there was an outcry. Charlotte, who had shrugged and turned away, recognised her own name called out in Lady Frampton’s stentorian tones and she craned round the heads in front of her, anxiety uppermost in her thoughts. A cry of ‘Murder!’ rang out from a couple of the guests and she felt her heart contract. What she saw made her elbow her way through the throng.

  Captain Penbury had crashed to the floor with his hand clutched to his chest, the weather-beaten colouring fading rapidly from his broad, square face.

  Chapter 3

  LADY FRAMPTON STOPPED in mid-bellow as Charlotte rushed to her side.

  ‘Sit down, Gran,’ she urged once she had ascertained that the old lady was unhurt; all her shouting had been for her granddaughter to come to the aid of the captain. ‘At once, do you hear? I’ll see to this.’

  There was still a clamour of voices shouting ‘Help, murder!’ as she knelt beside the stricken sailor to loosen his collar. ‘Cease that nonsense this instant,’ she commanded and raised her head to seek assistance. ‘Someone clear the room at once, if you please, ah, Mr Knightley? Thank you. And someone else please enquire whether Dr Perry has arrived, I know he is expected. Ask him to attend the captain directly.’

  She bent to her task. Captain Penbury was breathing, although he looked distressed and his colour was still poor; she prayed that he was not having a heart attack. Charlotte slipped an arm beneath his head and looked up in gratitude as someone handed her a cushion.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and glanced round again, looking anxious. ‘Is there another cushion, please? I believe he will be more comfortable if we can raise him a little higher.’

  A second cushion was passed to her and presently a warm rug offered, which was placed over the patient, while a glass of brandy appeared to hand as if by magic.

  ‘Thank you once more.’ She looked up and was startled to see the heroine of the Crimea bending beside her. Charlotte nodded gratefully and helped the captain to take a restorative sip. ‘I think he’ll recover now, do not you, Miss Nightingale?’ Her words were more hopeful than she felt but she saw to her relief that the naval man was showing some sign of improvement and making an attempt to sit up.

  ‘Come, Captain,’ she soothed, gesticulating hastily for a basin lest the captain’s queasy-looking countenance should indicate actual vomiting. ‘There,’ she murmured as her patient regained some colour in his cheeks. ‘Lean back against the wall for a few more minutes then we’ll find some strong arms to help you to the morning-room where you may lie upon a sofa in peace until you are more composed.’

  She rose and looked around the room for help and indicated to the hovering butler that a footman was needed. The captain’s colour continued to improve so she moved a little to one side, to give him air, but ready to assist if need be.

  ‘I am impressed, Mrs Richmond.’ Standing near her, Miss Nightingale astonished Charlotte with a nugget of praise. ‘Most impressed. I like to see a woman of resolution, particularly when the rest of the room is filled with squawking geese and silly sheep, all milling around to no purpose. I suppose you would not consider….’ A slight commotion outside in the hall caused her to break off in mid-question and raise her eyes, while a sardonic smile lightened her expression for a moment. ‘Oh dear me, our troubles are all at an end,’ she murmured, a sarcastic note in her voice, ‘now that I see Dr Chant is upon us. I spotted his giddy young wife here. At present he is said to be the Capital’s most celebrated physician, even rumoured to be in occasional attendance upon the Prince Consort, no less. I trust the captain has a fat wallet and a strong constitution for he’ll need it if the good doctor is to be let loose upon him. And that goes for the Prince Consort too,’ she added thoughtfully.

  Charlotte glanced up and saw a well-dressed, grey-haired man in the doorway, expostulating with Dr Perry who had made a belated appearance.

  For a moment, Charlotte thought Miss Nightingale had a smirk on her face as she went on, ‘The bearing of an archbishop,’ was her whispered aside, ‘and the soul of a petty clerk. The good doctor doesn’t approve of intelligent women who are taller than he is himself.’ Yes, however unlikely, Charlotte was convinced the great lady sported a broad grin. ‘He doesn’t approve of me,’ she added. ‘And he certainly won’t take to you, my dear.’

  A pompous-looking fellow, Charlotte decided, but he’ll get no change out of Dr Perry so there can be no need for me to rush to Captain Penbury’s assistance. She hid a smile as she took note of the captain’s wife who was indulging in a small fit of the vapours on her own behalf with little success, as the assembled guests merely quickened their steps, averting their eyes as they passed by her.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Charlotte sighed as she realized nobody else was likely to do anything, certainly not Dr Perry who bent over the fallen sailor, took his pulse, barked a few chastening words, and took his leave. ‘Do pray excuse me, Miss Nightingale but I must rescue the poor captain, not only from the doctor you mention, but from his own wife.’ She bowed politely. ‘It has been an honour to make your acquaintance.’

  From the lady’s frowning expression, Charlo
tte suspected her own timely escape bid had rescued her from being badgered for a donation, but Miss Nightingale pursed her lips and nodded, saying only, in what Charlotte felt to be an ominous under-tone, ‘I shall write to you, Mrs Richmond.’ The words were accompanied by an enigmatic twitch of her brows. After a moment, she continued, ‘I knew your late husband, you know, when we were children; we were much of an age. On one occasion he tied me to a tree and left me there for hours. He was a bully and a coward and you are exceedingly well rid of him.’ Charlotte could only bow politely and agree with this unexpected but only too accurate assessment of her late husband’s character. As she administered common-sense to Mrs Penbury, along with a glass of brandy, she observed that Miss Nightingale had followed her.

  ‘Oh, oh,’ gasped Melicent, fluttering a hand to her meagre breast. ‘Oh, my valves.’ Charlotte stared in surprise and Melicent went on, ‘I have valves in my heart, you know. They are a sore trial to me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Miss Nightingale interrupted fiercely. ‘Everyone has valves in his heart. It’s perfectly clear to me that there is nothing amiss with you, my good woman, apart from hysteria and a fit of attention-seeking.’

  Charlotte tried to bite down the gurgle of amusement that rose to her lips, but was forced to feign a coughing fit before she set about pacifying the shocked patient. A few moments later, Lord Granville hove into sight with a smile for Charlotte, but upon realising that Miss Nightingale was at her side, hastily made some apology and veered off to the other side of the room.

  ‘Dear me,’ Florence Nightingale looked grimly amused. ‘Poor Lord Granville, I seem to have terrified him.’ She watched him go, ‘However, he has a sanguine temperament and does not dwell on things. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.’ The great lady gave a brisk nod and turned away to seek further voluntary contributions for her nursing fund, leaving Charlotte to listen to Melicent’s complaints.