The Dead Queen's Garden

by Nicola Slade

  ‘I was interested in what she told me about her passion for old abbeys,’ Charlotte said. ‘I can’t remember all of them, but she certainly mentioned Gracedieu and Walsingham.’ She broke off abruptly at a sudden shadow on her friend’s face. ‘What is it, what did I say to upset you?’

  ‘Nothing, you foolish Char. How could you know that for centuries Walsingham was a place of pilgrimage for barren women? I believe there is nothing to see, these days, but women still go there to pray. Lady Granville was one of the fortunate ones.’

  Elaine was looking weary so Charlotte said no more, and prepared to take her leave, pausing only when a thought struck her.

  ‘Heavens, I almost forgot.’ She turned a sparkling smile towards her hostess. ‘The vicar received a letter yesterday from his sister, Dora. You recollect her, I’m sure? It was you who reconciled me to her marriage to our neighbour.’ Elaine nodded, looking keenly interested. ‘It seems that Dora is to present her husband with a token of her affection in July. They are in Italy at present and she announces that she is in splendid health and clambering about a multitude of ruins. She cannot imagine why her sister-in-law has made such heavy weather of what is, after all, a perfectly natural state. Poor Agnes, who has suffered every discomfort under the sun, is sunk in gloom and guilt at her own incompetence.’

  ‘Good God!’ Elaine’s eyes brightened with a slightly malicious sparkle. ‘Who would have thought her husband brave enough to demand his conjugal rights,’ she giggled, ‘and how typical of Dora to sail through with no trouble. I do hope though,’ she clapped a hand to her mouth and looked aghast, ‘I hope Mrs Penbury has no such news? Surely everyone in sight would be obliged to suffer each pang and twinge along with her?’

  Charlotte bent to kiss her. ‘What a prospect. I feel guilty always, because that woman makes me uncharitable in spite of her infirmities, but I’ve heard nothing of the kind so far, thank God. Captain Penbury would surely demand a couvade in honour of his resident musket ball, should his wife announce an impending event.

  ‘Now, I really must leave you to rest. I have to go home and tidy myself in time for church. I must also make sure Gran is not in a panic about which present she intends for which person.’

  ‘That reminds me … before you go, dearest Char,’ Elaine was holding out a small box from the table at her side. ‘A little something for Christmas and to thank you for my sweet-smelling little nosegay. Open it, do,’ she urged.

  ‘Oh, Elaine.…’ Charlotte gazed in awe at the small but lovely emerald and pearl brooch that nestled in faded velvet. ‘This is far too precious, you should not….’

  ‘Indeed I should,’ said Elaine decidedly. ‘It belonged to my grandmother and has no great value, the emeralds are small and the pearls the same, but she was very dear to me, as are you. It’s very old, it was her own grandmother’s originally and now I want you to have it, dear Char, to remind….’ She broke off abruptly. ‘It’s yours now, so no more protestations if you please.’

  Charlotte nodded wordlessly, obediently pinned the brooch to her dress, and kissed her friend affectionately. As she picked up her shawl, Kit Knightley put his head round the door and smiled when Elaine called out to him, ‘What an opportune arrival, Kit. You are just in time to escort this dear girl downstairs, for she insists on leaving us.’

  ‘I suppose you are determined to walk back to the Manor, Char?’ Kit offered his carriage but showed no surprise when Charlotte laughingly refused, saying she had obeyed Barnard’s orders and the stable lad was waiting for her. ‘Barnard is quite right but in any case I insist upon walking down the drive with you to see you safely off the premises.’

  They conversed on unexceptionable subjects but neither broached the subject that tormented them; the increasing frailty of the woman so dear to both. It would have been a betrayal of Elaine, to discuss what was only too plain to see that, barring a miracle. She would be dead within weeks.

  When they reached the carriage gates at the end of the drive, Kit Knightley hesitated.

  ‘Char,’ he said with some hesitation. ‘That tale you were telling me, your old friend’s fears and Lady Granville’s morbid fancies…’ he frowned and shook his head. ‘Although I cannot believe there is a word of truth in any of this whole tarradiddle, I can’t help being anxious on your behalf. Will you promise me –’ he broke off in mid-sentence and looked across at the nearby copse of silver birch trees, their bare branches silhouetted in a delicate tracery against the pale winter sun. A frown creased his brow. ‘The thing is, Char, there is trouble enough coming and I cannot spare the time to worry about you too.’

  She pressed his hand in wordless sympathy and as she turned to walk across the heath track, Kit swallowed and said, abruptly, ‘I’ve sent a note down to the vicarage, Char, offering Percy Benson an apology. I won’t be at church today, I am not in the mood for festive celebrations.’ He nodded to her and added, ‘I hope you have a happy Christmas, Charlotte.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘AH, THERE YOU are, Char, come along there, come along.’ Barnard was fidgeting and frowning as he put his watch back into his pocket, as Charlotte hurried down the ancient blackened oak staircase, fastening her glove buttons as she did so and smoothing down her golden brown skirts. ‘Will you drive Gran and Miss Armstrong in the pony chaise?’ He cast a furtive glance across the hall to where his guests were beginning to assemble, and sighed as he caught a question in Charlotte’s twinkling hazel eyes.

  ‘Look here, Char, Lily says I must make sure the doctor and his sister-in-law don’t sit together. She, Lily, says they’re at daggers drawn,’ he whispered, looking vexed. ‘So what with that, and making sure Melicent doesn’t fuss Gran into an apoplexy, Lily thought…. The trouble is though, we were going to use the brougham as well as the landau, but the wretched stable cat has just had her kittens in it,’ he confided, looking harassed. ‘I don’t like … harrumph…’ he cleared his throat sheepishly, trying to disguise his tender heart, ‘that is, the stable lads don’t like to disturb her, though I promise it’ll be cleaned up before tomorrow’s visit to young Oz’s party. I thought you might drive Gran and Miss Armstrong? The weather’s fine so we can pile rugs and wraps round to keep out the cold.’ He shot her another rueful grin. ‘You’ll save my life and even if you’re a bit chilled, you’ll still have the better bargain. I wouldn’t wish Melicent on my own worst enemy, though old Penbury’s a good enough fellow. I hope he’ll keep his wife under control if Lily and I take them, along with Dr Chant.’ He mopped his ruddy brow and shook his head. ‘Upon my word, Char, I had no idea what a damned – harrumph! Beg your pardon, what a thorn in the flesh that woman has become.’

  ‘Faint heart,’ Charlotte laughed at him as they went outside to where the carriages were drawn up and waiting. ‘I’ll do what you want if you promise me two things.’

  The Squire of Finchbourne glanced anxiously down at her and Charlotte gave him a little push. ‘First of all it’s up to you to break the news to Gran, and secondly, I’ll need you to help hoist her into the chaise.’ She grinned as he nodded in eager agreement. ‘It’s fortunate that none of us is addicted to modishly wide crinolines. Off with you then, and don’t worry. If it comes on to rain or snow, the carriage can do several trips to carry us all home.’

  The old lady was in fine fettle as the pony chaise set off smartly down the drive with Charlotte at the reins, all three ladies well wrapped up.

  ‘I declare, young Char,’ she announced. ‘I like this frosty weather, so I do. Did I ever tell you about the time London’s river froze over? ’Igh jinks we all ’ad then, I can tell you, my gal.’ She stared with approval at the rime silvering the leaves of the magnificent red-berried holly by the gate, and nodded with satisfaction. ‘I feel it in my bones,’ she went on. ‘We’ll ’ave some snow to make it a real Christmas.’

  ‘Oh dear, I hope not.’ Miss Armstrong, tucked up to her chin in a large plaid rug, shivered and looked apologetic. ‘I do beg your pardon, Lady Frampton,’ she sa
id, ‘but I have to set out for London in a day or so to seek a new situation and I should much prefer to do so in fine weather.’

  ‘But Miss Armstrong,’ Charlotte gave the other girl a startled look over her shoulder. ‘There’s no need for such haste. I know Barnard and Lily are hoping you will remain at Finchbourne for some weeks to give you time to recover from your sad ordeal. Pray do not talk of going to London yet.’

  Sibella nodded her thanks, looking unconvinced, and Charlotte had no time for discussion as she drew up beside the lych-gate. It was time to set about the business of decanting Lady Frampton from her carriage; no easy task but Barnard came to the rescue and the Finchbourne party set off past the tombstones leaving Charlotte chatting to Dr Perry and his wife who had come up to her at the gate, while Sibella lingered to pat the pony.

  Lady Granville, her sealskin coat partly obscuring a strikingly unbecoming maroon plush dress, oozed graciousness as she greeted her neighbours at the church porch. Pleasantries were exchanged and Lord Granville, bowing with some ceremony, offered his arm to Lady Frampton, which old-world courtesy clearly gave her considerable pleasure. Oz Granville, in his Sunday best, made an awkward bow to the old lady and to Lily, then slipped back to greet Charlotte just as she turned to watch two parties of villagers.

  Those decked in their festive best headed towards the church while the others, more soberly attired, turned off towards the Ebenezer chapel at the other end of the street. A plump woman stood out among these decorous worshippers, her bonnet gaily trimmed with red berries. Charlotte stared, eyes wide and incredulous, at her old friend Bessie on the arm of a pillar of the community. Charlotte wondered why, bearing in mind that Bessie used to have a penchant for a charming rogue, she should take up with the baker, a non-conformist lay preacher.

  Miss Armstrong still stood beside the pony, talking quietly to him, while Dr Chant tried and failed to engage Dr Perry in conversation and Miss Cole was in everyone’s way as she fussed and flapped her handkerchief about. Oz was eagerly telling Charlotte about the ride he and his father had taken earlier that morning while the Granvilles’ groom lounged nearby with his fellow, the groom from the manor, when there was a sudden commotion, screams and shouts and the squeal of an outraged, frightened animal.

  Charlotte and the grooms jerked around followed by the boy as they rushed to the fat pony which, startled out of its placid nap, had started up with a loud neighing and tried to gallop forward. Mercifully, the chaise remained upright and its weight had no doubt acted as an anchor on the pony.

  ‘Miss Armstrong, are you hurt?’ As the groom seized hold of the reins and began to soothe the pony, Charlotte reached Sibella who was looking white and shaken. ‘You brave girl. You held on to the reins even though you might have been dragged under the wheels or the pony’s hooves. Here, let me support you over to the wall, you can lean there and catch your breath.’

  ‘No, please….’ Sibella Armstrong had herself in hand now and a faint colour crept back into her ashen cheeks. She moved her right shoulder experimentally and Charlotte saw her wince, but the other woman recovered quickly. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Richmond, truly. Just a wrench, and that will heal.’

  ‘A wrench?’ Charlotte felt the injured shoulder with firm, but gentle hands. ‘I’m surprised it’s not dislocated but no, you are quite correct, but what in the world happened? The pony is the quietest beast in the world, too indolent to rise to a trot, let alone bolt.’

  ‘I scarcely know,’ Sibella was as puzzled as Charlotte. ‘I was petting him when suddenly he reared up with a scream of fear, or perhaps pain, and tried to gallop off. Mercifully I managed to grab the reins and try to drag him to a halt. The rest you know.’

  Amid the anxious and inquisitive babble, Charlotte suddenly made out a familiar complaining voice.

  ‘Yes, indeed, do see to the young lady, Dr Perry. I do assure you that I am mercifully unharmed, though nobody as yet has taken the trouble to enquire after my health, being far more preoccupied with that of the horse.’

  ‘Pony.’ There was an audible mutter from Charlotte’s left and she turned to raise her brows at Oz Granville. ‘Not a horse,’ he added severely, with a glare at his mother’s companion as he faded into the background.

  ‘There was a dog too,’ Miss Cole added as she flounced up the steps to go into the church to wait upon her employer. ‘Yes,’ continued the companion, over her shoulder to Charlotte who was waiting for Dr Perry to confirm her own diagnosis. He helped Miss Armstrong up the steps and Charlotte took the other girl’s arm in hers for extra support.

  ‘There was certainly a dog,’ reiterated Miss Cole. ‘It ran under the horse’s legs, which was what startled it and set it off.’

  ‘Poppycock,’ hissed Oz, glowering, as he appeared once more beside Charlotte. ‘There was no dog in sight, I’d have spotted it if there had been. I like dogs,’ he declared. ‘Papa agrees I should have one, but Mama thinks it would bite me.’

  The ineffable scorn in his voice roused Charlotte’s sympathy but this was no time for idle chit-chat. Leaving the groom to settle the old pony, Charlotte walked into church, giving an arm to Sibella Armstrong who, though less pale, was visibly trembling.

  ‘Pray allow me to sit here at the back, Mrs Richmond,’ Sibella’s murmur was insistent. ‘I’ll be better able to collect my thoughts here in this quiet corner.’

  Charlotte made no protest but nodded sympathetically as Sibella crept to the far end of the last pew. Her own thoughts and prayers were a complete muddle. This was the second Christmas she had spent since the deaths of her mother and stepfather and the day brought home to her how much her life had changed.

  This time last year, she reflected, I was fleeing across India, living on my wits and desperately trying to reach a boat for England, and here I am: settled, prosperous, loved and … lonely. She bit her lip and bent her head in prayer, urging whatever deity might be watching over her, to give Elaine Knightley peace and freedom from pain, even though Charlotte knew what that would mean. She prayed that Kit Knightley might have the strength to bear up during these last days, weeks perhaps and then…. She cast that thought aside. What Kit’s future contained was no business of hers. All that mattered was Elaine’s comfort.

  But what of poor young Mrs Chant, she wondered, turning her thoughts with an effort. Why do I suspect that there is something untoward about her death? For I was uneasy about it before I encountered Bessie with her tale of something amiss; and something about Verena Chant made me sit up and take notice, but the Lord only knows what it was. Too much seems to have intervened since then for me to remember details.

  Her brother-in-law, Percy, climbed the pulpit stair to preach his first Christmas sermon as the new vicar but no doubt primed by his wife, he kept his homily mercifully short, unleashing his congregation promptly so that they could see to their dinner and enjoy a day of rejoicing.

  As she made her way outside, Charlotte whispered to Sibella that she should remain in her shadowy corner. ‘Do rest a while longer, it will be an age while the congregation mills around outside the church door, and you’ll find it fatiguing.’

  She slipped outside just as the parties from Brambrook Abbey and Finchbourne Manor were taking leave of each other.

  ‘We shall expect you, and naturally your guests, at half past three tomorrow,’ Lady Granville glanced round curiously as she spoke graciously to Lily Richmond. ‘My husband did have a fancy for an old-style dinner to celebrate Osbert’s birthday, but we decided that a tea party would be more appropriate.’

  She went on her way with Miss Cole flapping along behind while Lord Granville and Oz shook hands cordially with everyone. The boy smiled eagerly as his father and Barnard went into a conspiratorial huddle. ‘I’ll send word, Richmond,’ murmured the older man. ‘We’ll arrange another rat hunt in the next week or so, this time on Brambrook land. The boy had capital sport with you and I mean to see that he gets another crack at ratting.’ He touched his hat in a farewell salute and hastene
d after his wife.

  ‘Now, do come along, Master Osbert, your mama will be waiting for you.’ The interruption came from the officious companion, who had returned to harry the boy. Charlotte glanced over at him in sympathy and smothered a gasp at his expression. The woman had not stayed to see if her instruction was obeyed and Oz was glaring after her, with a look of distress on his pale face.

  ‘Oz?’ Charlotte brooked no denial, pulling him gently to one side. ‘You must tell me what is wrong? I’ve seen before that Miss Cole disturbs you, what has she done? Tell me, or I’ll be forced to speak to your father, it cannot be right for you to be so anxious.’

  ‘Dunster,’ his whisper was hurried, as he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder. ‘There’s a hidey-hole under the bridge; you know, the bridge over the moat? Nobody else knows about it and I like to sit there. The cat from the lodge comes there too and lets me stroke him.’

  ‘Yes?’ Charlotte touched his shoulder gently and Oz nodded, clearly trusting her. ‘You saw Dunster? You don’t mean, surely – oh, Oz, you didn’t see her … killed?’

  ‘No, oh no,’ the fearful look was back on his face and he looked round again to make sure there was nobody in hearing. ‘I didn’t, but I heard Miss Cole puffing and panting so I peeped out, it was raining and she couldn’t see me. M-Mrs Richmond – she came out of the garden door, not up the drive from the main gates at all.’