by Nicola Slade
‘You’d better call me Char,’ she told him absently, ‘though not when your mama can hear. Let me understand this, Oz; if you saw Miss Cole, you surely must have seen the burly stranger she bore witness to?’
She took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
‘No,’ his eyes were anxious as he looked up at her. ‘That’s just it. I didn’t see anyone at all, only Miss Cole, and I didn’t hear anything either, apart from the usual noises from the stables. I was hiding under the bridge with the cat and then I heard her puffing away. That was when I saw Dunster lying by the door to Mama’s garden, with blood all over her and Cole in a great hurry just coming out of the door and running across to – to look.’
At that moment there was a hail from Lord Granville at the Brambrook carriage, and Charlotte waved in response. ‘You must go, Oz,’ she urged and gave him a brief hug. ‘You’re certain Dunster was already on the ground when Miss Cole came out? Very well, don’t mention this to anyone else and we’ll talk about it when we get a chance. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about but I can see it was upsetting for you. I promise you we’ll get to the bottom of it very soon.’
The boy seemed reassured and ran off to join his parents, looking much more cheerful. Pursing her lips, Charlotte glanced down the road to see if the chapel-goers were also making their way home but their minister was made of sterner stuff than Percy Benson, she thought, and was known for the length and power of his sermons. In the midst of the commotion with the pony, she had glimpsed Bessie staring across at the throng outside the church, but it was of no use to wonder about her presence in Finchbourne.
The story the boy told sounded fantastic but she had no reason to doubt his word; he was an observant lad and clearly disturbed by what he had witnessed. What an odd tale it was! How could Dunster, the maid, be suddenly dead and covered in blood on the drive if Oz had heard no sound of a struggle? And why, if all this were true, had Miss Cole lied on oath at the inquest, firstly about coming up the drive from the main gate, and then about seeing a stranger running off from the scene? She shook her head and went to collect Sibella from the church. It was time to obey her own advice and put the conundrum aside as she entered into the spirit of Christmas with her family.
Barnard held old-fashioned notions about dinner time on festive days, though at other times he gave in with an ill grace to Lily’s pretensions to fashion and ate at a later hour. Today there was still a faint hint of light in the sky when the manor guests sat down to eat and Charlotte drank her clear turtle soup with a guilty nod to the memory of faraway beaches and dusky nights when Will Glover had taken her to watch the giant turtles lay their eggs. She recalled too, a day when she had stood guard over newly-hatched turtles and protected them from marauding gulls as they staggered unsteadily towards the sea.
‘Don’t get sentimental about animals, Char,’ Will had warned her, serious for once, as he mopped up the tears that trickled down her sandy cheeks. ‘The time may come when you will be glad to eat anything – anything at all – and be grateful for it.’ Well, he’d certainly been right about that, she reflected, remembering the near-starvation she had endured in her flight across India during the Mutiny, so now she finished her soup without demur.
A roast goose and a great rib of beef were soon disposed of and Charlotte was glad to observe that Captain Penbury, who was sitting next to her, was for once exercising restraint. The last thing we need, she told herself, is for him to suffer another episode of severe indigestion, if that’s what it was. Almost without volition she glanced across the table at Sibella Armstrong. Now why do I associate her with our naval hero’s indisposition, she asked herself.
As the pudding was brought in, held aloft and flaming, by Hoxton the butler, Charlotte suddenly remembered. Oz Granville! She almost exclaimed the boy’s name aloud, so great was her astonishment as she sent her thoughts back to the scene beside the wassail bowl. That was it, she exulted, glad to have identified the connection that had been niggling her for the last forty-eight hours or so. I was watching Oz tucking into candied fruits when I glanced across towards Verena Chant. She was smiling at her sister and at me, and even though I can’t think why it didn’t register properly with me at the time, I was amazed at her fleeting likeness to the boy. Yes, Charlotte pondered the similarities with increasing eagerness and little interest in the rich plum pudding now being served and put in front of her. And when Oz looked up at me at that moment and he smiled too – their smiles were practically identical.
‘Char? Charlotte, I say.’ Barnard was calling out her name. ‘Bless me, the girl is in a daydream. Come, Char, eat up your pudding and see if you have the ring or the coin in there, nobody has found them yet, nor the thimble. We shall all have to have second helpings, eh?’
Pulling herself together Charlotte forced herself to join in with the merriment but found no sign of anything in her pudding except the currants, raisins and other fruits that she expected. Others were more fortunate.
‘Well, bless my soul.’ Lady Frampton held up a silver thimble. ‘There’s my fate, ain’t it? I’m to die in single blessedness. Well,’ her several chins wobbled as she wheezed, laughing heartily, ‘I’ve ’ad my fun, so I ’ave and it would be a brave man as took me on nowadays!’
‘Miss Armstrong? What is that you’re trying to conceal under your spoon?’ Melicent Penbury looked distinctly put out. She was not the centre of attention, that place went by right to Lily, as hostess. Unlike Agnes, daughter of the manor and the vicar’s wife, she had no interesting condition to give her importance, and here was Sibella Armstrong taking the place of honour as the lone woman in need of comfort and assistance, a place Melicent was accustomed to fill, despite her present status as a newly-married woman.
Sibella bit her lip and managed a faint smile as she caught Charlotte’s sympathetic eye. ‘It is the ring,’ she murmured, but if she had hoped to turn away the kindly and inquisitive comments of a table full of increasingly cheerful and rosy diners, she was to be disappointed.
‘By Gad, ma’am,’ thundered the captain, banging the table with delight. ‘A marriage, I see. Who will be the lucky man, hey? Hey?’ With the dreadful timing of the truly tactless, he continued with a knowing smile. ‘Sadly, I am out of the running these days, but have we a single man at table?’ He stared round at the other men, his weather-beaten face agleam only with interest, but as his eye fell upon Dr Chant, so recently bereaved, the captain gave a sudden grunt of pain and turned an indignant stare upon Charlotte.
‘I’m so sorry, Captain Penbury,’ she apologised. ‘I had a sudden cramp in my foot, did I inadvertently kick you? How very clumsy of me, I do beg your pardon.’
Barnard Richmond now rushed into the breach, his jovial face creased with anxiety on behalf of a guest’s feelings. ‘Here,’ he cried, holding up a coin. ‘See what I have, I am to be rich. That’ll be a lark, won’t it, Lily?’ He caught Charlotte’s eye and grinned with relief at their having jointly averted a grievous social gaffe. ‘I heard the other day that there are railway surveyors at large locally, so perhaps I am about to make my fortune selling land to them.’ His shoulders shook as he roared with laughter but only Charlotte was privy to the slight flicker of his left eyelid as he glanced at her. She knew that negotiations for the sale of several otherwise unproductive, distant acres for the new railway line were already well underway, for he had consulted her, having a good deal of respect for her opinion.
‘Presents now,’ decreed Lily. ‘If we have to wait until the gentlemen finish their horrid cigars, we shall wait forever. Hoxton? Please hand round the basket of gifts.’
Charlotte was relieved to see that Miss Armstrong had a respectable heap of small gifts in front of her – more handkerchiefs, some ribbons, a length of lace for trimming a gown or hat, and that even Dr Chant was opening a box of fine cigars. Her own haul offered some surprises. Certainly there were gloves, some books, a fan, handkerchiefs, ribbons and laces for her too, together with a beautiful cas
hmere shawl from Lily and Barnard, but underneath was a small parcel that had clearly arrived in the post.
She undid the wrapping and opened up the brief note she discovered inside, while Lily, with undisguised curiosity, asked, ‘Whoever can be sending you presents by post, Charlotte? You have, after all, little acquaintance outside Hampshire.’
‘It is … it is a pair of emerald bracelets,’ Charlotte looked up, with a dazed expression. ‘From, from the lady I told you of, the one I met in Bath.’
‘Really?’ Lily’s eyes glittered with envy as she examined the sparkling jewels in a slender setting, complemented by a delicately engraved tracery. ‘Of course, I recall now. She turned out to be some kind of relative of yours, did she not? She must be a lady of some consequence.’
‘Aunt Becky, yes,’ Charlotte’s response was a little absent as she scanned the accompanying brief, loving note. Not for the world would she ever reveal to Lily the true relationship that lay between her and the elderly lady she had met so unexpectedly during that summer’s visit to Bath. She pulled herself together and looking up, saw that Lady Frampton was watching her in some anxiety. Charlotte looked down and realized that there was one present remaining and that one an official-looking document. As she opened it up under Lady Frampton’s eager gaze, she saw the old lady hold a finger to her lips.
‘Oh, Gran…’ Charlotte stared in astonishment at the deeds of a pair of London houses and as Lily rose to gather her ladies to retire to the drawing-room, Char flung her arms round the old lady who had become so very dear to her. ‘I had no idea,’ she whispered. ‘What a generous thing to do, you’re the most wonderful old lady in the entire world.’
‘You’re a woman of property now, me gal,’ the old lady spoke gruffly, always her way when she was deeply moved. ‘You keep quiet about it though, it’s nobody’s business but ours, though Barnard knows. It ain’t much, but Kensington is getting all the rage now, so the rent will make you decently independent, me dear. Call it an instalment of your in’eritance if you like, that pair of ’ouses was a gift to me from my dear late ’usband on my fortieth birthday. ’E’d have approved of you.’ She blew her nose loudly and tapped Charlotte on the arm with the fan that was Char’s present to her. ‘And ’ed ’ave loved a daughter like you, Char, as much as what I do.’
Overwhelmed by the old lady’s generosity, Charlotte slipped upstairs and tucked her gifts into a drawer, then splashed water from the basin to cool her flushed cheeks. Gran had given her the thing she had craved for so long: independence and respectability. Lady Frampton might speak dismissively of the value but even Charlotte’s ignorance of London did not prevent her realising that a pair of town houses in Kensington was a magnificent inheritance.
Impossible after such generosity to consider, even half-heartedly, Miss Nightingale’s offer of a situation; Gran would be hurt beyond bearing, though she would never mention it, so it was as well that Charlotte had despatched her refusal.
It was too much to take in at this moment, so she swung her new shawl around her shoulders and admired herself in the mirror. Clever Lily had chosen well: the shawl had a background of soft cream and the paisley pattern was predominantly green, just the thing to wear with her festive gown of dark emerald silk. With a wistful smile she slipped her new matching bracelets on to her arms, then her glance fell on Elaine Knightley’s emerald and pearl brooch and Charlotte’s eyes filled with sudden, anguished tears. Here am I, she half sobbed; healthy and loved and now with a truly independent income, honestly come by, for a change, while Elaine, whom I love so dearly and who is so good to everyone, Elaine is…. It was no use, the word would not, must not, be spoken and Charlotte shook her head. No time for grieving now, she shivered. Lily has a party of very mixed guests and she is relying on me to help her entertain them.
Downstairs, Lily was doing her best to dispose her awkward group of ladies around the drawing-room. Lady Frampton was happily ensconced beside the fire, with her fat old spaniel, Prince Albert, wheezing contentedly at her feet, as he kept an eye on his mistress should she slip him the odd titbit.
Melicent, Charlotte saw with a sigh, was at the pianoforte again. Lily had reluctantly asked her to play, backed up by the vicar’s wife. Miss Armstrong had taken herself off to a seat to one side, and Melicent’s playing was better than nothing, as neither Agnes nor Lily could boast of much talent. Anything, Charlotte thought, to stave off yet another war of words between Melicent and Dr Chant, who had taken to sneering at every ailment that the former governess claimed to have contracted. (‘Cholera, madam? I take leave to doubt it, but let us hear your symptoms. Did you suffer from high fever and dysentery?’) Charlotte had thrown herself into the breach at that time, incurring the displeasure of both combatants, but receiving heartfelt gratitude from Lily who had been privileged to mediate over their heated discussions on increasingly revolting symptoms and ailments.
Half an hour of Christmas music, enhanced by some uncertain arpeggios and the occasional wrong note, passed the time and when Melicent stopped for a rest, Charlotte made an effort. ‘How splendid, Melicent. It must be delightful to be able to play.’
‘Do sing to us, Char.’
Oh dear, that was Agnes, attempting, with clumsy kindness, to give everyone a chance to shine. She lowered her voice and looked moist-eyed in the direction of the bereaved guest. ‘Something quiet and in keeping, of course, but I know I can trust your taste.’
‘I’ve told you before, Agnes, I have no accomplishments.’ Charlotte was firm and turned away with a nod to Melicent. None, apart from cooking a plain dinner, sewing a plain seam, and, as she had confessed to Oz, killing a crocodile that had Will by the leg. Better not admit to that, she told herself, with an inward smile, and as for her voice – well, Will Glover had certainly taught her many songs but there were few that would pass muster in a lady’s drawing-room. The ladies present tonight would be shocked beyond belief were she to burst into a chorus of one of the songs she had learned at the gold fields and the only respectable song that sprang to mind was The Wild Colonial Boy, which was a trifle too close to her own history for comfort, not to mention whatever had become of Sibella’s brother.
Before Agnes could press her reluctant sister-in-law further, the double doors were flung open and Barnard ushered in his gentlemen. Evidently, the brandy and port had flowed once the dining-room was free of the hampering presence of the women folk. Barnard’s bluff face was always ruddy and jovial but tonight he was in the highest of good humours, while Percy Benson, the vicar, whose build was slight and his complexion wan, now sported bright red cheeks and a silly smile. His wife, pursing her lips at the sight, said nothing but waylaid him and forced him to sit quietly beside her.
Captain Penbury was another man of habitual high colour but Charlotte was relieved to see that he looked none the worse for wear. Mindful of Elaine Knightley’s mischievous suggestion, she shot a thoughtful glance at Melicent Penbury and was reassured; if Melicent were with child, the entire population of Finchbourne would know by now.
Dr Chant also had a heightened flush and seemed to have recovered from the deep gloom that had wreathed him earlier. His glance swept the drawing-room with the practised ease of a man used to winnowing out those members of society who might be of use to him. His gaze passed over Lady Frampton, to Charlotte’s secret amusement, knowing that the old lady’s enormous wealth would have the doctor solicitously at her feet, if only he knew of it. The vicar and Agnes clearly held no prospect of social advancement, apart from their relationship to the manor, while the Penburys, man and wife, were beneath his notice. Charlotte did suspect him though, of deliberately provoking Melicent for his own amusement, a circumstance which reinforced her conviction that he was not overwhelmed by grief.
On overhearing Melicent’s peevish complaint that the manor was draughty, he had solemnly told her, ‘You are quite correct, madam, to fear. It is well known that many persons take cold from the injurious currents of air that seep through window and d
oor frames. Remember the adage, “When the wind comes upon you through a hole, it is time to make your will and take care of your soul.” You would do well to take to your bed and recall those wise words.’
The doctor now made his way towards Lily, clearly bent upon charming her, but the butler entered at that moment, bearing cake and wine. Baulked of his prey, Dr Chant shrugged and turned towards Charlotte, who was sitting beside Miss Armstrong just out of reach of the ferocious heat of the roaring fire.
‘I hope I do not intrude?’ He sat down with a nod at Charlotte, his smile turning to a hastily-disguised scowl as Melicent Penbury tripped over to them, with a girlish squeal of laughter.
‘Oh, do pray allow me to join you, dear Mrs Charlotte, I so rarely have the opportunity to converse with ladies. The women in our little town you know, very worthy persons of course, but….’ she shook her head. ‘One does miss the company of refined people of one’s own kind.’
‘Oh, do just call me Charlotte,’ Char begged, casting about for an innocuous topic. ‘I believe there are rumours of snow in the air. How delightful, I have never encountered snow before, it will be a new pleasure.’
‘I did not think it ever snowed so far south,’ said Sibella quietly. ‘I was brought up in Northumberland so it was never a novelty.’
‘Have you visited this part of the world before?’ put in Melicent, her eyes alight with curiosity as Sibella hesitated and stammered a little, a fleeting colour staining her pale cheeks.
‘Indeed not,’ she said decidedly. ‘Winchester is quite unknown to me,’ she added. ‘It was a whim of my sister’s, I believe, that led her to choose the city for our short holiday.’
‘A whim?’ With a snort of laughter that contained little humour, Dr Chant broke into the conversation. ‘Believe me, my dear Sibella, nothing your late sister ever did was by a mere whim,’ there was a scornful twist to his lip as he went on, ‘her every action, rather, was the result of calculation, believe me.’
