A Death by Any Other Name

by Tessa Arlen

  A young woman with golden curls done up in a ribbon and wearing a fashionable afternoon dress said with enthusiasm, “Actually, my husband and I live in Hampshire quite near to Upton Grey. We have been lucky enough to see the garden you designed several years ago. And what a wonderful…”

  A much older man standing by her side interrupted her, the way fathers do when their daughters exhibit a little too much eagerness. Clementine was surprised at the mutinous look the golden-haired girl cast in his direction. “I practiced law with a cousin of the owner of Upton Grey,” he explained to those not fortunate enough to have his connections. “We spent quite a few days at Upton last summer. Miss Jekyll’s use of color in her garden designs is so harmonious with nature.”

  It was Mrs. Haldane who quietly interrupted the rhapsodies of the group gathered around Miss Jekyll and said in her hesitant and gentle voice, “Lady Montfort, may I present the Hyde Rose Society’s most notable members?” Clementine noticed that among her friends their hostess appeared to be more at ease, as her stammer was not evident and there was almost a lively quality to her. So it’s only her husband that makes her behave as if she is a complete ninny, she thought.

  The chatter stopped immediately and curious eyes turned to Clementine and Mrs. Jackson standing in the middle of the library saying “yes, please” to a cup of tea and “no, thank you” to a large tray of elaborate sandwiches and decorative cakes.

  “And her ladyship’s companion and friend Mrs. Edith Jackson,” Mrs. Haldane added, walking over to Mrs. Jackson’s side and putting a tentative hand on her arm as she indicated a chair and waved at her footman to offer her something to eat.

  “Now, where to begin with my introductions?” And with a fluttery, self-conscious laugh Mrs. Haldane continued, “Lady Montfort, may I present Mrs. Dorothy Wickham?” The young woman with the golden curls bowed her head to Clementine; she was the youngest of the group, with pink cheeks, large, rather protuberant blue eyes, and a shot-away chin, who said, “How lovely and pleased to meet you,” rather breathlessly, and then, turning to the older man at her side, “My husband, Mr. Clive Wickham,” and the gentleman bowed.

  Clementine thought he looked a little irritated, maybe because he had been interrupted in the middle of his explanation about how well he knew the owner of Upton Grey. Or perhaps he was always irritable, she thought, as she took in his long serious face, small tight mouth, and fussy little mustache. He was of below-average height with a slight stoop to his shoulders and had the look of a pedant who complained endlessly about small missed details, and who knew the departure and arrival times of all the trains at his local railway station. She had caught his reference to the law. Yes, he would be a punctilious lawyer. Interesting that a man of quite senior years should have such an extraordinarily young wife; Mrs. Wickham was surely in her early twenties, whereas Mr. Wickham was well settled into his fifties.

  Mrs. Haldane continued with her introductions in a rather haphazard but charming way as she extended a hand to each of her friends in turn, regardless of gender, age, or social standing.

  “My dear friend Mrs. Amelia Lovell,” and a neatly dressed, pleasant-faced woman who was eating a cucumber sandwich nodded gravely and said, “Pleased to meet you, Lady Montfort, Mrs. Jackson. Miss Jekyll says your rose gardens at Iyntwood are renowned for their rare specimens.” Clementine appreciated the quiet dignity of her greeting. Mrs. Lovell was probably about the same age as Mrs. Haldane, but here all similarities ended. Mrs. Lovell was a well-built, heavy-shouldered woman who neither fluttered nor overwhelmed, nor bragged, but sat center-sofa in such a composed manner that Clementine was quite impressed. She noticed that Mrs. Lovell took an interest in what was going on around her with no apparent desire to overpower the conversation. A listener, rather than a talker, Clementine decided.

  “And one of our most gifted rose breeders,” Mrs. Haldane said as she turned to a man of frail build seated in a large wing chair, whereupon Mr. Wickham bristled a little and laughed as if Mrs. Haldane had a made a mistake, which caused her to stammer. “I sh-should say one of our many gifted rosarians—Mr. Finley Urquhart.” And a bent, little man got up from his chair, allowing the soft cashmere shawl that was draped across his gray-trousered knees to slip to the floor. He bowed first to Lady Montfort and then to Mrs. Jackson. He had the bushy, white side-whiskers of the late Victorian gentleman and wore a pair of silver-framed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, which gave him a schoolmasterly appearance, until she noticed that on his head was a round, plum-velvet pillbox hat heavily embroidered with mauve heartsease and yellow primroses. When he spoke it was with the gentle and precise enunciation of a Scot raised in the refined drawing rooms of Edinburgh. “How delightful,” he said, his bright little eyes shining behind polished lenses as he looked from one to the other of them with interest. “How very delightful; am I right in understanding, Leddy Montfort, that you are also something of a rosarian yerself?”

  Clementine warmed to this dapper gentleman and his benign good manners, and crossed the room to pick up his cashmere shawl. As he sat down she draped it over his bony knees and noticed with pleasure that he had laid aside an embroidery frame on which he was stitching an enchanting pattern of tiny little roses and their buds in shades of carmine red and pink.

  “Oh, oh, oh, how could I have forgotten?” Poor Mrs. Haldane was not having a successful afternoon, it seemed, for the door had opened and an elegant woman entered the room.

  “Dear Albertine, how remiss of me I should have sent Evans to tell you that tea was being served in the library. Lady Montfort, may I present Mrs. Albertine Bartholomew?”

  “No, it is I who should apologize for being so late to tea, Maud. Good afternoon, Lady Montfort.” Mrs. Bartholomew gave a polite nod to Mrs. Jackson and turned to take a proffered cup of tea from the footman. She was a tall woman, but not quite as tall as Mrs. Haldane, her thick, dark hair dressed in a simple style at the nape of her neck. She was not exactly pretty, Clementine thought, but she had an arresting quality and moved with grace and elegance. Her dress in the dove gray of late mourning had the sort of style that is always equated with the perfect lines adopted by the well-dressed Frenchwoman with a considerable income at her disposal. She was without a doubt, thought Clementine, as she noticed the cut of Mrs. Bartholomew’s walking suit, the most distinguished-looking woman in the room.

  Clementine gazed across the room at Mr. Bartholomew’s widow of five months as she sat herself down next to Mr. Wickham, whose bad-tempered face almost creased into a smile as he pulled his chair close so that they might talk without being interrupted.

  How strange, she thought. I had not imagined that the late Mr. Bartholomew’s wife would be French. And, not wanting to betray her curiosity for the very French Mrs. Bartholomew, she turned her attention to Mr. Urquhart, who in his gentle voice was bullying the footman to make sure that his tea-time crumpet was served: “Very hot, with all the butter carefully melted, and cut up into wee pieces.”

  “Such a disaster, this messy business of eating hot buttered crumpets at tea time, but I am so partial to them.” Mr. Urquhart lifted a delicate porcelain cup to his lips, sipped, and then winced. “Oh dear me no, I think this must be India tea that has steeped too long.” He held the cup on its saucer out to the footman. “Charles, make me a fresh cup, please, less strong and with not as much milk.” And to Clementine by way of an explanation: “One can never be too careful about the strength of Darjeeling tea, otherwise it becomes too acerbic,” and to the footman who was hovering over him: “Yes, Charles, I will take a scone, no cream but plenty of butter, and if the strawberry jam is homemade I will take some of that. And if you are offering me cucumber sandwiches take them away, cucumber is ruinous for my poor system.”

  And with his tea-time rations organized he turned his attention to Clementine and asked about her rose garden. “Miss Jekyll says your rose garden has one of the most interesting collections of old Damask, China, and Bourbon roses in the south of E
ngland.” And like all keen gardeners, Clementine was not only too happy to answer his every question with as much detail as she could provide.

  As they were finishing their tea Mrs. Haldane came over to Mrs. Jackson and sat down on a little chair to her right.

  “Edith, I understand from Lady Montfort that you are wonderfully efficient and have organized so many of her entertainments at Iyntwood.”

  “Yes indeed, Mrs. Haldane, the Talbot family hold two balls every year and it is my responsibility to organize them. If there is anything I can do to make myself useful here, you have only to ask.”

  “Everyone calls me Maud,” Mrs. Haldane said with a trace of her earlier coy manner. “And yes, there is perhaps something you could help me with. I am arranging for Miss Jekyll to give us a little talk after dinner and she has, I believe, brought with her an easel on which to display some illustrations of her wonderful landscape designs, as well as some of her beautiful watercolor paintings of her gardens at Munstead. Would you be kind enough to direct the efforts of my butler and footman in setting up in the Salon Vert, so that we can be comfortable there, after dinner, for her informal talk?”

  Mrs. Jackson said she would be delighted to, and mentally congratulated Lady Montfort on having already created a useful opportunity for her to meet the butler, who was standing with a particularly bland expression on his face, being careful not to look in the direction of Lady Montfort and Mrs. Jackson, as he directed the footman to serve tea.

  “It is not too much of an imposition, is it? After all, you have had a long journey today. Are you sure you are not too tired? You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” Having asked her favor and having been reassured that it would be granted, Mrs. Haldane was now preparing herself for a rebuff. And Mrs. Jackson, who always found it irritating when someone asked her for her help and then tried to talk her out of saying yes, cut short Mrs. Haldane’s breathless trembling at her presumptuousness. “I would be very happy to help you. In fact I would enjoy it.” She was careful not to use Mrs. Haldane’s Christian name because to call this woman Maud would make her feel most uncomfortable.

  “Very well then, I will tell Mr. Evans that you will meet him in the Salon Vert at half past six. Would that give you enough time to instruct him before joining us for dinner?”

  Mrs. Jackson said it would and that if it would not be inconvenient she would be taking dinner in her room. “Miss Jekyll has asked me to organize the rose competition that she will be judging tomorrow,” she explained. “I must give some thought to that.”

  “You are? Oh dear, we have loaded you down. I am so sorry. Thank you so much, how kind you are. I will have to spend some time this evening finding a little prize for Miss Jekyll to award for first place.” And she laid a limp hand on Mrs. Jackson’s arm. “I am so delighted you have come to my house, Edith. I know we are going to be great friends.”

  And Mrs. Jackson’s rather cool manner melted a little, because there was something so simple and well-meaning about this poor woman’s desire for approval.

  Chapter Six

  “Good heavens, Jackson, I have to have a few minutes to myself to take it all in. What a very intriguing group of people.” Lady Montfort was laughing as they gained the sanctuary of their rooms after tea.

  “I noticed that Mrs. Haldane was chatting away to you. Poor creature, I think she is easily intimidated, not surprising with that overwhelming husband.” She caught herself and looked a little guilty at having criticized their host to her housekeeper, who with her customary deference was standing in front of the door to her bedroom. “What did you think of them all?”

  Mrs. Jackson hesitated; she had been asking herself this since they had left the library after tea and come up to their rooms. If they were back at Iyntwood she would never have dreamed of offering her opinion of Lord Montfort’s guests to her ladyship, even if she had been asked. And anyway she would have been spared that embarrassment because her ladyship would never have dreamed of asking. There was a distinct lack of formality about the Haldanes’ guests that was puzzling. Mrs. Jackson was used to the polite arrogance with which the English aristocracy treated their servants. But there was a marked difference in behavior with this particular group, who exhibited such open frankness that it seemed as if every thought that came into their heads was uttered without consideration for how it was heard. And their host’s manners were, as pointed out by her ladyship, overpowering and, to her mind, uncouth.

  “I think Mr. Haldane has rather an unfortunate manner,” she said. “But Mrs. Haldane seems to be a decent sort, m’lady.”

  “He is both obsequious and boorish, a most unattractive combination. But she is rather a dear, if she could only stop apologizing. What about the lawyer?”

  “The lawyer, m’lady?”

  “Yes, Mr. Wickham is a lawyer, or is it a solicitor? I can never really tell the difference, and he is also a magistrate, the elderly Scotsman, Mr. Urquhart, told me.”

  “I thought he looked quite annoyed with everyone—except perhaps Miss Jekyll, whom he wants to impress.”

  “Mr. Wickham was quite discourteous to his wife. What is wrong with these men? They are perfectly horrid, except for that dear little Scotsman with his embroidery, his precise manners, and his passion for buttered crumpets.” Lady Montfort laughed. “So, has Mrs. Haldane asked her favor yet, Jackson?”

  “Yes; I am to go downstairs to meet with the butler in the green salon, or the Salon Vert as it is referred to, m’lady. We are going to organize the room for Miss Jekyll’s talk after dinner and make arrangements for the rose judging tomorrow morning before luncheon. So, if you will excuse me, m’lady, I think I had better be on my way downstairs. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

  “No, thank you, Jackson. Please be back here in time to help me dress for dinner. I am not sure I can struggle into that”— she pointed to a mousseline silk evening dress that she had taken out of the wardrobe and thrown across her bed— “without some help.”

  “Certainly, m’lady. I will be back by half past six.” And with that, Mrs. Jackson went into her own room and shut the door, where she leaned up against it for a few minutes and closed her eyes, trying to find her equilibrium in this new world in which she found herself as a guest in a grand house.

  The strangeness of her situation was difficult enough. But she was now to go downstairs and direct the efforts of Mr. Evans and his footman and the thought of it filled her with unease. She was more than capable of organizing any social event; her skills lay in her ability to put together, with impeccable timing, evenings of understated elegance. She had a creative flair for making drawing rooms and salons look their best with the placement of furniture and the right flowers to welcome large numbers of guests. But there was something about the butler: What is it about him that makes me feel unsure and awkward? she asked herself. He is quite correct in his manner, far more so than Mr. Haldane. If master and servant stood next to each other, Mr. Haldane, the master of the house, would be mistaken for the odd-job man who worked for Mr. Evans, the butler. But there was something about the man that made Mrs. Jackson reluctant to spend time alone with him.

  The strangeness of her situation and her antipathy to the butler were not all that was worrying her. Sooner or later she would bump into Mr. Stafford, and however much she had enjoyed his company the last time they had met, she had avoided all communication with him since then. She sat down at the ornate dressing table and looked at herself in the large gilt-edged looking glass as she tidied her hair.

  There was no conscious vanity in Mrs. Jackson’s appraisal of herself. She did not recognize that her features were even and classically proportioned, that her large, clear gray eyes shone with health and energy, and that her mouth was well-shaped and full-lipped. The only imperfections were the two vertical lines between her eyebrows, worn there by a habitual frown of concentration, and her tendency to compress her mouth into a thin line when she was annoyed. Given time, these marks would etch themse
lves fully into her face and mark her as a typical spinster, unloved and alone in the world. Today they merely gave her face character.

  You will be able to write a book about this one day, Edith, she told the young woman in the looking glass, considering all the pickles her ladyship involves you in. And as for that Evans, he is just a servant to a family in trade, so there is no need to be uneasy about him.

  She got up from her seat, searched for her notebook and pencil, and left her room by the door that led into the corridor to go downstairs and find the butler.

  * * *

  “Yes, that should work very well.” Mr. Evans stood away from the easel in front of the fireplace at the top of the salon and turned in a tight circle with his forefinger placed on his lips to assess the setup of the room for possible faults. “I think everyone will have a perfect view of whatever she is showing them. And as you say, it is important that they can leave their chairs and come over to the easel, without squeezing past each other, to take a look at her drawings when she has finished with her talk.”

  She had suggested they arrange the room’s comfortable upholstered chairs and sofas in three clusters of three in a loose semicircle around the easel, with a little table in the middle of each grouping for Mrs. Haldane’s guests to put down their glasses of wine. When all had been arranged, she had asked Mr. Evans if the rosarians had brought specimens of their roses with them.

  “Yes, they have indeed; the conservatory is full of them.” He walked over to the closed double doors that led into the great glass-paned room attached to the outside of the house and waved to the crowd of trees and flowers thriving in its interior. Every gesture he made when he was not in waiting was large and had a flourish to it, she noticed.

  “Might a few of them be gathered and put here next to the easel?”