Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1)

by Jayne Davis

  “Funny thing, though,” Archer went on. “I said I didn’t know why the old bat…”

  Will suppressed a smile.

  “…had come to the village when she had servants below her she could order around, and they all shut up sharpish.”

  “So?”

  “If they didn’t know either, wouldn’t they have made a guess? We was all drinking by now, and they was loose enough mouthed about everyone else. Looked to me like they all knew why she’d come, and were too frightened to say anything at all in case they got the same treatment.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “No, my lord. Just an impression.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Lots of talk, but I dunno how much is useful. I could tell you who might be doing what she shouldn’t while her husband was at sea, but you don’t want that. Joss Trelick nearly wrecked his boat last month while he was drunk.”

  “He’s not likely to be running things then.”

  “Ha, no, my lord. Surprised he can find his own arse. Davy Nance seems to have a second sight for where the fish are, but…”

  Will glanced sideways, to see Archer’s eyes narrowed.

  “What is it?”

  “Most of the folks in Ashmouth do the fishing, apart from Coaker at the inn, and Bill Roberts. He does carpentering.”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s a couple, three maybe, they’ve got a boat, but no-one ever mentions them when they’re talking about catches and prices.”

  “Ah. Another source of income, perhaps?”

  “Might be, my lord. Tom Kelly—right big bloke, he is. Sam Hall, Joss Sandow—they’re nothing much to look at. Don’t say much, either.”

  “Plenty of money in the village?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice.” Archer described houses in need of repair, boats patched up, skinny children—an overall impression of people barely making ends meet. Will wondered how much of their income came from the smuggling. The need for money, not merely the liking for a bit more, would be a powerful inducement to risk hanging.

  That was something to address in his plans for the estate. If there was more paid work on the land, would fewer of them get involved in smuggling? Possibly not—labouring was harder work than carrying tubs a few times a month. It would be worth trying to find out how much money was involved. Pendrick might be able to help him there.

  Archer finally wound down. Will thanked him and turned his thoughts to his tasks for the day. A quick glance at Connie’s list had shown him that he could get Archer to buy most of it while he saw Kellet and then Pendrick. The household management book he would get himself. He’d looked through her books again last night, after she’d left him. The titles Fancott had sent were mostly works on economics and geography, rather than the novels he’d expected. Fancott was a sensible man, and he wouldn’t have sent things she had no interest in.

  Picking up The Wealth of Nations after she had retired, he’d become unexpectedly engrossed in it. It had brought back memories of wrestling with philosophy at Oxford, when getting a good degree had been a purpose of sorts, even though he wasn’t going to use the knowledge for anything. He wondered what Connie would make of the ideas in it.

  He’d also found Fancott’s note about the remaining volumes of Tristram Shandy and remembered being entertained by it himself. Perhaps he would buy the set for her; the notion of wooing his wife with books rather than jewellery brought a smile to his face.

  Rather to Will’s surprise, Pendrick accepted his invitation to take a drink with him, and they sat with mugs of ale in front of the warehouse. Sunlight glittered on the river, and their bench was a little spot of calm amongst the men carrying bales, barrels, and crates onto the moored ships.

  “We’re waiting on the Sally May.” Pendrick pointed down the river. “I can keep a lookout for her from here.” He glanced at Will. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”

  Will shook his head. “I wanted to thank you for recommending Kellet, but I also wanted to ask if you have any idea how much the locals might receive from smuggling.”

  Pendrick’s brows drew together. “Why?”

  “A gang has been using my house to store goods. It has come to my notice that they readily resort to violence to protect their interests. Hardly surprising, but I would like to know more before deciding what action to take.”

  Will didn’t want to admit his acceptance of free trading as a local way of life, or the fact that he’d asked Warren to find a source of smuggled goods for him. Something else to think about—later.

  “You could report it to the local excise men,” Pendrick suggested, without much conviction. “Most of them try to do their job, but they’re too thinly spread, with not enough funding. Even if they do make an arrest, sympathetic juries rarely hand down a guilty verdict.”

  “Why the need for violence then?” Will wondered if he was missing something. He already knew all that.

  “Over half the price of dry tea sold to the public is duty, so you can see that smuggling gangs can undercut legitimate traders and still turn a healthy profit. Even if they’re sure they won’t be convicted, they’ll still protect their goods—and their profit.”

  That much duty? Will was beginning to feel like a schoolboy who hadn’t paid attention in his lessons. “So just how much might the Ashmouth gang be making?”

  “That would depend on what they are selling and the quantities involved.” Pendrick gave him a quizzical look. “If you really need to know, I can let you have a list of estimated purchase and sale prices, although the latter will also depend on how much they water down the spirits or adulterate the tea.”

  “Thank you,” Will said meekly. He might be able to estimate quantities of goods if he could watch a run being landed.

  Pendrick sighed. “In some places free trading is a community activity. They all put a little money into buying the cargo, and all take some of the profit. That could well be the case in Ashmouth; it might make it harder to stop it, if you choose to try.”

  They chatted a little longer before Pendrick took his leave. Will had time before his appointment with Kellet, so he had another mug of ale. The sizeable profits that Pendrick had implied didn’t tally with Archer’s report of general poverty in the village. Even so, calling in the preventatives and getting the smuggling stopped would worsen their situation.

  He had a lot to think about.

  Mrs Strickland was still abed, although her bruises were beginning to fade. She attempted to sit up when Connie entered, a groan escaping her. Connie had intended to ask her about the number of people needed to run the house properly, but it didn’t seem the time to have a detailed discussion.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Strickland,” Connie said. “I just came to check you have everything you need. Do ask Mrs Curnow if you require anything.”

  Mrs Strickland muttered thanks.

  Connie exchanged a few more words with the housekeeper and then went down to the kitchen. Mrs Curnow would have to be her adviser, so she asked the cook to join her for a cup of tea at the kitchen table.

  “I only wish to ask you how the house used to be run, Mrs Curnow,” she began, noting the cook’s rather wary expression. “What was it like when Lady Marstone was in residence?”

  “This was a happy house when she was alive, my lady.” Mrs Curnow’s plump cheeks wobbled as she nodded. “Her ladyship spent several months here each summer, with the children. Lord Marstone only came but once or twice.”

  “I don’t think he has any intention of changing that,” Connie said, hoping it was true. “How many maids and footmen were there?”

  “Oh, now you’re asking, my lady. Let’s see…” Her gaze became distant and her lips moved, as if she was recalling past staff by name. “Nurse, nursery maid, governess…”

  Connie felt a blush rising as she wondered how soon she would need a nurse and nursery maid.

  “…several upstairs maids, them lads were forever coming i
nto the house muddy—”

  The cook broke off, her face becoming even redder than usual. Connie guessed that Will was one of ‘them lads’, and suppressed a smile.

  “The old account books should say, my lady. Might be in Mrs Strickland’s office or his lordship’s library.”

  Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  “An excellent idea, Mrs Curnow. We will naturally need more servants now that Lord Wingrave and I are in residence. I suppose we can employ women from the village.”

  “Yes, my lady, if they’re willing.”

  Connie opened her mouth to ask why local women might not want a job here, but Will’s words about possible danger came back to her. Her questioning might give away the fact that they knew the house was being used. She would have to talk to Will again—it might not be wise to bring more people here who might be in league with the smuggling gang.

  “Mrs Strickland normally decides who to take on, my lady.”

  “Mrs Strickland answers to me, Mrs Curnow.”

  The cook met her eye and, to Connie’s surprise, smiled. “Yes, my lady. Will that be all?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Leaving Mrs Curnow, Connie asked Warren to get the old household account books for her, then went to her room to fetch the yellow dress. Her mind was still on employing new people. They could find some from further away, of course, who would not have any links with the gang. But then, willing or not, they might be recruited. If Will did not mind having only a few rooms open, they could manage for now with the staff they had. She’d talk to him about it when he got home.

  That decision made, she settled down to spend the rest of the morning in her new parlour. With looking over the accounts, and adjusting the yellow gown, she had plenty to keep her occupied.

  “Lady Wingrave is sewing in the south parlour, my lord,” Warren said. He held his hand out for the parcel Will carried, but Will held onto it.

  “Show Archer where to put the stillroom supplies, will you?” He went on into the parlour, appreciating again the light and airy feel to the room. Leaving the parcel on the table, he crossed to the door of the smaller room.

  He expected to see Connie with a frippery piece of embroidery in her hands; instead she sat in the middle of the sofa, her lap covered in a vast mound of pale yellow fabric. She was picking at a seam with a tiny pair of scissors, apparently concentrating so hard she hadn’t heard him approach.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “Oh!” She looked up with a start and then gave a wide smile. “Did you have a good trip?” She lifted the mass of fabric, depositing it on the sofa beside her, and brushed wisps of thread from the front of her gown.

  “Yes, thank you.” He examined the material more closely. It appeared to be a gown. “Is this why you wanted thread? Isn’t there someone to mend that for you?”

  “I’m not mending it, I’m altering it to fit me. It’s one of my mother’s old dresses. I’m making it more fashionable, too; skirts are not as wide as when Mama wore it.”

  “I thought your father was sending on the rest of your clothing?”

  Her face reddened. “I brought all I had with me, and a trunk of Mama’s gowns. There was no time to get new gowns, even if my father would have agreed to buy them.”

  The memory of the two small trunks on the roof of the coach flashed through his mind. “Those trunks contained all your clothing?” Disbelief, and rising ire, made his voice louder than he intended, ringing in this small room. He clamped his teeth together as he saw Connie’s reaction, her gaze dropping to her lap.

  He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I’m angry with your father, not you.”

  “He doesn’t have much of an income. Only a small legacy from his mother.”

  “Even so…” Will broke off—in his position, who was he to complain about a second son not wanting to work for a living? He rubbed his forehead—he had wanted to, if he’d been allowed to join the army, to do something useful for the country. “You don’t need to spend your time altering old clothing,” he said. “Come into Exeter with me next week, you can order some new clothing then.”

  Perhaps some lacy nightwear…

  “I enjoy doing it,” she said, smoothing a hand across the fabric. “I’ve little left from my mother, only these and a couple of watercolours. I’d like to remake a couple of her gowns, at least.”

  “Of course, if you want to. Take on someone to help you, if you wish.”

  “I was thinking about that. Sukey said her mother used to do sewing, I could ask her. I think the family could use the extra income, as well.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.”

  “I’ve had second thoughts about taking on other servants, though,” she added.

  Will nodded as Connieenglish explained; what she said made sense. “As long as you can manage with the people we have.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Good. Now, if you can leave your sewing for a few minutes, I’ve bought you a present.”

  Her face lit up with the sparkle in her eyes that he liked to see. He felt a sudden qualm—he hoped she wasn’t thinking of jewellery.

  “It’s in the next room.” He led the way through, and gestured to the parcel on the table.

  She unfastened the string, pulling the paper apart. “Oh, books!” She lifted them out, reading the titles in turn, and her smile broadened. “All for me?”

  “For us, really. I found Fancott’s note about the other volumes of Tristram Shandy, and I’d like to read that myself, when you’ve finished.” He picked up The Wealth of Nations. “I started on your copy of this last night. I hope you don’t mind.”

  She looked surprised for a moment, then her smile returned. “Of course not. As long as you don’t mind my reading such things.”

  “Why…? Oh, your father, I suppose.”

  “It is not women’s place to pretend to men’s knowledge,” she quoted, lips pursed.

  Will laughed at her portentous tone. “What rot. In fact, I was hoping to hear what you think of it when you have read it too.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, why not?”

  “I… yes, I would enjoy that. The Fancotts used to talk about such things together. With me, as well, sometimes.”

  He glanced at the clock. “We have a couple of hours before Mrs Curnow will have dinner ready. I wish to go for a short ride, but would you care to walk with me in the gardens first?”

  They walked out onto the terrace, arm in arm, and down to the formal gardens. Low hedges in geometric patterns outlined flower beds, with yews clipped into pyramids and cones at the corners. It reminded Connie of the garden where she had waited at Marstone Park, but this one had lower hedges and larger beds, filled with a ragged collection of geraniums, snapdragons and phlox. She’d enjoy dead-heading them herself.

  “We used to play hide and seek here when we were still small enough to hide behind the hedges,” Will said, a faraway look on his face. “We probably annoyed the gardener by trampling his flowers.”

  “I used to play like that with the Fancott children sometimes. My father thought Martha was teaching me.”

  As he smiled, an attractive dimple appeared beside his mouth. She hadn’t noticed that before.

  “How old were you when your mother died?” he asked.

  “Five or six. I don’t remember details.” She looked away. “I was happy when she was alive. My mother was not, from what others have said to me since, but she made sure I didn’t know it.” She ran her hand along the top of a hedge. “She had a little garden like this, filled with roses. That’s one of my memories of her, the scent, and the beautiful flowers. My father had all her roses dug up after she died.” Connie had occasionally wondered if his action had been a wish not to be reminded of past mistakes rather than a futile act of revenge. She didn’t feel the usual sadness at its loss. It didn’t matter now; it was past, and she was beyond his power.

  Will stood close, his eyes intent on her face. “Was that
why you wore that rose perfume at our wedding?”

  “Yes. It was rather overpowering, I’m afraid.”

  “Indeed.” He leaned towards her, breathing in. “You are wearing it now.”

  Her breath caught, her gaze on his lips. What would it feel like if he kissed her?

  “Connie?”

  What had he said? Oh, the perfume. “Yes, but not quite so much of it. It wasn’t my idea; a woman in the village who knew Mama sent it. A small act of revenge.”

  He surprised her by laughing out loud, genuine amusement on his face. They strolled on, and her breathing gradually returned to normal.

  “My mother loved the flowers,” Will said, after a few paces. “This is well enough, considering how few staff are here, but I’d like to see it restored when we have the funds to spare. You could plant roses between the hedges, if you wish. Turn this into a rose garden. It wouldn’t be the same as your mother’s, of course.”

  “That would be lovely, thank you. The shapes don’t matter, but the sight and the smell…” She closed her eyes, the faint scent rising from her own perfume bringing back happy memories.

  “You could even invite your father to come once it is established.”

  She smiled, but knew she would not. If she managed to be happy, that would be revenge enough—that, and not inviting him to the home of the future Earl of Marstone.

  “Shall we walk on? To the orchard, perhaps, for some shade.”

  They turned, his hand warm on the small of her back, its gentle pressure comforting—and something else. When they left the formal gardens and he offered her his arm instead, she was sorry.

  Was a month too long to wait?

  Chapter 25

  Wednesday 2nd July

  Will flicked the reins and the chaise drew away from Home Farm. It had been a productive visit, if longer than he’d anticipated.

  “Stevens kept you talking a long time,” Connie said. “Are there a lot of problems?”