The Duke's Agent

by Rebecca Jenkins

  Jarrett surveyed Mr Crotter’s final resting place. ‘Who buried him?’ he enquired. ‘I understood Mr Crotter had no family in Woolbridge.’

  ‘I believe Sir Thomas saw to it,’ replied Captain Adams, after pondering the question a moment. ‘Wouldn’t do to have the fellow lying about in this heat!’ he added jovially. ‘My wife, sir.’

  Jarrett found himself bowing to Mrs Adams, a broadbeamed capable-looking woman, and her pale daughters. As the ladies were taking their time to arrange themselves he stood to one side in the aisle looking about the building. Towards the front of the church various degrees of box pews were arranged, each assigned to a particular prosperous household. Benches filled the spaces where the servants and ordinary folk sat. Above, to the left of the chancel, Mr Bedlington and his motley collection of musicians were tuning up in the gallery. The singers sprawled about, waiting. The young man who had bandied words with Prudence was hanging over the rail conversing with Sal, who sat below on a bench looking demure and mischievous at the same time. Jarrett glimpsed Prudence Miller’s impotent fury and felt pity for her. She was no match for Sal. His fingers itched to capture the scene – ‘The Country Service: a rural vignette’.

  The little man in the over-large hat trotted up the gallery steps. ‘Music master,’ he commanded, ‘the parson would remind the singers that they are not to sing the responses!’ Then, looking to neither left nor right through an accompaniment of jeers from the singers, the clerk scurried back down the stairs.

  *

  Henrietta Lonsdale entered the church half a step in front of her aunt. It had been a trying morning. She had known it would be from the moment her aunt’s voice had wavered out to arrest her progress as she passed the bedroom door on her way downstairs to breakfast. The words were not material; it was their tone – that pathetic, cajoling, invalidish note her aunt assumed when she wanted to be petted. Henrietta was a dutiful niece to her widowed aunt. She prayed regularly and quite sincerely for God’s assistance in granting her patience and a better temper, but the carriage ride that morning had been frosty. Aunt Lonsdale’s mood had lightened a little on arrival at church. They had been greeted at the carriage door by Mrs Bedford who had hardly allowed them time to set foot to ground, so eager was she to share the excitement over the Duke of Penrith’s new agent. Henrietta lifted her eyebrows a little at all the fuss. She knew perfectly well that Aunt Lonsdale considered Amelia Bedford a vulgar sort of woman, but the Duke’s agent was too choice a morsel for her to be particular about the provenance of the gossip. Henrietta surveyed the man blocking the aisle. So this was the new agent. His clothes were remarkably well cut but they hung slightly loose as if he had lost weight in sickness he had yet to regain. She noted, nonetheless, that he had a good leg. She followed the line of his gaze. Gawping at Sally Grundy, was he? A pity his manners did not match his tailoring.

  Jarrett heard a musical voice speak behind him.

  ‘If you will permit, sir.’

  He turned to let by two latecomers. A youngish lady near his height, well dressed, with an elegant face and direct grey eyes nodded to him. She was accompanied by what he took to be an aunt or some such female relation: a middle-aged woman with a thin, pampered face and mournful look that reminded him of the expression dogs assume when begging for food at table. The grey eyes of the younger woman met his as they passed and he was surprised to catch a trace of derision in them. He looked after her. The lady carried herself remarkably well. Perhaps he had imagined her disdain.

  The Squire, Sir Thomas of Oakdene Hall, advanced in procession with his household down the aisle to settle in his family pew. His outdoor servants arranged themselves with much scraping of wood and jangling of spurs on stone in the benches behind. The Reverend Prattman advanced to his desk and the service began.

  It was not much different from most country services. The Reverend Prattman had a strong, clear voice and the decency to keep his sermon short. The singers, disregarding the clerk’s instructions, sang the responses lustily, causing the parson to sulk. Glancing to his right, Jarrett saw that his lady critic too had noticed the parson’s pout. For a brief moment their eyes met with shared amusement. Then she recollected her dignity and gave him her profile. With a jolt he remembered where he was and his role as Duke’s agent. When a man wore regimentals the ladies were not so cold. He shrugged off the rebuff as he rose for ‘O for a thousand tongues to sing’, to the accompaniment of a strong beat from the side-drum. Jarrett, who had a decent light baritone voice, found himself enjoying the hymn along with the rest of the congregation. The musicians entered into their task with spirit, rendering the sacred tune in a sort of merry jig. The lady to his right had a tuneful soprano and he amused himself composing harmonies against it. Whatever my lady critic’s opinion of him their voices blended well.

  The service ended and Captain Adams parted from Mr Jarrett with repeated assurances that they would be sure to see one another again that afternoon over tea at Sir Thomas’s. As the agent crossed the street returning to his inn, the lady with the critical eyes was settling her aunt in their carriage. The elder lady lifted an eyebrow in the direction of Jarrett’s neatly dressed figure.

  ‘He is a well-looking man, to be sure,’ Mrs Lonsdale commented vaguely.

  ‘Hmmm,’ responded Henrietta, preoccupied with fixing the rug about her aunt’s knees just as she liked it. The black-haired Sal passed down the street, swinging her hips, framed between two of the young singers from the gallery. Distracted, Miss Lonsdale spoke her thoughts aloud.

  ‘He in turn seems to find Sally Grundy well-looking enough. He was watching her through half the service.’

  ‘My dear, never!’ exclaimed her aunt, growing quite animated. ‘Oh my love, did you hear? Will Roberts, Joe Roberts the carpenter’s son, is come back from the militia in Ireland. It seems he has taken the opportunity to better himself and has married his sergeant’s daughter.’ Mrs Lonsdale’s face reflected a smug smile as she patted the rug more closely about her. ‘I would not have thought him so sensible – he is well free of the slut.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ returned Henrietta, thankful her aunt had not fixed on the impropriety of her comment, ‘if she were to call him before the magistrate on a breach of promise.’

  ‘The hussy would not be so bold!’

  ‘Sally Grundy, aunt? Why boldness is her very trademark.’ Rueful amusement crossed Henrietta Lonsdale’s face and she added quietly, ‘Somehow I cannot help but like her for it.’

  ‘Fie, Henrietta, you are ridiculous!’ her aunt told her.

  *

  Under the guidance of Master Jack, the innkeeper’s twelve-year-old son, Jarrett found his way to Oakdene Hall. He was ushered into the Blue Drawing Room as the clock struck three. Sir Thomas crossed the wide expanse of carpet and polished boards to greet his guest.

  ‘Ah, this must be Mr Jarrett. Welcome, sir, welcome to Oakdene Hall.’

  ‘I must thank you, Sir Thomas, for your invitation. It was most gracious.’

  ‘Nonsense, nonsense. I received word of your coming. And how did you leave my dear friend, the Duke? Dear me, ’tis many a year since I saw him last.’

  ‘He goes on as well as can be expected, sir, for a man in his condition; he is no longer young.’

  Sir Thomas seemed to bend a little more under his own years, and his eyes behind his round glasses looked melancholy.

  ‘Ah yes; tempus fugit, tempus fugit – for us all, eh?’ He shook off his thoughts and asked, ‘But what of this sad affair?’

  ‘As to that, Sir Thomas, may I present His Grace’s compliments and thank you for the trouble you have taken on his behalf. I understand it was you who saw to the burial of the unfortunate Crotter.’

  Sir Thomas waved aside all thanks. ‘No matter. No matter. A man is a poor creature if he cannot be of service to his friends.’

  ‘His Grace is most fortunate in his friendships, sir.’ Jarrett paused. ‘I would not trouble you at this time, Sir Thomas, but may I call on y
ou again – on business?’

  Sir Thomas was an old friend of the Duke’s. And yet Jarrett sensed a certain reluctance in his host at his request, as if he disliked to hear of troublesome things.

  ‘Ah yes, business. How do you find matters?’

  ‘I fear I am all at sea as yet, sir. Mr Crotter seems to have been an indifferent book-keeper.’

  ‘What will you do?’ The old man asked the question while looking off, smiling and bowing to some guests across the room.

  ‘There are yet some days left before the audit, Sir Thomas. It provides opportunity for me to ride about and see how things stand on the farms.’

  ‘A bad business.’ Sir Thomas gazed down at his feet and paused. When he spoke again it was in a reluctant voice. ‘Crotter was much on his own and greatly trusted. I hope there is no villainy in the matter. Your presence – so swiftly; your connection to the family …’ He peered up at Jarrett over his spectacles.

  It was the look of such a timid, foolish creature that Jarrett’s protective instincts were aroused. ‘I do not suspect it, Sir Thomas,’ he replied more confidently than he meant. ‘More likely an aversion to book-keeping; nothing that cannot be remedied. And as to the family – no one knows me here; in Woolbridge I am no more than the Duke’s agent. Let me remain so for the present, if you will. A little anonymity may prove my best assistance in uncovering the true state of affairs – at least until Charles is able to join me.’

  Sir Thomas was transparently more than happy to be relieved of the burden of referring to so sensitive a subject as Mr Jarrett’s particular relationship to the Duke’s family. ‘Of course. Discretion. Absolutely as you wish.’

  Jarrett smoothed over his host’s embarrassment. ‘I must add that Charles, too, sends his compliments. He had hoped to accompany me, but the Duke’s affairs have detained him in York.’

  Sir Thomas, who only dimly recalled Charles, Marquess of Earewith, the Duke’s eldest son, as a short boy in knee breeches, smiled vaguely. ‘Well, good. I fear I must make a journey away from home in the next few days, but Tuesday – shall we say a week this Tuesday, in the forenoon?’

  Jarrett had hoped for an earlier interview but Sir Thomas’s attention had already moved on.

  ‘And see, here is Captain Adams wishing to speak with you. I believe you are acquainted?’

  Captain Adams drew near with his wife on one arm, and on the other a lady Jarrett had glimpsed at a distance that morning at church. She was a short plump woman with brassy hair who dressed in a florid, fashionable way. She brought to his mind a figure representing ‘a lady of the town’ in some over-coloured popular print. This lady was introduced as Mrs Amelia Bedford, the wife of a carpet-manufacturer in the neighbourhood. She gave Jarrett a cold, brief nod, swiftly transferring her attention to her host.

  ‘Oh, Sir Thomas,’ she cried, laying one plump white hand on the baronet’s arm and looking up into his face with a flutter of eyelashes. ‘Such a pleasant gathering! But I do not see our friend, Justice Raistrick; is he not here?’

  Jarrett sensed a distinct hush fall among the other members of the circle before Sir Thomas responded in a distracted manner, ‘Mr Raistrick? Otherwise engaged, I believe. Ah, I beg pardon, I must leave you.’ In response to a servant’s signal, Sir Thomas detached himself from the group.

  ‘Fie, Amelia!’ scolded Mrs Adams in a penetrating whisper. ‘You know very well that man is not received in this house.’

  The door opened and Sir Thomas handed in an extraordinary creature – a frail, shuffling figure who might have been of normal height but for a freak of nature that had doubled her forward upon herself under the mighty weight of a giant hump. Two thin arms trailed loose, like unwieldy ropes ending in filigree monkey’s paws. The eyes in the face mask that tilted out to the world under the overhanging hump of flesh and bone were vacant – nothing within looking at nothing without. Sir Thomas settled this thing in a chair, fussed over it, rearranging a trailing shawl to disguise the indecent arms, and was summoned away to tend to some new arrivals.

  The circle somehow melted away. Captain Adams drew off to seek some gentleman’s opinion about a militia matter. Mrs Adams and Mrs Bedford sat in uncomfortable silence a moment, before Mrs Bedford leapt up with an over-exuberant show of enthusiasm, crying, ‘Oh, Maria! There is such a lovely timepiece over the mantel there – do come let us look at it.’

  Dragging her stoic companion behind her, she made for the far end of the room. There she proceeded to make conversation in dumb show before a very ordinary carriage clock. She fluttered her shawl about her, throwing out animated gestures as if she was on the stage, all the while casting nervous glances back towards the old lady who sat in isolation amid a group of empty chairs.

  Abandoned in his corner Jarrett could not forbear examining this apparition. Suddenly, as if a person darted forward to fill an empty doorway, the rheumy eyes focused. Jarrett found himself fixed by a look charged with mischief and one eye winked. ‘I should like some tea.’ The voice was papery but authoritative and perfectly clear.

  ‘I shall fetch some, madam,’ he responded, springing to his feet, glad for an excuse to cover his confusion.

  He returned to find his companion transformed. She had somehow collected up her limbs, and the slanted face peeped out almost roguishly from under her hump.

  ‘He should not have made me come,’ she stated with a fierce bob of her head in the direction of the inoffensive baronet. ‘Make conversation with these chuckleheads! Pshaw! Chuckleheads!’ she repeated with relish. ‘I stand no nonsense. Did ye see Amelia Bedford? Her father sold pigmeat and still she gives herself airs. Can’t abide lunatics – give her the goosebumps.’ The old lady gave Jarrett a wicked smile and leaning towards him confided: ‘Can’t do a thing about me, though; I’m kin to Sir Thomas and he has £8,000 a year. Ha!’ She gave a snort of amusement. She tipped her tea dextrously from the patterned cup into the deep saucer and sipped it delicately. ‘So you’re come from the Duke, eh? About time the booby paid attention to his affairs. That Crotter was a bad lot.’ She pursed her lips. For an instant Jarrett wondered whether her sharp nose and pointed chin might meet. He decided evasion was the best policy.

  ‘Crotter. Sad affair. He died of a heart attack, I hear. Most unexpected.’

  Faded blue eyes challenged him with liquid intelligence, forcing him to drink some of the insipid tea so that he might look away.

  ‘Pfft!’ She tossed her head and gazed stonily away from him.

  ‘I beg pardon, ma’am, we have not been introduced,’ he said, in an effort to bridge the silence. ‘My name is Jarrett; Frederick Raif Jarrett. I fear I do not have the pleasure of knowing your name …’

  ‘Lady Catherine Gilling,’ she replied haughtily, adding snappishly: ‘I know who you are. I am not a simpleton, young man!’

  At that moment his singing partner from the church, the lady with the direct grey eyes, entered the room behind her aunt. She was above average height for a woman, and though not a beauty she had what the polite world calls countenance. The old witch had so unsettled him he heard himself ask, ‘I beg pardon, ma’am, but who might those ladies be – the ones who have just come in? I think I saw them at church.’

  Lady Catherine was diverted from her sulks.

  ‘Ha! You mean my young friend Henrietta,’ she stated. Jarrett, startled by her uncomfortable clear-sightedness, was appalled to see her snap her fingers to attract Henrietta’s attention, confirming the action with an imperious, ‘Here. Come. I want you here, child!’

  The lady took this summons in good grace. She crossed the room to lean over Lady Catherine and kiss her wizened cheek.

  ‘Miss Henrietta Lonsdale, may I have leave to present to you Mr Frederick Jarrett. He’s come from the Duke, you know.’ With this mischievous introduction Lady Catherine wriggled back in her chair, and composed herself as if she was about to watch a play. As Lady Catherine’s chosen puppet Miss Lonsdale proved wilful. With a graceful incline of her head she ac
knowledged the introduction, following it with a swift, sweet smile in which Jarrett hoped he detected good will. She turned back to Lady Catherine.

  ‘I am indeed pleased to meet Mr Jarrett, but, Lady Catherine, I must go pay my respects to Sir Thomas; we have just this moment arrived and he will think me very odd.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks, girl! Stay here. If only for the pleasure of seeing your aunt fret at the sight of you in such unsuitable company.’

  ‘Lady Catherine!’ Henrietta’s startled response betrayed her thoughts. ‘You go too far!’ In her embarrassment Miss Lonsdale shed some of her poise. Jarrett realised she was probably younger than he had first thought. He was amused. At least the old lady did not dissemble like the ordinary run of drawing room hypocrites.

  ‘Fear not, ma’am. I am not a man to take offence at honesty. It is clear that many here are uneasy at my presence.’

  ‘The ninnies can’t place you,’ interjected Lady Catherine. ‘They must always know where to place a stranger or it quite unsettles their stomachs. Ninnies!’ The little woman rocked back and forwards in derision.

  Jarrett found himself overcome by a vision of the old lady as Humpty-Dumpty in some old print and he had to pretend to cough before he laughed. He was not fast enough for Lady Catherine.

  ‘Find me amusing, eh?’ she said fiercely. Jarrett looked straight at her, catching a fleeting glimpse of the depth of misery pent up in her eyes.

  ‘An unfortunate association in my mind, ma’am,’ he said as honestly as he could.

  All at once the fire was gone and she half-smiled. ‘Unfortunate association,’ she repeated. She nodded with her whole body. ‘Apt.’ She looked up appealingly at Henrietta. ‘Don’t you think, my dear?’

  ‘You must be tired, Lady Catherine,’ Henrietta said, her manner betraying her affection for the old woman.

  ‘Not tired; tedious. These people.’ She waved a thin, wrinkled paw at the assembly. ‘I shall go to my room,’ she announced and scrambled off her chair. A servant appeared to help her. A few feet away the old lady turned and addressed Jarrett. ‘You’ll do, young man. If you need help – and you may – ask me. He’s no good,’ she said with a half-fierce, half-loving toss of her head in the direction of her kinsman, Sir Thomas. ‘A booby. But I am no simpleton.’ With that statement she made her exit.