Murder Most Welcome

by Slade, Nicola

  ‘No, no.’ Elaine looked surprised and rather touched by this evidence of girlish disappointment in the usually self-contained and composed Charlotte. ‘You underestimate Mrs Richmond’s feudal spirit and slavish adherence to tribal custom. She will put in a token appearance, staying for precisely fifteen minutes after the band strikes up.’ She smiled at Charlotte’s surprise. ‘Neglect to attend the bazaar hop? She would sooner die.’

  Charlotte found Finchbourne in uproar with Barnard bellowing in panic and Lady Frampton wheezing alarmingly on a crimson, plush, button-backed sofa which was gamely bearing up under its heavy load. Agnes was fluttering ineptly, while Lily, attended by Old Nurse at her most lugubriously doom-saying, lay draped across an elaborately carved walnut and puce silk chaise longue, looking as pale and interesting as it was possible for a stoutly-built, highly coloured young woman.

  ‘Such an alarm….’

  ‘Poor dear young madam, I feared it all along….’

  ‘Fuss about nothing….’

  ‘… ask your advice, Charlotte?’

  ‘Please!’ Charlotte held up a hand to stem the flow and turned to Barnard, usually the most coherent reporter.

  Not this time. He was reduced to stammering, anxiety plain upon his bluff, red face and with the Greek chorus, ‘Not long for this world, poor thing,’ from Old Nurse, her soft Hampshire tones ringing dolefully in his ears.

  Charlotte turned with a resigned sigh to Agnes, her least favourite witness.

  ‘Dear Lily, so pale, my heart was fit to burst, poor little thing.’

  ‘Let me try to understand.’ Charlotte interrupted the morass of half sentences. She cast a jaundiced eye at old Lady Frampton, who had managed to catch her breath and was able to tell the tale. She, it transpired, had been about to enter the dining-room when Lily was taken ill, first doubling up and vomiting into the imposing brass-bound, mahogany wine cooler in the bay window, and then surpassing this virtuoso performance by staggering into the drawing-room and collapsing in a dead faint at the glacé kid-clad slippers of her grandmother-in-law, narrowly missing, thankfully, the gouty, overhanging flesh. Charlotte thought ruefully that there might have been an even greater uproar had the old lady weighed in with some of her saltier exclamations from a less demure era.

  Charlotte acted swiftly to restore peace and quiet.

  ‘Barnard, pray fetch your grandmother a glass of port, and get one of the maids in the dining-room with a mop and bucket. Agnes.’ She sighed and handed her sister-in-law a further handkerchief to stem the flow. ‘Please stop crying and find a glass of water for Lily. You might have them prepare her bed, she should probably be lying down. And you, ma’am?’

  Lady Frampton shook her head vehemently so Charlotte, trusting to the old woman’s common sense, turned back to the heroine of the hour.

  ‘Oh!’ Agnes returned almost at once with a tumbler of water which she slopped against Lily’s chin. ‘What can be the matter? Can it be the first symptoms of rapid decline?’

  ‘Don’t talk such nonsense.’ Charlotte snapped, stooping to speak to Lily who was agitatedly wiping water off her best guipure lace collar. ‘Now, Lily, tell me …’

  She whispered in the little pink ear, nodding once or twice over the murmured replies, putting another question or two. ‘Just as I thought.’ She straightened up with a reassuring pat on Lily’s hand. ‘Nothing to be alarmed about at all. It’s good news. Lily is about three months pregnant.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Unnoticed, the silent wheels of Mrs Richmond’s wheelchair had brought her into their midst. ‘Do my poor ears deceive me? An heir? At last, an heir for Finchbourne? Ah, Barnard, my own, dear boy, I had begun to fear that you were destined to suffer the torments of childlessness, to become ever more discontented and alone with your barren wife – let me remind you, your own choice of wife, dearest boy. But all such doubts must be set aside. Oh, joyful, wondrous news, the first to lighten the shadows of this, the hallowed home of the Richmonds for so long, since the dread tidings of your brother’s martyrdom reached us!’

  Allowing his overwrought parent to clasp him in a fond embrace, Barnard blinked at this peroration, as well he might, considered Charlotte, concealing her own sardonic appreciation of Mrs Richmond’s performance. Just like Mrs Jordan at the play, Meg would have applauded. Meg had been privileged to witness several of that gifted actress’s appearances both before and after the lady was abandoned by her royal lover, William, Duke of Clarence. Poor Mrs Jordan, who, Meg had reported, had supported her ungrateful prince financially while he fathered her multitude of children, and had then been discarded when the duke scrambled into marriage with kind, plain Princess Adelaide, in a doomed attempt to produce a legitimate heir.

  ‘We’ll drink champagne tonight—’ Mrs Richmond broke off her gloating. ‘What’s this? Going to bed, Lily? Really you should not coddle yourself, my dear. I myself bore six children and not a day’s illness, although three of my little angels were taken cruelly from me and all I have to remember them by is their dear graves and the precious marble likenesses of their tiny hands and feet that I treasure at my bedside.’

  At this point Old Nurse burst into the conversation. ‘Oh ma’am,’ she groaned, first dabbing her eyes with her apron and then wringing her hands in woe. ‘She must lay down on her bed this instant with a bowl of gruel lest the shock cause her to have a mishap. Why, I remember my old mother did tell of a poor woman as saw her cow give birth to a two-headed calf on the very day she found she was in the family way, and lo and behold she went and—’

  ‘That will do, Nurse.’ Mrs Richmond interrupted the prophet of doom. ‘Oh, very well, go to bed if you must, Lily, but for heaven’s sake do not be setting yourself up as ailing. Nothing can be so calculated to turn a man’s thoughts elsewhere.’

  The news of Lily’s impending motherhood gave a welcome respite from Agnes’s increasing hysteria about the next day’s bazaar as, deflected for once from her parish interests, she was able to let her dreams take wing, hanging over Lily oozing solicitude and sentiment.

  ‘Imagine, a baby!’ She breathed the words in prayerful ecstasy as she and Charlotte sat after dinner, finishing off the last batch of fancy goods for their stall. ‘Oh, Charlotte.’

  Her hands rested for a moment on the tassel she was stitching on to the upturned point of an embroidered slipper, destined for some astonished gentleman. ‘A baby will make such a splendid new beginning for this sad old house and how Mama has brightened up since she heard the news. Why, she is almost her old self again.’

  Mrs Richmond’s entire conversation during dinner had been a continuation of her paean of thanksgiving and showed no sign, as yet, of abating. Indeed, she had insisted upon visiting Lily after the meal to ensure that such an unworthy vessel was truly aware of the great responsibility and honour of bearing the heir to the Richmonds.

  Her absence was a considerable relief to Charlotte, who found her mother-in-law’s triumph hard to bear, grateful though she was to Lily for giving Mrs Richmond the opportunity to cease her occasional sighs at sight of Charlotte’s trim, slim figure. ‘Ah me, what might have been,’ she would murmur, handkerchief to her eyes.

  A welcome interruption came when the butler, Hoxton, presented Charlotte with a parcel, just arrived, complete with a note, from Knightley Hall. Charlotte tore open the letter. It was brief but redolent of Elaine Knightley’s good sense and generous heart.

  ‘After you left this morning,’ she wrote. ‘I recalled this dress which has been packed away in my cedar chest for two or three years. Why on earth I thought dark green silk would become me I cannot imagine. It made me look a hag, and a hundred to boot, whereas you, my dear girl, will look delightful. I believe it will fit you. Although I am such a scarecrow these days, I was once much the same size as you.

  ‘Wear this as a symbol of the new beginning to your life and let me have no ladylike demurs. Our friendship, though but a recent one, has already given me a great deal of pleasure. Allow me the further
satisfaction of giving you this dress.’

  ‘How fortunate,’ gasped Agnes, as Charlotte sat in mute contemplation of the shimmering folds of dark green silk. ‘What a stroke of luck, just when Mama has decreed that we may go into half-mourning so that no shadow must fall upon the heir of Finchbourne.’

  Dragging herself from her reverie Charlotte burst out laughing. ‘What? Lily’s baby? Mrs Richmond takes a long view indeed, does she not? And what if the long-awaited heir turns out to be an heiress? It is not written on a tablet of stone that Lily will produce a boy.’

  ‘Oh, Charlotte!’ Agnes responded with a comical cry of dismay. ‘Do not, I pray, let Mama here you say so, or Lily either. She’s already speaking of the child as her little Fairfax.’

  ‘Fairfax?’ Charlotte dropped Mrs Knightley’s note on to her lap and turned a laughing face to her sister-in-law. ‘But Lily’s maiden name was Rowbottom, was it not? Where in the world did she discover Fairfax?’

  ‘With some ingenuity.’ Agnes could show spirit when she chose. ‘Her father’s name, as you say, is impossible and her mother’s maiden name was Smith, also beyond the pale for a Richmond, as you may well imagine. I understand that she dredged up Fairfax from a cousin twice removed on her grandmother’s side, or some such.’

  Elaine Knightley was helped into the assembly room to open the bazaar with a few words of welcome and exhortation to the guests, to spend freely in a good cause, and the Richmond ladies hastened to greet her.

  ‘My dear.’ She surveyed Charlotte with proprietorial delight and a warm embrace, shaking hands with Agnes. ‘You look utterly charming. How well that green suits you, doesn’t it, Kit? Kit? Where can he be just when I need him?’

  It seemed that Kit Knightley had not heard his wife’s laughing admonition although he was standing just behind her, staring in dismay at Charlotte Richmond as though wondering what lanky, laughing Char had to do with this polished, smiling creature, agleam in emerald silk with an almost eighteenth-century air about the cascades of lace, shining brown hair piled high and topped by a frivolous confection of the same lace.

  Elaine, who was again urging him to speak, to admire her protégé, looked at him curiously and at last he managed: ‘Indeed, you are very fine today, Charlotte, very fine indeed.’ Charlotte winced at the stiffness of his tone and, with a droop of her slight shoulders, she retreated abruptly towards the trestle table of fancy goods that Agnes had allocated her, only to be accosted by Henry Heavitree.

  ‘Well, well, Mrs Knightley.’ He addressed Elaine in a muted bellow, adjusted to suit the delicate ears of an invalid. ‘I hope I see you in improved health today? And what’s this? God’s nightgown, niece Charlotte, you’re looking a damned sight better in that fine rig than in your usual mouldy black! A peacock today, not a damned crow, hey?’

  He rubbed his hands together and thrust his face towards his niece. ‘Well, girl? Going to give your old uncle a kiss, are you?’

  ‘Indeed not, sir.’ Charlotte recoiled from the enveloping brandy fumes and tried to conceal a shudder of distaste as she deftly disentangled his questing hand from her waist. ‘I have a slight cold and would not dream of passing it to you. Where should we all be without your sermon to keep us awake on Sunday if you were to lose your voice?’

  At the end of two hours, the bazaar was just about played out with only the unsaleable remains scattered forlornly about the stalls. With a good deal of jostling and elbowing the tables were removed to the yard and set up again, to be spread with cold meats, bread, cheese, jellies and creams, together with pitchers of cider and ale. Tea and coffee were also on hand for the ladies and the fiddler was heard tuning up for the dancing.

  Leaning heavily on her footman’s arm, Elaine moved slowly towards the outer door.

  ‘No, no, my dear,’ she laughed at Charlotte. ‘I have done very well, I assure you, but I know when to concede defeat. I’m only tired, not ill, do not distress yourself. Kit will stay and do his duty with the local ladies and the farmers’ wives.’ She held out a hand in farewell, smiling very kindly. ‘Are you enjoying yourself, dear Charlotte?’

  The colour deepened in Charlotte’s cheeks and her eyes sparkled with green mischief once more. ‘Oh yes, so much,’ she laughed. ‘Did you hear what the blacksmith said to me? He was extremely bashful and wriggled a lot then he managed to come out with the loveliest compliment. He said: “You’m looking just like a nice springy young hazel tree, Miss Char.” I don’t think anyone has ever said anything so charming to me in my life.’

  ‘The blacksmith is a poet and a man of perception,’ declared Elaine, then she lifted her hand. ‘Listen, there’s the fiddler striking up. You must dance, Charlotte, it’s a waltz. Now who shall partner you? Ah, the very man. Kit, my dear, I am homeward bound but you must stay and twirl this dear girl round the floor.’

  As Kit Knightley demurred, pleading poor prowess as a dancer, and Charlotte flushed and shook her head, a ragged chorus of encouragement sprang up from the estate workers near the door. Emboldened by long draughts of ale one of the stable lads spoke up.

  ‘Ar, goo on, Miss Char, you ’ave a dance with ’e. Do you take ’er, sir, pretty as a picture her be!’

  Overcome by his own daring, he buried his face in his tankard of ale, drained it and shouldered his way to an obscure corner of the room, followed by jeers and cheers from his mates. Behind him Elaine shooed her husband and Charlotte towards the dancing with a wave of farewell, and with a slight shrug Kit held out his hands.

  ‘Pretty as a picture indeed.’ He smiled. ‘I notice he called you Miss Char?’

  She had accepted his hand rather shyly but now she smiled in reply. ‘I know,’ she answered proudly. ‘They all do it. They’ve caught it from Agnes. I keep telling them they should say Mrs Frampton but they forget. Besides, I like it. They’re all so friendly and kind, they almost make me feel that I belong here.’

  ‘Belong? You’re part of us, Char, of course you belong.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Here, wipe your eyes, there’s a good girl, no need to cry about it. What would we do without you now?’

  ‘No.’ She was more moved than she could have thought possible. ‘I don’t belong, not really.’ She hesitated, uncertain whether to continue. Kit raised an eyebrow and she went on, speaking slowly as though thinking aloud. ‘I don’t belong here, or anywhere. I never have but in this lovely, lovely place I’m happier than I’ve ever been, so I’m afraid.’

  ‘Afraid?’ he asked gently leading her in a flourish past the fiddler’s rostrum.

  ‘I’m living in a bubble,’ she said sadly. ‘And I’m afraid that it may burst at any moment. I can’t help it.’ She raised serious hazel eyes to his. ‘Whenever Ma and I felt happy and settled anywhere, something always went wrong and we had to leave in a hurry, so now, if I let myself enjoy Finchbourne and – and everyone here, it frightens me.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid any more, Char.’ Kit frowned. ‘Whatever happens now, remember that I will always … that we … that you have friends you can count on – for anything.’

  As he stumbled over the words, she met his gaze for a moment then she gave herself a little shake and looked up at him again, her eyes once more gleaming with amusement as she smiled; friendly Char once more rather than serious Charlotte.

  ‘For the present let us be merry and think of cheerful things. Who knows, God may be merciful and let Uncle Henry fall off the church tower one day or shoot himself instead of one of his magpies, then Percy can become vicar in his stead.’

  ‘That would be a joyful day indeed,’ he laughed, accepting the change of subject. ‘My grandfather must have been in his dotage to allow Heavitree’s appointment forty years ago.’

  An hour or so later Charlotte slipped away to tidy her hair, which was sadly tousled after all her dancing, not only with Kit Knightley but also with the bashful blacksmith and the bold stable lad, as well as with Barnard. Also, she shuddered, with Uncle Henry, who would not be gainsaid and whose ham-sized hands had ventured int
o liberties no gentleman, let alone a man of the cloth, should have taken, making it necessary for Charlotte to stamp viciously on his foot.

  ‘You must tell me, Mrs Richmond.’ An insistent voice startled her and she turned with an apprehensive shudder to see the Indian gentleman at her shoulder. ‘You shall tell me, young lady. Tell me what has happened to everything he owned? I will not believe it has all been lost. That cannot be.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she protested, facing up to him. She felt very alone, and the hubbub from the assembly room seemed strangely distant. ‘Please, if you would only tell me, tell us, what you are seeking, but my brother-in-law showed you everything that was sent home. We truly have nothing to conceal. Please believe me.’

  At that moment Agnes appeared, her eyes starting from her flushed face. ‘Oh, there you are, Char. We must go home at once. Barnard has sent an urgent message.’

  Paying no further heed to the Indian, Charlotte seized Agnes’s damp hand and the two girls ran across the village green and sped up the drive, Charlotte gasping questions to no avail. Agnes explained, panting, that the message had been terse in the extreme.

  When they entered the drawing-room, anxious, tousled and out of breath, every face turned towards them, every mouth an ‘O’ of hysterical excitement.

  ‘Oh, Charlotte! Agnes!’ Mrs Richmond wailed a greeting. ‘Oh, dear, dear Charlotte, such news, such news!’

  ‘Yes indeed.’ That was Barnard’s booming voice swelling the chorus while Lily contented herself with a silent glower from her chaise longue. It wasn’t Lily’s baby that was the problem then, thank God, Charlotte reflected, counting heads. No, they were all present and correct, nobody ill, nobody dead. What, in heaven’s name, could be the matter?

  Old Lady Frampton held out her hand to the girl in the doorway. ‘Come here to me, lass,’ she said, her voice roughened with emotion. ‘You come and sit by me so you can take it all in.’