Sing Witch, Sing Death

by Roberta Gellis

  "What is wrong with my face?" the earl asked mildly.

  "Cornish," George replied, as if that explained everything.

  "It was not Vyvyan," Hetty said a little pettishly, resenting the fact that attention had wandered from her. "It was the house." She shuddered again, dramatically. "It is so forbidding."

  "No, no," George comforted, patting her hand. "Just Cornish. Does look queer—everything in Cornwall is queer. You'll find it is better inside than out." He laughed merrily. "Just like Vyvyan—better inside than out."

  Pamela had turned away to hide her laughter. It was not that George was unusual. Really he was a typical London dandy, from the carefully brushed burnished blond of his waving hair to the brilliantly polished tips of his white-topped boots. He was merely out of place.

  In London or a fashionable country house near the city, Pamela would have felt no amusement at the clipped yet drawling speech with its carefully ungrammatical affectations, at the deliberately uttered idiocies. She might have been bored, or wearied, or mildly pleased, depending upon the situation. Here, however, she was almost in hilarious laughter, only… Could there be a purpose in those idiocies? Was George trying to warn Hetty of something?

  Sobered by the idea, Pamela looked seriously at the place St. Just had married Hetty to save. It was built on a natural plateau of the northern cliff that rose above the valley in which the village of St. Just lay. To the south, the land fell away gently into grazing land, and below that the strange luxuriant arable valley of Cornwall. To the east and north, there was more grazing land, which rose until it melted into the arid, hilly Cornish backbone. To the west, a quarter-mile away and far below, the sea moved restlessly.

  The house faced southwest, its drive snaking away from the main road across a lawn that was more field than park. There were no ancient oaks or limes to line the drive. The Cornish wind would not let them grow. Thus the house stood naked, presenting its many-windowed blue-gray front defiantly to the sea.

  The central portion was three stories high, with four windows to each side of the door on the first level, ten on the second, and ten, much smaller, in the servants' quarters on the third. It would have been a hard, grim front except for two wings that protruded slightly. These were topped by graceful, frivolous cupolas with round windows—obviously accretions of a later date than the main structure.

  All in all, the house was not typical in any sense. The building was constructed of Cornish granite rather than the customary brick, and its cornerstones were of a strange, exquisitely colored rock that drew the eye. Moreover, every window had heavy, solid shutters. These were now open to admit the light, but their presence hinted of the need to be armored against some fierce onslaught.

  Possibly the combination of stonework and shutters on an essentially Jacobean house did have what George called a queer effect; possibly with the eyes of the house blinded by closed shutters it would look forbidding. Possibly; but Pamela knew that to her it looked right; it belonged here in Cornwall, made of native rock and adapted to its surroundings.

  The others were moving in now, and Pamela followed hastily through the large door that opened into the central hall. She drew her breath with pleasure at the sight of the warm afternoon light falling upon the well-polished furniture. That, too, was Jacobean in style, old and heavy but lovingly cared for.

  "Oh," Hetty's voice rose in protest, "this is Gothic—quite Gothic."

  "No," St. Just replied dryly, "it is Jacobean. My-I-don't-know-how-many-back—grandfather was old-fashioned. The house was built in the 1670's, I believe, but the furniture either was already in the family or was built to match an earlier style."

  "Don't be dense, Vyvyan," George said in his light, amused tone. "Lady St. Just was describing the aura of the place, not its period. Must agree with her. Gothic it is. Always after your father to get rid of this stuff. Family tradition's fine, but not when its uncomfortable."

  "Hetty," Pamela interposed softly as she saw little muscles bunch in St. Just's jaw, "do you not think you had better go through the formality of inspecting the servants before you continue this discussion? It is, after all, none of their affair what you decide to do about the furniture."

  The countess glanced toward the east end of the hall, where the butler, housekeeper, footmen, and maids stood in a long line waiting their attention. She shrank back a little, and George, who misunderstood her distaste and took it for alarm, took her hand gracefully in his.

  "Won't bite you," he murmured. "Very good sort of people. Better let me," he added more loudly to St. Just as the master of the house stepped forward. "Been away a long time, you know. Lot of changes. You'll make a mull of it."

  Pamela closed her eyes for a moment, sure that this last piece of tactlessness would break St. Just's so-far admirable control over his usually hasty temper. She was even more alarmed, a half-second later, at the expression which flickered over Hetty's face. That Hetty disliked her husband was nothing unusual in this day and age when marriages were made to ally families and bolster dwindling fortunes. However, if Hetty was going to be attracted to George and show it, the situation, which was now merely uncomfortable, might become explosive. St. Just had not seen Hetty's expression, fortunately, and there was no anger in his voice. He sounded mildly exasperated by George's interference, but rather indulgent.

  "Now, George," he remonstrated, "how could I forget Hayle or Mrs. Helston? Tremaire would not be Tremaire without them. And Sarah…"

  Pamela was amazed when St. Just went forward and took the hand of a middle-aged woman, kissed her cheek, and said a few words too low to be heard.

  "Nathan," he continued, smiling at the oldest of the footmen, "I remember, and Benjamin also. Some of these people are new," he added, gesturing to Hetty to walk down the line with him, "but I have their names from our agent, and I am sure I know who is who."

  Of course, he got every name and face—down to the boot boy and second scullery maid—correctly matched. It was not really difficult. Since place in line was rigidly fixed by household position, St. Just could hardly err. Nonetheless, few masters bothered to learn the names of the lower servants. Watching the faces light with pleasure, Pamela thought the effort well worthwhile. St. Just's control over his household had doubtless been improved by this little scene.

  "And this," he added when he had said a personal word to each, "is Lady St. Just and my wife s friend and guest, Lady Pamela Hervey."

  A wave of movement stirred the rigid line, the menservants bowing, the women curtsying. For a moment Pamela could not see distinctly through the mist of tears that rose in her eyes. By the choice of words in his introduction, a very deliberate choice, Pamela was sure, St. Just had saved her a world of petty humiliations. If he had said "companion" instead of "guest," every servant would have resented attending to her; her bell would have been answered late, her dresses carelessly pressed, her orders ignored or responded to with insolence. When her vision cleared, Pamela smiled at the row of servants, giving a little more particular attention to the woman called Sarah.

  St. Just had mentioned her as his mother's maid, but he had kissed her with affection in public and spoken to her in the low tones of intimacy. She did not look much like a lady's maid to Pamela's experienced eyes, either. Her hair was drawn back into a tight bun, and her dress was that of a local countrywoman, but she was examining Hetty with an assurance that augured a privileged position.

  "Would you like to see the rest of the house now, Hetty," St. Just asked his wife after he dismissed the servants, "or would you like to go upstairs and rest awhile?"

  "Just because you think Tremaire is the beginning and the end of me world, Master Vyvyan, don't you be believing everyone else thinks the same," the woman called Sarah said in the blighting tones of a nurse to a small, inconsiderate charge.

  She had taken no notice of St. Just's dismissal of the other servants, confirming Pamela's impression of her position in the household.

  "I've readied madam's room fo
r her ladyship," Sarah continued. "She can see the house after she's put aside her pelisse and freshened her face and hair."

  Although it was plain that Hetty was affronted by Sarah's presumption and found little to recommend her in her address, she was willing to follow her suggestion. She wanted to see her bedchamber and was eager also to change her dusty and soiled clothing.

  They filed out through the northeast corner of the hall, through a short corridor, and up a handsomely carved staircase. Sarah took the lead, which made Hetty purse her lips, but Pamela could not see what else the maid could have done, and in spite of her frown, Hetty followed, trailed by Pamela, with St. Just bringing up the rear. Sarah turned right and walked down a central corridor.

  "That is my suite," St. Just commented, gesturing to a room that was above the hall. "It was my father's, of course." A shadow crossed his face, but he continued steadily, "There is another door, which opens in the cross-corridor. It is a convenient pair of rooms."

  They bypassed another equally handsome stairway, which St. Just said led down to the dining room, billiards room, and breakfast room, through which one could get to the large drawing room. Sarah then turned right again and opened a heavy door.

  Sunlight flooded through wide-open windows facing south and west, giving jewel tones to the rich Turkey carpet on the floor and making the emerald-green curtains that draped the bed almost painful to the eye.

  "How beautiful," Pamela breathed.

  "Oh, do you think so?" Hetty asked doubtfully. "It is not very…very feminine."

  "Madam was a strong woman," Sarah said dourly. "She liked it so."

  "Well," Hetty remarked as if she had not heard the maid speak, "it does not signify. I will get it furnished anew."

  Pamela glanced at St. Just, saw the blank, withdrawn expression he wore, and looked away. She knew he was being very foolish. Hetty was quite right. However lovely the furnishings, they would not suit her. Nonetheless, her heart was wrung for him. His homecoming had been spoiled. The things he loved had been sneered at as worthless. It was very tactless of Hetty to criticize a house she must have known he adored and had longed for.

  It was worse than tactless, it was deliberately cruel, to speak so casually about discarding his mother's possessions. He must have been happy in this room, for it was plain he had loved his mother. The room, the furniture, must hold memory upon memory for him. Could Hetty not have waited until those memories were overlaid with new ones before suggesting a change? Impulsively Pamela sprang to the defense of a precious memory.

  "But see how conveniently everything is arranged, Hetty," Pamela suggested.

  "Conveniently!" the countess exclaimed. "Why, the sun glares from those windows right into your face when you sit at the dressing table. And whoever heard of a lady's bedchamber that had no dressing room attached."

  "No, no," Pamela urged, sorry that she had not let well enough alone, but forced to continue her defense. "It is too early now," she pointed out, going and sitting down at the dressing table, "but a little later the sunshine would go above one's head and cast the most excellent light. And in the morning, you know, the sun is not on this side, and the light would be clear and soft. Then, look, right to hand is the wardrobe. You could choose which dress you wanted without even turning around."

  "Yes, indeed, I see. I said I thought it disgraceful that the mistress of the house should not have a dressing room. A wardrobe in the bedchamber! How paltry! What is a maid for but to carry dresses for me to choose."

  Both had found it necessary to raise their voices a trifle, because a rising murmur was coming from the windows. Hetty turned her head irritably in the direction of the sound, then, as it began to fade, walked to the wardrobe and opened the doors. She pursed her lips discontentedly and looked toward the inner wall, where a fireplace was flanked by two comfortable Queen Anne chairs, each with a small table and a branch of shaded candles beside it. The murmur of sound began again and increased in volume. Hetty looked toward the windows once more.

  "Whatever is that noise, Vyvyan?"

  He had been looking out, and turned toward his wife. "The sea. Come here, Hetty. You can see it. My mother would stand at these windows for hours at a time when the wind was strong, watching the white-caps. She said one could never be dull in this room, because the waves told her stories in pictures—never the same. The tide is going out now, but when it comes in on a gale, you can almost feel the breakers under your feet in this room. My mother loved the sea."

  "Well, I do not," Hetty said sharply. "If you are telling me that that noise becomes louder, I can say right now that this room is not suitable. Why, I could not sleep a wink with all that howling and growling."

  There was a tense silence. Pamela caught a single twist of St. Just's lips before he turned back to the window. He did it on purpose, she thought with a quiver of unease, now watching Hetty stand stubbornly in the middle of the floor, refusing even to approach the window or look at the view. He does not want Hetty in his mother's room.

  "There is the other Lady St. Just's suite," Sarah said flatly. "That was prepared for her ladyship's guest. Perhaps her ladyship would like to look at that. It is on the most sheltered side of the house, northwest, it is. The other lady was a little shaken in her nerves. She didn't like the sea neither. If you will come this way, my lady."

  They passed out into the corridor again and immediately into a small dressing room. Here Hetty paused, her eyes brightening. The delicate writing desk and chair were white and gilt, the curtains of gold brocade, and a small Aubusson carpet of roses and ivy covered the floor. There was also a chaise longue of the same gold brocade as the curtains, with a white-and-gilt table bearing a branch of candles.

  "Pretty," Hetty purred, and stepped lightly through an open doorway into the bedchamber.

  This was more of the same, dainty and delicate, breathing the spirit of a gentle woman who wished to be ensconced and cherished. Pamela agreed heartily that it was pretty and in excellent taste. However, when Hetty said grudgingly that she could not deprive her "guest" of so lovely a pair of rooms, Pamela replied quite sincerely that she would feel like a bull—or rather a cow—in a china shop there.

  "It is much more suitable to you, Hetty," she agreed. "A great blundering creature like myself would make these delicate chairs creak."

  "Very well," the countess said happily. "See that my things are moved, uh…uh…"

  "Sarah, my lady."

  "Yes, Sarah, of course. Well, now, what room will you have, Pam? I declare, this is very amusing. I am feeling much better."

  "That is a problem, my lady," the maid said stolidly. "Most of Tremaire is very shabby. The two countess's rooms were kept up because the late earl desired it. Master Arthur's and Charles's room would not be at all suitable, being arranged for gentlemen."

  "Why do you not simply exchange rooms?" St. Just asked. "Will the sound of the sea disturb you, Lady Pamela?"

  Pamela was both nattered and mildly alarmed. She had come to like and admire St. Just in the time they had traveled together, and it was pleasant to know that he would not mind her using his mother's things. On the other hand, she had no desire to make Hetty jealous.

  "No," Pamela said hesitantly, "I love the sea, and I think the room is beautiful, but if it was the late countess's perhaps I had better not."

  "Oh, do, Pam—if you would not mind dreadfully," Hetty urged. "Then you will be right next to me, and that would be so convenient."

  I will also be closer to your husband than you will, Pamela thought uneasily, but she could not say that, nor even protest again without placing a totally unwarrantable emphasis on the subject. Besides, it was only her own suspicious mind that had raised the problem. She accepted the offer quietly.

  Chapter 3

  After the inauspicious beginning of the journey, life in Tremaire settled into a very pleasant pattern. Pamela generally woke early and rode before breakfast. She tried all of the ladies' horses and settled on a strong but rather sk
ittish black mare as her favorite.

  George, when he discovered Pamela was riding Velvet, protested that the animal was not safe, but St. Just laughed. It was his opinion, he said, that Lady Pamela could manage anything, and he would back her against a mere mare any day.

  Breakfast was eaten with Hetty in the small breakfast parlor adjoining the large drawing room. Often George, who was not an early riser, joined them. Pamela liked George. He was amusing and thoughtful, and he never teased Hetty the way he teased St. Just.

  In fact, Pamela found him of the greatest use in remolding the countess's manners and habits as soon as he discovered her real purpose. His gentle, "No, m'dear, bad ton," was more effective than all Pamela's explanations. The fact that he was able and eager to discuss the follies and foibles of the set Hetty wished to join also helped. Almost more important than his help was the fact that George accepted Pamela as a paid companion without the slightest change in manner toward her. She was so struck by this unusual forbearance that she once thanked him for it.

  George uttered his light laugh. "No, no, no credit to me," he disclaimed with a sudden shrewd twinkle breaking his usual fishlike stare. "Th'only difference between you and me, Lady Pam, is that you do something for your allowance. Glad to be of assistance. Servant, any time."

  After breakfast Hetty customarily walked through the large drawing room and went to sit in the morning room or small drawing room beyond it. If George accompanied her, as he often did, Pamela knew she would be free for several hours to deal with household matters. She had been shocked when Hetty refused to examine the menus that Mrs. Helston submitted for her approval, or to discuss the proper punishment for a laundry maid who quarreled with a scullery maid. On this subject, however, Hetty was adamant.