The Girl at Rosewood Hall (A Lady Jane Mystery)

by Annis Bell

  “Rest assured, my lady, that this letter will reach its destination as fast as possible.”

  “Thank you, Floyd.” Jane went to the window and, minutes later, saw a mounted servant riding out of the courtyard.

  Rufus whined and tried in vain to reach the wound on his back with his tongue.

  “No, Rufus. That has to heal. It’s all right.” Jane crouched beside the dog and stroked him until he relaxed, stretched, and fell asleep.

  With a final look at the injured dog, Jane left the salon and passed through the entrance hall on her way to the domestic rooms. Stuart, the servant with the missing tooth, put his broom aside, patted down the sleeves of his dark-blue jacket, and looked at her in anticipation.

  “I would like to speak with Becky Thomas. Is she preparing the evening meal?” Without waiting for a reply from the confused servant, Jane moved past him and opened the door to the domestic wing herself.

  “Ma’am, I can fetch the cook for you, you don’t need . . . ,” said Stuart and followed her into the corridor, where it smelled of cabbage and potatoes.

  When she first arrived, she had made a quick tour of the entire house but had taken little notice of the kitchen. Now it was high time to get to the bottom of things. Jane encountered a young kitchen maid who instantly sank into a deep, shocked curtsy and hid her wet hands in her dirty apron. To the right was a pantry, and next to that the laundry. From inside came the squeak of the rollers on a mangle.

  Undaunted, Jane continued on her way and entered the kitchen. Becky Thomas was standing at the stove and stirring something in a pot with a long wooden spoon. Another girl was chopping onions at a table, while a skinned rabbit lay on a wooden board beside her. At the sight of Jane, the knife fell from the girl’s hand, and she froze, awestruck.

  When the sound of chopping suddenly ceased, the cook turned her head. When she saw Jane, her dour face darkened. “Ma’am.”

  No more than that came from between her gritted teeth. Jane searched the cook’s round face, red from the heat of the fire in the stove, for any resemblance to Will or Fred, and found the same belligerent lines around her mouth and eyes. Understandably, the cook, now dismissed, was not well disposed toward her, but one who delivered poor work had to live with the consequences.

  “I was at the mill today, Becky. Your brothers were there,” said Jane, and waited for Becky’s reaction.

  “Will’s the miller. What do you mean by ‘brothers’?” Becky asked cautiously.

  “Don’t you have a brother by the name of Fred? I caught him poaching.”

  The kitchen suddenly grew deathly quiet. The only sound was the bubbling and hissing from the stove.

  The cook wiped her sweating forehead with the back of her hand. “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  “Really?”

  Becky Thomas’s cheeks turned deep red, and she planted her hands defiantly on her hips. “I know what you’re on about! Our Fred’s been in a fight and ’ad to do his time for it. But the likes of us are easy to judge. Don’t matter who else was in that fight, oh no! If you’ve got a white collar and rich friends, no ’arm done.”

  “Your brother’s a known smuggler, and I’m talking about poaching. Those are not trivial offenses!” Jane insisted, not letting the hate-filled eyes of the cook intimidate her.

  “You’ve no idea what it means to be poor!” Becky ranted. “With the little ’uns at ’ome crying with ’unger and—”

  “Becky Thomas!” The sharp, authoritarian voice of Mrs. Roche rang through the kitchen, and the housekeeper was with them in a few steps. “My lady, can I help? I thought we had settled the matter.”

  “I did not know yesterday that Becky’s brother Fred was poaching on my land or that her brother Will, the miller, wanted to beat my dog to death,” said Jane, her voice cold.

  Mrs. Roche smacked her hand to her mouth in horror. If she were faking her surprise, then she had missed her calling and should have gone into the theater. “How horrible! And I thought I was doing something good by helping her out. One ought not judge the children by the father . . .”

  “Your Christian efforts are to be applauded, Mrs. Roche, but Becky is not a good cook, or I wouldn’t have said anything. All I really want to know now is whether meat and other food from this kitchen and from my land has found its way into the pots of your family, Becky. What about your sister’s guesthouse? Do they serve game from my woods there?”

  Steps sounded from the hallway, and the butler ran into the kitchen. “My lady, is everything in order?” Floyd looked around in concern, and his eyes settled on the cook.

  Jane nodded. “It is high time that someone sorted things out. My uncle gave everyone here a free hand for too long.”

  Mrs. Roche lifted her chin and muttered, “His lordship never had any cause for complaint. We’ve managed this estate to his full satisfaction for many years.”

  “Then let’s leave it at that. Hand over the housekeeping books to Mr. Coleman, and I want the gamekeeper to come by. Becky, you will leave this house today. Mrs. Roche will pay you the agreed wages,” Jane ordered.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Becky murmured, her expression grim. “But you won’t turn up another cook fast! When word of ’ow you treat your people ’ere gets ’round, you won’t turn up another one at all . . .”

  “Hold your tongue! I will not allow you to threaten me. Floyd, please make sure that this person vacates these premises immediately.” With that, Jane turned and left the kitchen.

  As she left the domestic wing, she breathed in and out deeply to bring her shaking knees under control. With great concentration, she made her way up the stairs, went into her room, and leaned against the door frame inside with a heavy sigh.

  Hettie came from the next room. “Ma’am, you’re very pale. Is something wrong with Rufus?”

  “No, no, it was this Becky Thomas. Hettie, I’ve never come across such a devious family!”

  “Yes. Stuart said the same thing. They are not suffered happily in the village, but no one says anything because they’re all afraid of them,” Hattie remarked wide-eyed.

  “Stuart? What are you doing dallying with him? Watch out, Hettie. You’re still too young to be flirting with men.”

  Hettie shrugged it off. “I know that. I don’t want a big belly. Then I’d have to leave you. No, ma’am, you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Good. Oh, Hettie, I really have enough to worry about!” Jane briefly summarized the content of the two letters.

  Shaken, Hettie stood and stared at her. “Lightning ought to strike your cousin dead!”

  15.

  Mary

  “More water!” Sister Susan shouted, pouring a torrent of soapy water onto the floor.

  Mary slid back and forth on her knees, wiping away as much filth as she could with a cloth and wringing the stinking rag into a bucket. Since early morning, she had been hard at work scrubbing the orphanage floors. How was it possible for such small feet to track in so much muck? Puffing, she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “This place will be clean as a whistle when the committee gets here tomorrow. Back there, that corner is still black! Mary, didn’t you see that?” Sister Susan was pointing to one corner of the dormitory where black spots looked to be spreading across the plaster. The floorboards below were also discolored and smelled moldy.

  “It won’t come off, Sister! I’ve already scrubbed it.” Mary stood up in her soaking dress and trudged over to the corner, which was constantly damp because the outside wall had a crack at that point. “The corner’s always wet. You can feel it!”

  Sister Susan’s eyes narrowed to slits, and the cane in her hand whizzed through the air. Mary was quick enough to throw up her arms protectively over her head, and the first stroke hit her on the forearms. Again and again, the cane slashed down remorselessly on her delicate, childish skin, w
hich finally gave way and split open. Mary felt the warmth of her own blood.

  The blows stopped. “Look at the mess you’re in, girl! It’s all your fault! You’re a stubborn, unteachable child. I don’t know why the master lets you stay on here.”

  Mary stood trembling before the angry sister.

  “Take your arms down and look at me when I speak to you!” the sister snarled.

  The other children had fallen silent, and the only sound heard was the soft scrubbing of washcloths on the wet wooden floors. It was almost as if everyone had stopped breathing. Mary knew that if it were possible, they would have made themselves invisible.

  One of the new girls began to cry softly, and Mary hoped that Fiona would be able to distract the child. “Stop whining, you useless little glutton!” screamed the sister. She was obviously very nervous today, and much more impatient than usual. She swished the cane through the air with a hiss, and a moment later the silence returned.

  Mary simply stood there and looked at the blood running from the cuts on her arm onto the floor. It mixed with the wash water and ran into the gaps between the boards. How much blood has seeped into this wood? she wondered. Blood and tears. This place was a sea of blood and tears.

  “What’s the matter? Are you deaf?”

  Mary, suddenly frightened, opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She had wanted to say that, yes, she was deaf in one ear, but then thought better of it. Instead, she raised her arms and said, “Please, Sister Susan, may I fetch a bandage? Then I’ll clean the corner.”

  The sister’s lips pulled back from her yellow teeth scornfully. “Why not, Mary? We’ll make a decent maid out of you yet. Go. I’ll be back in one hour, and I don’t want to see a speck of dust. And the beds must be made!”

  In a panic, Mary ran down the corridor to the nurses’ room, where there was a box of torn rags that served as bandages. Sister Susan wasn’t always as mean as she was today. Usually her ill temper had something to do with the master and special visitors—perhaps the committee, a group of rich women who came by once a year, strolled through the rooms with their noses turned up sighing, “How dreadful” and “Bless me,” then went into the private salon of the master and mistress to drink tea before disappearing again.

  Once, Mary had received an orange from one of the women, and at Christmas they sent clothes and toys. The good items were separated and stored away for those who were meant to take up a position somewhere. Mary wrapped a strip of linen around one arm, held it firmly in her teeth, and tucked it in provisionally to keep it tight until she could get help with it. Then she did the same with the other arm and ran as fast as she could back to the dormitory, where Fiona was already waiting for her, her eyes wide with anxiety. “What was all that? Why did she give you a hiding like that? Come on, I’ll help you.”

  Fiona wrapped the cloths tighter around her friend’s arms, tore the end of each cloth down the middle, and knotted the makeshift bandages.

  “Something’s up. The committee’s coming, but that’s not it. At least, I don’t think so. Those women have come here lots of times, and the old camel’s never been this ruffled,” said Mary. She went to a little girl who was squatting unhappily in the water and reaching at the air with her hands. “Little grub. She can’t even speak,” said Mary, picking her up. She hugged the girl to her and stroked her hair. The little girl was three years old and smiled and made smacking noises with her lips. Mary set her down again, for the sight of the girl reminded her too much of the baby. It had been a girl, but Mary had forgotten her name. Her memory only allowed for the baby she had let die. “I don’t have anything for you to eat.”

  “She’ll learn ’ow to speak one day. That’s ’ow it is sometimes. It takes longer. Come on, we have to dry the floor. But what about the corner back there? ’ow are we supposed to get that clean?”

  “We can scrub the boards with sand, but what about the plaster?” Mary looked around in despair.

  “I’ve got an idea!” said Fiona. “There’s lime in the workshop. We’ll paint that over. You keep going ’ere and I’ll fetch it.”

  “What would I do without you?” said Mary, and kneeled on the floor.

  “Don’t forget me when things get better, Mary.”

  But the final gleam of Mary’s hope was fading.

  The sun spent the whole day hidden behind a heavy blanket of clouds. Now and then it started to drizzle, and gusts of wind swept salty air over from the sea. Just once, to see the sea, thought Mary, while she spread sand on the floorboards and rubbed it into the wood with a hard brush.

  From outside came the regular knocking of the men who were smashing stones with hammers. Breaking rocks exhausted the men physically, but it was also degrading, just like taking apart the old hawsers. It was draining, soul-destroying work, the work you did when you were at the end, when there was nothing else to do to earn a bed for a night and a lukewarm meal.

  Fiona returned from the workshop, where she’d managed to get some lime. They stirred it into a creamy mass in a bowl and smeared it over the discolored wall with their hands. The result was surprisingly good, and the girls looked at each other proudly.

  “But it’s wet,” said Mary.

  “Can’t be ’elped. You were supposed to wash the wall anyway, right?”

  “But they’ll notice.”

  “No, they won’t. Listen!”

  From the open window came loud voices and the cries of children from the courtyard on the street side. The other children tried to run to the window to see what was going on, but Mary told them, “Better stay out of sight. The camel’s in a bad mood today. Wash your hands, and then we’ll play something.”

  Fiona and Mary went to the window in time to see Sister Susan take a child from the arms of a woman—a laborer, judging from her humble clothes—and pass the child to a maidservant who worked for the master and his wife.

  “And will my little one be treated well here?” the woman asked despairingly, reaching out one hand toward her child, who began to scream and was carried away by the servant.

  Sister Susan looked quite impressive in her light-blue dress and white bonnet, and instilled a feeling of trust in strangers. “My life is dedicated to these children, and I can assure you that none of them lack for anything. It all looks rather untidy now, certainly, but that’s because we are in the middle of preparing for a visit from some eminent patrons. If you really want, I can show you one of our classrooms and the dormitory.”

  But the way Sister Susan said it, it was clear that she was telling the woman to get lost, and the sooner the better.

  “No, no, don’t trouble yourself. I’ve a train to catch and can’t stay. But I’ll come back and fetch my little one as soon as I’ve found some work and money.” She pressed a few coins into the sister’s hand. “Here, take this. I don’t have any more right now.” Sister Susan put the money in her pocket without a word.

  Then the woman ran off as if the Furies themselves were after her. Sister Susan was still standing in the courtyard watching as the porter closed the gate when the mistress approached her. She spoke in a low voice, and Mary and Fiona could not catch every word.

  “How many do we have for the transport to . . . ?” the mistress asked.

  “Five can go tomorrow. This new one, too,” the sister replied.

  “Are you sure? The mother agreed?”

  The camel gave a dry laugh. “You know how it works. If she comes back, then, dearie me, we lost the little one to the fever.”

  Suddenly, Sister Susan turned and stared up at the window. Mary and Fiona ducked instantly.

  “What transport?” Mary whispered.

  Fiona looked at her solemnly. “It sure as heck ain’t good.”

  16.

  Jane had lost her appetite for dinner and had bread and cheese brought to her bedroom. The room was large, with space for a table and cha
irs in front of the window. A small lockable desk with various compartments crouched in one corner. It was where Jane kept her personal documents and letters. Wearing a comfortable housedress, she sat at the desk, folded her cousin’s letter, and placed it in one of the narrow compartments. Above the compartments, she had stood the book the dead girl had left behind, and she withdrew it and put it on the desk in front of her. Gently, she stroked the worn cover with its stamped gold letters.

  After Jane ate, Hettie cleared Jane’s meager dinner. Rufus lay stretched out on his mat beside Jane’s bed. Hettie gave him a piece of bread, and Jane heard the loud smacking noises he made as he ate. “Don’t spoil him too much, Hettie, or he’ll get fat.”

  “Oh, no, the poor thing. He’s earned it.” The maid scratched Rufus’s huge, bony head.

  Jane leafed slowly through the thin volume, page by page, hoping to stumble across some clue she had so far overlooked. But the pages were unmarked. No scribbling in the margins, no notes tucked between the pages. There were only the initials M & P and the sketch of the rose in the front. Finally, she turned to the last page and ran her fingertips over the marbled paper, as if it might reveal something about the two girls for whom this book had meant so much. The last page was thicker than the others, and as she rubbed the paper between her fingers, it separated from the patterned flyleaf that reinforced the inside of the cover. It looked as if the last page and the flyleaf had got wet at some point, but some faded and partly illegible handwriting remained. It was not a child’s hand, but rather a bureaucratic entry, something a librarian would write: Ga . . . and Orp . . . age and Cornwall could still be read.

  Jane slapped one hand on the desk in triumph. “An orphanage in Cornwall! This is proof! Hettie, look at this!”