by Jane Steen
“You’re wishing I were paying calls and giving dinners like before, aren’t you?” I looked sideways at Guttridge, who had the grace to look shamefaced.
“I shouldn’t have said that, my lady. It’s not my place to complain when you’re still grieving Sir Justin.”
“It’s all right.” I swallowed hard. “You probably know more about my grief than anyone, being my collector of damp handkerchiefs. But grief is for my private side, and mourning—the splendid, public isolation of it—is rather dull, especially at Christmastide. There seems so little point in changing when you just exchange one black dress for another, and Mrs. Foster must be getting so tired of making meals for one person.”
“You could invite your family for dinner,” Guttridge suggested. “A nice quiet gathering just before Christmas would be a fine thing.”
“It would.” My spirits, momentarily depressed by the thought of the damp handkerchiefs, rose again. “Thank you, Guttridge. I’ll speak with Mrs. Foster and cheer her up with the prospect of a grand meal.”
We walked past the large stable block, our boots making little noise on the damp gravel. The enormous beeches lining the drive were nearly bare of leaves by now, just a few stragglers clinging on here and there. Their branches reached out to one another across the wide drive like long-lost lovers yearning for an embrace. The effect, made stronger by the low, misty clouds, was like walking through a very high, airy tunnel. The dense growth of rhododendrons that surrounded the stables intensified that feeling of seclusion. Rustling noises to our right indicated the presence of Scotty, looking for rabbits and voles and nasty things to roll in.
To the left, the land dropped away sharply to the marsh. With no leaves on the trees, we could see the Downs as vague blue-gray shapes in the distant mist. On a clear day, one could spot the white cliffs where the great ridge of land met the sea, but today our view was marshland crisscrossed with drainage ditches, a grayish smudge indicating the sea beyond. Where the valley that lay below Whitcombe was a bright, fertile green, the marsh was a patchwork of duns and yellows. The fields were interspersed with strips of tan-colored clay where little grew and with patches of water much loved by birds in the summer. I could see the whitish dots of Michael’s sheep. A movement in the middle distance betrayed the road to Dover, frequented by drays and coaches. As we walked, the mist gave way for a moment to a breath of the sea, a freshness that struck our cheeks with the promise of cold weather to come.
The housekeeper’s son responded to Guttridge’s pull at the large iron bell that hung at Hyrst’s gate. Within twenty minutes—time for me to say a brief hello to Mama and Belming and learn that his lordship was not at home—I’d sent word to Julia that I’d join her for luncheon, borrowed an under-housemaid, and taken possession of Mama’s herb room.
Two hours later Julia put her head around the door to find me in a hot and dusty condition. Guttridge perched on a windowsill, my notebook in her hand, while the under-housemaid stolidly wielded a dustpan and brush. Julia raised her eyebrows at Guttridge, who looked as if she’d like to shrug her shoulders if her training permitted it.
“Her ladyship insisted on this division of labor,” she informed the countess.
“Her ladyship is perfectly capable of moving a few pieces of equipment around,” I elaborated with a grin. “It’s quicker if I decide and Guttridge writes. And Tilda is doing a marvelous job cleaning up in my wake. You’re quite happy, aren’t you, Guttridge?”
Guttridge responded by raking me from top to toe with her eyes. Her look clearly proclaimed that the work she was spared now would descend on her later. It was certainly true that there was now a great deal of dust and dirt on my person, clothes, and hair, and mourning clothes took a huge amount of brushing out if they were to appear spotless. I pulled a thick, sticky strand of cobweb from my apron, looked at my dress where the dust had missed the apron entirely, and pantomimed an overly dramatic expression of contrition for Guttridge’s benefit. I had the pleasure of seeing her purse her lips in a failing attempt to hide a laugh.
“In any case,” I continued, “if I don’t handle this stuff, I’ll have no idea whether it’s going to be useful or not. Most of it will be once it’s been cleaned of all the dried substances and—ugh—spiders.” I shook something nasty-looking and hopefully very dead out of a bottle.
“Michael will be delighted someone has finally cleared out this room,” Julia remarked. “He’s always complaining there isn’t enough space to keep us in a style befitting an earl’s family.”
“Yes, I know,” I said with feeling. “Papa always said the lack of room at Hyrst was an advantage. It provided him with an excuse not to hold huge house parties. Although he attended enough of them, usually without Mama.” I turned away to sneeze violently, having made the mistake of sniffing the contents of one of the bottles. “Talking of Mama, do you think we could have luncheon in her rooms? Is she well enough?”
“There’s only the three of us, and Belming, of course, so if Mama-in-Law gets confused, nobody will mind.” Julia seized a rag from the pile of clean ones on the table and used it to remove something from my hair. “And it’s her favorites—cock-a-leekie soup with treacle tart to follow. Now do come along, Helena. Let Guttridge and Tilda get something to eat. You’ve been slave-driving them long enough.”
A short while later, thoroughly brushed down by Guttridge and pronounced fit for company, I found myself alone with Julia as we waited for Mama.
“Tweedledum and Tweedledee came to see me this morning,” said Julia, using Odelia’s nicknames for the twins. “Apparently, you’ve managed to get the Hatherall girl to take back her claim that Monsieur Fortier is the father of her child.”
“Yes. I had to get Mrs. Bearcroft to promise not to question the girl. She settled for giving Susan a forty-minute lecture on depravity and the evils of compounding sin with deceit. I truly wanted to kick her by the time she was done.”
“Mrs. Bearcroft or Susan?” Julia grinned.
“Both. Susan deserved the lecture, but I certainly didn’t deserve to sit and listen to Mrs. B.”
“Dreadful woman. Still, you’ve done the French physician a favor, if only he knew it. Perhaps he’ll come back now.” She tilted her head to one side. “Would you like that? Odelia thinks you would. I had a letter from her this morning.”
“O shouldn’t even think of such a thing with me so recently bereaved.”
Julia waved a hand. “O thinks of such things all the time. She ought to think of getting married herself. Then perhaps she wouldn’t always be imagining silly romances between parties who are quite unsuited to one another. Michael thinks her bohemian life among the artists overheats her brain.”
“Michael just wants O to bury herself in the countryside and leave the London house all to him. Which is silly because he doesn’t like the disruption of going to Town for the Season anyway. And for heaven’s sake, Julia, don’t listen to O. Monsieur Fortier is a pleasant, intelligent man, but we have little in common. And I’m not interested in any man.” I sighed. “I do actually miss my husband, you know.”
“I know you do.” Julia kissed my cheek, then fished a clean handkerchief out of a hidden pocket and wiped a smudge from beneath my ear. “Goodness, Guttridge is going to have to scrub you down later.”
“I received a note from Mrs. Dermody this morning.” I made a face as Julia showed me the black mark on her handkerchief. “Thanking me for defending her brother. She hesitates over the presumption of coming to see me at Whitcombe but says she’s at home tomorrow if I should care to call and receive her thanks in person.”
“And shall you care to call?”
“I might. It would make such a nice change from receiving visits of condolence at home.”
“And somebody of that class might be uncomfortable at Whitcombe.”
“Of what class? I have no idea what the Dermodys might be like. They own one of the best houses in Littleberry, very near Ned and Gerry, in fact.”
“My dear, in Littleberry everybody’s near everybody else.”
“You know what I mean. They appear to be wealthy and respectable people.”
“The two don’t always go together. Is this Fortier fellow a gentleman?”
I frowned. “I think so. He certainly behaves as if he’s our social equal—calls me Lady Helena and not m’lady, that sort of thing. His manners are impeccable.” I thought back. “In fact, I’d say he’s as well-bred as anyone we know. Better than some.”
“It’s so hard to tell with the French.” Julia sighed. “All those years of turmoil. Republic, empire, monarchy, republic, empire—where are we now?”
“Republic, silly. The Prussians turned out the last emperor, and he exiled himself to England. He lived and died in Chislehurst; his widow’s still there as far as I know.”
“Perhaps your Monsieur Fortier is exiled royalty.”
“Wouldn’t he tell everyone if he were? And he’s not my Monsieur Fortier, I told you. In any case, he’s gone—for good, people say.”
“That’s something worth visiting the Dermodys for. You could ask Mrs. Dermody if he’s really gone.”
“I suppose I could.”
Lunch with Julia and Mama was a lighthearted, relaxed affair. For once, Mama forgot to fret about the gardener. I avoided any topic that had to do with herbs. References to that part of Mama’s life seemed to distress her, no doubt because she was unable to perform tasks she’d once accomplished with ease.
By the time I got back to the herb room, Guttridge had taken over. She’d commandeered two footmen and given them precise instructions for the packing of all the glass and metal equipment “on the assumption that you’d want it all, my lady.” She’d made a small display of items about which she was doubtful and set Tilda to cleaning the floors and cupboards. She’d notified Brandrick that the room was nearly cleared and that work could begin on it as soon as he wished. To cap her efforts, she’d produced a set of much-improved lists for my perusal.
Presented with this evidence that I was superfluous to requirements, I spent a half hour sorting through the assorted odd and ends. As Guttridge had suspected, most of them were only fit for the rag-and-bone man.
Bidding good-bye to the helpful Tilda with the gift of a few coins, Guttridge and I walked back to Whitcombe through a drizzle that did nothing for the state of my dress. By the time I was cleaned up, the rain had started in earnest, and I had nothing to do but read Mama’s journals.
My mother had rapidly progressed from her first, faltering steps to a fast-growing knowledge of the properties of plants common to our area. This was when she’d started the herb garden. The journal was full of lists of plants she’d ordered, plants she had yet to find, and plants she’d located in the fields around Littleberry.
Gerry made the occasional appearance in the journals; my father, never. I wondered what he’d done while Mama surrounded herself with books and plants—but an earl does have a certain number of local and parliamentary responsibilities. I presumed Papa and Mama had done what, in my experience, happily married people did: develop their own interests and come together at the end of the day to discuss them. The kindly Papa of my memories had always shown the amused tolerance toward Mama’s activities that I supposed was a man’s way of exhibiting approval.
The following morning was rainy and blustery. I had the winter carriage brought round nevertheless and set off for Littleberry. I had ventured forth from Whitcombe so little since Justin’s death that I found myself excited at the prospect of an outing, especially since I would see a new house and new people.
We descended Whitcombe Hill slowly, as the road was muddy and perilous. Once on Littleberry’s cobblestones, we were soon ringing our way through the massive medieval gate up into the High Street. The steady fall of cold rain kept most people indoors, but we still had to maneuver carefully past pedestrians with umbrellas and the occasional cart as we picked our way along the crooked, narrow thoroughfare. The air smelled of fish, tar, and manure, all the aromas of Littleberry’s industries mingling with the reek of damp clothing, wood smoke, and mud.
By the time we were climbing the hill again, heading for the Dermody house, the great clock in St. Michael’s church was booming out the eleventh hour. We left the noise and smells of the High Street behind and found ourselves in a more genteel corner of our tiny town. Here was the calm dignity of solid red-brick houses and large peaceful gardens behind high walls. The secret lives of Littleberry’s better citizens were kept more secret still by shutters, drapes, and heavy front doors.
The Dermody house was set in a corner near the churchyard. It benefited from a convenient sort of half-courtyard where a carriage could pull in off the cobbles. I watched through the rain-marked window as the footman jumped down, shedding copious amounts of water from his hat and caped raincoat, and pulled on the bell outside the house’s main entrance.
Naturally I was admitted with alacrity. Merchants’ wives are generally at home to the aristocracy. It wasn’t more than a minute before Mrs. Gabrielle Dermody arrived to greet me.
She was older than her brother by perhaps five years. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but like many Frenchwomen she had that sense of style that is often better than beauty. Thick, wavy black hair swept up into a smooth, elegant chignon surmounted by an enameled comb of extremely good quality. Her gown’s relatively simple skirt was compensated for by its finely embroidered bodice.
“You are very welcome in my house, Lady Helena,” she said as she took my hand. Unlike Fortier, she had a slight accent, but she spoke as one who has lived in England for many years. “I am most grateful for what you did for Armand.” Luminous brown eyes, less unusual than her brother’s but nonetheless striking, held mine with an expression that was friendly yet slightly wary.
She glanced round as a maid opened the parlor door. “Will you take a cup of hot chocolate with me to ward off the morning’s chill? My cook makes the best hot chocolate this side of the Channel.”
I assented with pleasure and sat in the seat Mrs. Dermody indicated as the maid closed the door. A fire burned in the grate, but it was not too warm. This was fortunate since I had not removed my hat or manteau as a sign that my visit would be brief.
We made small talk until the chocolate arrived. The mildness of the season and whether we thought we would ever have frost or snow made excellent topics of conversation. I was able to admire the size of the garden I could see through the many-paned French windows. It looked well kept, and the parlor was paneled in softly gleaming pale oak. A small room compared to any at Whitcombe House, it nonetheless had an air of elegance and spaciousness thanks to the tall windows with their window seats and the careful choice of furnishings. It was artistic and harmonious, a real change from the usual crowded rooms with their heavy furniture and overabundance of ornament. Justin would have liked it. The fire spat and crackled behind the fireguard, making the blue Delft tiles of its surround flicker with oranges and reds.
“This is delicious.” My compliment was genuine. The chocolate was delicately flavored with cinnamon and allspice, and pleasantly sweet.
“I’m glad you like it.” She smiled in a friendly manner. “Armand says I have too much of a sweet tooth. He will not touch a drink with sugar or cream in it.”
“Is he—I mean, have you heard from him?”
Now she definitely looked wary, but her demeanor remained friendly. “He sent word that he reached France safely. I’m afraid our method of correspondence is somewhat circuitous, and the distances are great. I did write to him about the ridiculous accusation against him, but I doubt he’s received my letter yet. Now I must write to reassure him all is well. Poor Armand—after this, he may decide to return to London rather than live in Littleberry.”
“You think he’ll come back to England, then?” That, if I admitted the truth to myself, was what I’d been waiting to ask.
She shrugged, looking very like her brother in that moment. “There is room in our house for
him whenever he wishes to be here, but I do not order Armand’s life.”
“Did he move to Littleberry to be with you?” I asked and then felt flustered. “I’m sorry—I don’t mean to pry.” But I wished very much that Mrs. Dermody would tell me what Fortier was doing in France.
“He thought the coast would be a better place to live.” I had the distinct impression she was giving me a partial truth, being careful not to say too much. “He had perhaps not reckoned with the drawbacks of a gossipy small town.”
“I hope he has better fortune in France, then.”
“Oh, small towns are the same everywhere.”
I saw her catch her underlip between her teeth and realized she had given me at least one clue. Fortier was not in Paris.
“I’m glad to have been instrumental in clearing up one piece of gossip.” I decided not to press her on Fortier’s whereabouts, however curious I might be.
“It was kind of you.” She sighed. “Armand is an attractive man, but he’s held himself aloof from the young ladies of the town, and that has given rise to a certain amount of antipathy. Added to the fact that you English are always quick to think the worst of a Frenchman.”
She smiled to dilute the comment, and I smiled back to show I had taken no offense. It was time to lead the conversation onto safer ground.
“I can’t deny we usually seem to end up on opposite sides of a conflict. And yet we’ve been friendly neighbors and trading partners for the best part of this century, haven’t we? Sir Justin and I attended the Universal Exposition in Paris as part of our wedding trip, along with my sister and brother-in-law. It was a splendid exhibition.”
“Considering our political difficulties. Would you like a little more?” Mrs. Dermody lifted the chocolate pot.
“Yes, please. Sir Justin and I thought the head of the statue of Liberty Enlightening the World quite magnificent, if a little stern. I hope they succeed in taking it to America.”
