There was Phoebe again, tiresomely intruding into her mind … Even after Rose settled her mistress in bed, her sister-in-law’s face refused to be dismissed. Agatha could see it still, smiling up at Roger Acland like some besotted young miss, just the way she had ogled brother Max all those years ago. Tonight, she had looked as silly as the Rivington wench, who had been flirting with Lionel in competition with the Havelock girl … and that reminded her, where had her son disappeared to before the ball was over? Wenching somewhere, no doubt, but not with Olivia, for the girl had said good-night along with her grandparents and taken her leave at the same time. A pity. There would have been some sense in compromising the future mistress of Tremain, but not daughters of ambitious mothers who would be delighted if their offspring trapped him into marriage. Agatha’s last waking thought was that she must warn her son on that score.
As far as Lionel was concerned, his mother’s fears were groundless. He knew well enough how to handle ambitious young women, or females of a lower social order who tried to blackmail or threaten him. He laughed at them, calling their bluff, safe in the knowledge that in his world a man could do what he liked with any woman he chose, without obligation or fear of reprisal. It was a man’s world and would remain so.
That was why Olivia’s violent rejection inflamed him so much that for the rest of the night he felt nothing but irritation with all women. Damn the arrogant bitch. He wanted to hit back at her, to punish and humiliate her, but she evaded him skilfully, finally leaving the ball without so much as a glance in his direction. Nor could he waylay her so long as she stuck to the old man’s side, which, he suspected, was her reason for doing so. Even when she left the ball she made a point of accompanying her grandparents, bidding his mother goodnight along with them and congratulating her on a truly excellent affair which, she was sure, everyone had enjoyed as much as herself. Bloody little liar. Earlier in the evening she had escaped because she wanted to and had only returned because, as a member of the family, she couldn’t absent herself for too long.
Oh, he saw through her right enough, and through her pretence of filial devotion. She had used it as a weapon against himself, a means of avoiding a scene with him because he couldn’t try to create one in Old Ralph’s presence. Privately, Lionel always thought of his grandfather as ‘Old Ralph’ because there was something a bit too rakish about him to blend with the mellow term of Grandfather. The old lady, of course, he regarded differently. ‘Grandmother Charlotte’ suited her autocratic personality. ‘Queen Charlotte’ might be even better, for she was certainly queen of Tremain. Still, in her way she was rather marvellous, and certainly handsome despite her years, though a trifle too shrewd for his liking.
‘You are being remarkably attentive to me, young man,’ she had said caustically after he had led her onto the floor for the third time. ‘What are you up to? Are you after something? Is it money?’
So much for his mother’s advice about buttering up to the old lady. His attentions needed to be more subtle, but subtlety had never come easily to him. Pitting his wits against women like his grandmother and Olivia only seemed to finish with unpleasant jolts. Come to think of it, there was quite a similarity in their characters, and even in their looks if one took the trouble to study them. Olivia had inherited her grandmother’s fine straight nose, her high cheekbones, her erect carriage and, in a strange sort of way, her dignity. He remembered now that it had been there even when she whirled away from him, clutching her torn bodice. Damn the bitch again for being so tantalising. After her, the easy-to-get Rivington girl and the openly-inviting Havelock miss had held no enticement at all.
Somehow the ball had lost its savour and, disenchanted, he sought consolation in Pierre’s excellent catering, only to find that his appetite had vanished. His thirst, however, definitely needed slaking. There was an excellent Bordeaux which Pierre ordered regularly from London (‘Your late father, a man of epicurean good taste, would drink none other, Master Lionel.’) But all the Bordeaux had gone and so, too, had Pierre. The Tremain staff and the additional helpers from Stoke — no village yokels were acceptable to so discriminating a man as the French cook — had been left to stifle their yawns behind the depleted array of food, of which the guests seemed, at last, to have had their fill. But weary flunkeys still peddled wine, the effects of which were demonstrated either in boisterous song or the snores of recumbent figures whom passive-faced servants were discreetly carrying to their waiting carriages.
Suddenly bored with the lot of them and cursing Pierre for letting the supply of Bordeaux run dry, Lionel took his leave without troubling to say good-night to anyone. He’d take a level bet that the man had a good supply in his cluttered kitchen and was even now enjoying it.
The route there took Lionel along the passage lined with alcoves, some of which were empty, some occupied by sleeping figures soon to be routed out and despatched home, and some significantly curtained, taunting him with the recollection of Olivia’s blazing contempt. He therefore arrived at Pierre’s kitchen with his ill humour much increased and, sure enough, there was the cook sprawled beside the fire — buckled shoes kicked off, waistcoat undone, neck-cloth cast aside, shirt wide open — imbibing with infinite satisfaction. The look on his face turned Lionel’s ill humour into rage.
‘Damn you, you drunken Frenchie. Where’s the Bordeaux? If you say it’s run out, I’ll curse you for a liar and make sure my mother hears of it.’
The man jerked to his feet, wine spilling down his shirt which, Lionel saw, was also stained with sweat beneath the armpits. There were beads of it on his brow as well, trickling into his eyebrows. He mopped it with his sleeve, mumbling as he did so, ‘Master Lionel, sir-most humble apologies — most mortified am I that you should find me so disarrayed — ’
‘Shut up, you fool, and pour me a glass. That is the Bordeaux you’re swilling, isn’t it? I might have known you’d keep some back. Too good to be wasted on the mob, eh? Can’t say I blame you.’
Pierre was hastily polishing a glass. Lionel marvelled that he should find one so quickly amidst chaos. ‘Don’t know how you lay your hands on a damn thing in this place,’ he said, thankfully accepting the wine.
‘I know where everything is, Master Lionel. Every single thing. That’s why I don’t need, or want, extra kitchen help.’
‘They might find out where you hide things — like the Bordeaux, for instance.’ One sip had made Lionel feel more amiable. ‘As I thought — only the best for Pierre, eh?’
The Frenchman grinned, no longer sheepish. It was a man-to-man, understanding, knowledgeable grin, accompanied by a nod.
‘Right, sir. Of course, sir.’ His speech was only slightly slurred, but that meant he had drunk quite a lot, for Lionel well knew that he could hold his liquor, imbibing a considerable amount before showing any adverse signs. Lionel’s glance said as much and the man’s grin was immediately replaced by a rueful, slightly pleading smile.
‘It was hard work out there, sir. Hot, too. At my age, a man can’t stand the pace so easily.’
‘How old are you, Pierre?’
‘Fifty, Master Lionel.’
‘That means you were — how old? Twenty-nine? — when you came to serve my parents.’
‘At Carrion House, yes, sir. Before you were born. I was proud to serve your father — and now your dear mother, naturally.’
‘Naturally.’ There was a world of meaning in Lionel’s voice which the cook chose to ignore. A man knew where his bread was best buttered, so it was as well not to heed any insinuations from this spoilt young buck.
‘It’s a long time since I visited this kitchen,’ Lionel continued, glancing around.
‘A long time indeed, Master Lionel. You used to come here a lot, when you were small. Such a curious little fellow you were.’
‘Curious? In what way? Damn you, you’re not implying I was an oddity?’
‘Indeed, no, sir! I was referring to curiosity of the mind, a lively interest in everything about yo
u. Not a thing did you miss, young as you were.’ Pierre refilled his young master’s glass and then his own. The youth had drunk enough — at least, his mother would have thought so — but let him have more if it softened him. It was as well to keep on the right side of the mistress’s son.
Suddenly genial, Lionel clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘I have to hand it to you, Pierre — you know how to choose a good wine.’
‘Your father introduced me to this one, sir. He brought a supply back from London at the same time that he brought me. From his honeymoon, it was.’
‘How did he find you?’
‘Through a hiring agent his hostess, Miss Elizabeth Freeman, used.’ Hastily, Pierre replenished Lionel’s glass again, hoping to forestall further questioning and any consequent betrayal of the truth, such as the fact that the hiring agent’s clients were mostly ex-convicts like himself. Naturally, this was never revealed to prospective employers.
But Lionel had lost interest, aware only that the room was becoming both hot and hazy. He shrugged off his lavender satin cutaway coat. It fell to the flagged floor, its elaborately embroidered tails spreading out like the wings of a bird. Neck-cloth followed, soiled and crumpled.
‘That’s better — much better — place is like an oven.’
‘That’s not surprising, sir. I keep the ovens hot night and day, so your dear mother may have whatsoever dishes she fancies whenever she fancies them.’
‘Bloody marvel you are, Pierre. Bloody old rascal too, I’ll be bound.’
‘Indeed, no, sir! I am a most respectable man.’
‘But no Frenchman, is my guess. That accent of yours slips occasionally.’
The cook’s face showed outraged dignity.
‘I have now been in this country for so many years that it would be surprising if I retained a foreign accent,’ he replied pedantically. ‘But Mr Garrick would deplore its loss, for he used to engage me in conversation so that he could study it for stage parts. Both he and Mistress Woffington found it beneficial for that purpose. “M’sieur,” she would cry, “to think I went all the way to Paris to study with Madame Dumesnil when all the time I need only have listened to you!” Marie Dumesnil was a leading French actress, as you are no doubt aware, Master Lionel.’
Lionel wasn’t, but didn’t like to admit it, so all he said was, ‘You knew David Garrick and Peg Woffington?’
‘Intimately, my dear sir. I cooked for them at one time. Mr Garrick engaged me when the Comte de Bouverez, who brought me with him from France, lost so much money at dice that he had to part with all his servants. I learned my art in the kitchens of the Château de Bouverez, and came to this country in the Comte’s service, only to be abandoned in an alien land. And worse befell when Woffington and Garrick parted and their joint ménage ceased — so there I was, abandoned again.’ It wasn’t strictly true, but there was no point in relating how David Garrick had had him arrested for theft and clapped into the notorious Fleet jail. ‘So you see, Master Lionel, I have a very respectable background. Your father would never have engaged me otherwise.’
‘Tell me about him.’ Lionel waved his glass expansively. ‘Tell me about yourself — ’
‘I’m not interesting enough, sir, but your father — now he was different. A fine gentleman. Much respected throughout Staffordshire. And all he did to Carrion House is hard to believe unless one remembers it, as I do. I understand he’d done much to it before his marriage, but afterwards he did considerably more. That was during my time, so I know what I’m talking about.’
‘Looking at it now, I can’t believe the place could ever have been elegant.’
‘I know, sir, and that’s sad, sir, standing empty and neglected the way it is. I remember what it was once like and how everything ended so suddenly … ’
‘With his death, you mean? That was sudden too, wasn’t it? And the shock was so great that my mother couldn’t bear to remain at Carrion House.’
Pierre imbibed deeply and sighed mournfully. ‘Sudden it was indeed, Master Lionel. You’ve heard tell how it happened, or has your dear mother spared you?’
One could say as much, Lionel thought muzzily. One could attribute his mother’s silence to a desire to spare her son any sorrow, or to a desire to forget her own. All the same, it was strange the way everyone seemed to avoid any reference to his father’s death. He didn’t even know what illness had led to it.
‘Tell me about it,’ he urged. ‘Why was it sudden? What caused it?’
‘As to that, sir, they never found out. Nor did they find his body for several days.’
Lionel sat up with a jerk.
‘His body? No one found his body, did you say?’
‘Well, sir, no one thought of looking in the garden house. Who would, in mid-winter, with snow around? A thaw had set in, but snow still lay on high ground and deep slush down in the valley. Carrion House stood high on a hill — ’
‘Still does, you dolt.’
Pierre looked offended.
‘Speak to me like that, Master Lionel, and I’ll tell you no more. Maybe I’ve said too much already.’
‘On the contrary, you haven’t said enough. I’ve always believed my father died peacefully in his bed, and now I hear he lay undiscovered for days in some rotting old garden house. Surely not that place one can see from the side lane?’
‘Don’t you ever be going near it, Master Lionel.’
‘I don’t — or haven’t since I went exploring as a boy.’
‘’T’weren’t rotting when your poor father was alive. He designed the place himself and took a pride in it. And very grand it was, oriental in style and in the furnishings, too. Had to be seen to be believed, so elegant it was. As for the cushions he lay on, they must have cost more than a pretty penny — ’
Not only had the Frenchman’s accent disappeared, but his discretion too. Tongue loosened, he finished dramatically, ‘ — and there he was, naked but for a Chinese robe!’
‘Naked! Why in heaven’s name was he naked?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, sir, but naked he were. Saw him myself, and the wound at the back of his head. Must have struck it on something very sharp to go so deep, old Doctor Wotherspoon said — a nail sticking out from the timber wall, or somesuch. There was no other explanation. He couldn’t have been stabbed because a knife would have make a broader wound, and anyway there were no signs of a struggle or of anyone else having been there. So the verdict was death by misadventure, and very brave your dear mother was, holding her head up high when she gave evidence — ’
‘She didn’t find the body, surely to God?’
‘No, indeed, sir. That was discovered by a gardener when he went to check on the place. It was shut up for the winter, but it was part of his job to keep an eye on it. Of course, we took good care the poor lady didn’t see the body until we’d got it back to the house and dressed it in a night shift and put it into the master’s bed.’
‘“We”? You mean the gardener and yourself?’
‘No, sir. The man wouldn’t touch it. Came rushing to the kitchen, jibbering with fright. I was alone and the rest of the servants were abed, so I shut his mouth and sent him for the doctor. Between us — the doctor and me — we carried the body to the house. There was no other man around to lend a hand. Parker, the footman, was away visiting his mother in Stockport, and the coachman was snoring in his room above the stables and too old, anyway, to be much help in carrying your father indoors. The doctor couldn’t do it on his own so, shocked and grieved though I was, I did all I could to oblige. “But no word of this to your mistress,” Doctor Wotherspoon warned me. “We must spare her … keep the truth from her … ” And so we did, and never to this day have I breathed a word about it to a soul.’
And never before had drinking affected Pierre’s discretion to such a degree, but having gone so far he was now unable to stop. ‘She bore up valiantly, even at the funeral, though she did a strange thing as I recollect. Very strange indeed, and I doubt I
weren’t the only one to think so.’
‘What strange thing? Come on, man, out with it. What strange thing did my mother do?’
‘Well, t’were like this, sir. After the graveside service, when the preacher stood aside and the sexton waited to start his shovelling, your dear mother stepped forward — to drop a flower on the coffin, everyone thought. Instead, she dropped a piece of Drayton pottery, a dull green beaker that Rose had started serving her nightly chocolate in although she felt the mistress didn’t like it much — the beaker, I mean, not the chocolate, which she relished. But the beaker had been a present from the master, made specially for her, so he liked her to use it. Even now I can hear the sound of it striking the coffin, as if knocking to let him know it were there. And her face, all twisted it was. The wind lifted her mourning veil, so everyone saw it. And everyone remarked on it later, saying it were twisted with grief, and I expect they were right though it seemed to me more like a strange sort of smile, as if she were sharing a secret with him … or reminding him — ’
‘Of what, for God’s sake?’
‘As to that, sir, I couldn’t guess, but t’were as if she were saying, “You know and I know why I’m giving this back to you … ”’
CHAPTER 4
Although sleep normally came quickly to Olivia, tonight it eluded her because her mind was occupied with Damian Fletcher and his startling admission. For what crime could a man be imprisoned in the Colonies, governed by English law? She knew little about that unknown land on the other side of a vast ocean, but one heard rumours even in this remote part of the world; political rumours which her grandfather discussed with whoever would listen to him.
Once Grandmother Charlotte had said wistfully, ‘Perhaps Max escaped to northern parts before that terrible disaster struck … ’, and Grandfather Ralph had patted her hand helplessly, as if despairing of her ever facing up to the fact that there had long been no hope of seeing him alive again.
‘If he had reached America, my dear, we would have heard — and from all accounts it is a troubled country so he might not have fared well there.’
The Potter's Niece Page 7
