by Laura Powell
Elsie, naturally, had to stop and stare. ‘What pretty flowers! Like little stars!’
‘The local name for them is the moly flower, but they’re for looking at, no more,’ cautioned the steward. ‘That side of the wood is dangerous and strictly out of bounds.’
Mrs Robinson peered across. ‘But it looks such a charming spot.’
The old man grunted. ‘You’ve heard of the Cornish adder, perhaps. Well, the Cull viper is its more vicious cousin. It nests up here, in that very glade, and a bite from its fangs is fatal. So keep your distance.’
After this warning, all were relieved to leave the wood. Emerging from the trees, they beheld an arcaded villa set against the hill. It was classical in style, with ice-cream-pale-yellow walls and a roof of terracotta tiles. A wide lawn in front of the house gave way to a formal garden whose beds were worked into patterns of stars, half-moons and mathematical symbols, wound about with white pebble paths. Statues of nymphs and satyrs peeped out from a tangle of rose bushes.
There was no sign of groundsmen or gardeners and the place was silent apart from the drone of bees and the sigh of the sea. Even the chattering maids were quiet, too overwhelmed to do anything but stare. As the visitors made their way through the grounds, it felt as if the villa and landscape were half asleep, lying there drugged in the spring sunshine.
‘Gracious!’ exclaimed Mrs Robinson, surveying the orchard. ‘Are those lemon trees?’
Mr Grey smiled. ‘Cull’s positioning is geographically unique. Thanks to a most favourable union of winds and tides, the climate here is considerably warmer and drier than anywhere on the mainland.’
‘I see,’ Mrs Robinson said rather faintly. ‘Am I to understand, Mr, er, Grey, that you have sole charge of the property in Lady Hawk’s absence?’
‘That is so. I have been in service to my Lady for so many years I can hardly remember a time I wasn’t.’
‘And no one else lives on the island?’
‘Folk from the village make the crossing to tend to the estate and deliver such produce we cannot supply ourselves, but none are resident unless stranded here by bad weather.’
‘But are there really no other servants? I was under the impression that casual staff would be engaged—’
‘My Lady is quite content that you will be up to the job.’
Mrs Robinson pursed her lips. The maids exchanged grimaces. Fifteen servants was a large establishment for a town house. But in a country villa of this size, with a large party of guests to look after, they would be sorely stretched.
The aged steward led them through a sunken walled garden, richly scented with herbs, and from there to the service quarters. The rooms were large and echoing, with plaster peeling from the walls, and windows so overgrown with creepers that the place was bathed in a green underwater light. In the servants’ hall, a bare lofty room with a tiled floor, they were met by Mr Perk, the butler, who had come ahead with Mrs Palfrey and the other domestics and was doing his best to act as if he had had charge of the property his entire working life.
The sleepy silence of the place was soon overwhelmed by noise and bustle. Rooms must be aired, fires laid and beds made, and the contents of cabinets, closets and pantries explored. It was heartening to find that the house, though unlived in for so long, was in excellent order. Mr Grey had previously arranged for provisions to be brought to the island by boat, and the larder was as well stocked as the wine cellar. The meat safe, coal-hole and icehouse were all packed to bursting. Everything from shoe polish to sealing wax was in its proper place.
Lady Hawk and her daughter would be arriving on the morrow, the rest of the party the day after. As Pattern set about beating carpets, she rehearsed the visitors in her head.
The most eligible of Miss Hawk’s suitors was Lord Frederick Crawly, heir to a vast estate in Norfolk. His friend and rival, Captain Henry Vyne, was known as the handsomest man in England – and the best card-player in his regiment. The Reverend Anthony Blunt was more of a catch than most young clergymen, thanks to his aristocratic connections and the patronage of his uncle, the Archbishop of Barnchester. The final suitor was a poet, Thomas Ladlaw, who had been favoured by very complimentary notices in the London Poetical Review. His fortunes had further improved with a publication of a novel in the Gothic style, The Towers of Viagrio.
So much was public knowledge. The Silver Service, however, had been able to dig a little deeper, thanks to its information network of well-placed servants. These sources reported that Lord Crawly had been involved in the death of an old woman on his estate, though the matter had been hushed up and the circumstances remained vague. Captain Vyne left a string of broken hearts in his wake, and was rumoured to have fathered two illegitimate children. The Reverend Blunt had stolen from a charity he himself had established for the relief of widows and orphans. Only the poet appeared clear of wrongdoing.
The ladies, by contrast, were as bland as they were blameless. They were comprised of society favourites Alicia and Adelaide Grant, their aunt the Dowager Lady Maude, Anthony Blunt’s sister Honoria and her companion Marian Smith, a poor relation.
Pattern not only had to acquaint herself with the honoured guests, but the servants they would bring with them – the Grant sisters had a lady’s maid and so did their aunt, and Lord Crawly would be accompanied by his valet. However, since these servants would be mixing with their fellows below stairs, getting to know them would be easy enough. Pattern’s focus must be the gentlemen. The lord, the soldier, the priest and the poet . . . Such different professions and personalities, united only in their passionate desire to win Miss Hawk’s hand! She wondered how the other young ladies would feel, being little more than accessories to the main purpose of the gathering. It could give rise to a certain amount of tension and resentment, she imagined. But then, Miss Hawk could only marry one gentleman. The disappointed suitors might well seek consolation elsewhere . . .
At three o’clock sharp the servantry gathered at the main entrance to the villa, forming a reception line to greet their employer. Only Mr Grey was absent. They were wearing their expensive new livery and arrayed in order of their station. Mr Perk had inspected them three times over to ensure not one hair was out of place, not one button done crooked, not one smudge to be seen upon a shoe. A peacock strutted across the lawn, its silken plumage shining azure and purple, as if in rebuke to the dull black and white row of humans in front of it.
A few minutes later, James the coachman could be seen driving the carriage along the winding avenue. (The mistress and her guests would not take the woodland path from the beach, but travel along a more formal road that displayed the island’s views to best advantage.) Mr Perk hastened to assist the lady and her daughter down from their vehicle. ‘Welcome to Cull, milady.’ He proceeded to escort Lady Hawk down the line of servants, in the manner of two generals inspecting the troops.
Lady Hawk had words of greeting for the senior staff, and a gracious smile and a nod for everyone else. She was tall and handsome, with a high arched nose and great quantity of inky black hair. Her complexion was enlivened by a pair of brilliant dark eyes and a full red mouth. The contrast to her daughter was striking. Miss Hawk was, indeed, a perfect English rose, as pale and dainty as her mother was bold and dark. She glided behind her with downcast eyes and a sweetly bland expression, holding a little pug dog in her arms.
The lady’s maid, Miss Jenks, waited by the carriage. She was an elegant young person with a haughty expression, and dressed so finely she hardly looked like a servant. Even so, Pattern knew it was in her interests to befriend her. A lady’s maid was often a repository of her mistress’s secrets, as Pattern herself could attest, and even if Miss Jenks had only been with Lady Hawk for a short while, she was in a uniquely intimate position. Then there was Glaucus Grey, the only person to have been in the lady’s employ for longer than a few months. He, at least, must know something of her history . . .
Pattern’s thoughts were running on so busily it took a momen
t to realize that Lady Hawk had stopped in front of her.
‘Now, here’s a face I do not recognize.’
Pattern bobbed a curtsy. ‘Please, milady, I am new to the position. My name is Penny, milady.’
Mrs Robinson stepped forward to explain the original third housemaid’s desertion.
‘Penny, you say?’ Lady Hawk smiled. She had the merest trace of a foreign accent. ‘So which of your parents enjoyed a classical education?’
‘I – um – I’m sorry, milady, I don’t quite—’
‘Never mind, child. I’m only teasing. Perhaps you have not heard of the original Penelope: the long-suffering wife of that rascal Odysseus.’
‘No, milady.’ Pattern had had very little formal education at all, least of all a classical one, though she had endeavoured to make up for this by close study of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. She had chosen ‘Penny’ because it was a shortened form of both Penelope and Pendragon, her newly acquired surname.
Fortunately Lady Hawk did not pursue the subject. ‘Well, I hope you will be happy with us, little Penelope.’ She raised her voice to address the rest of the servants. ‘Indeed, I hope you will all be happy here. A gathering such as this is hard work for everyone, I know. But I am sure we will show our guests every hospitality. They have been chosen with care and I am determined to give them exactly what they deserve, for my island is a special place. A sacred spot! Serve it well, and it shall reward you.’
It was a somewhat eccentric speech. But Lady Hawk was a somewhat eccentric employer, and her servants thought none the worse of her for it. The good order of the house and the comfort of their own quarters had done much to raise their spirits. From the light-hearted chatter that followed the inspection, Pattern realized she was alone in thinking that Lady Hawk’s promise to give her guests ‘exactly what they deserve’ could conceal, perhaps, a note of threat.
The Mistress of Cull might describe it as a sacred spot, but the isle was certainly a very curious one. After all, Pattern reflected, there could not be many woods in England that were both blessed with snowdrops out of season and infested with snakes.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author wishes to convey her esteem for the indomitable Miss Julia Churchill of A. M. Heath, as well as those keen-eyed and quick-witted ladies at Macmillan Publishers, Miss Lucy Pearse and Miss Rachel Kellehar. Good books, like households, require both ornamentation and orderliness; the former was provided by Miss Sarah Gibb, the latter by Mr Nick de Somogyi and Miss Veronica Lyons.
Especial gratitude is due to Ali Korotana Esquire, of Camberwell. It is to him that this book is most affectionately dedicated.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Laura Powell, who may or may not be a direct descendant of King Arthur, was born in London, but grew up in the shadow of Carreg Cennen Castle in Wales. Much of her childhood was either spent with her nose in a book, or plotting to escape her hated boarding school. Having studied Classics at university, she now spends her time working for the English National Ballet and writing. She lives in Camberwell with her husband and young son.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Sarah Gibb is a London-based illustrator. After landing regular spots in the Telegraph and Elle magazine, Sarah has gone on to illustrate Sue Townsend’s Adrian Mole series, many classic children’s fairy tales, and even the Harrods Christmas window display.
Praise for The Last Duchess from Lovereading4kids.co.uk reviewers:
‘A thrilling tale jam-packed with excitement, adventure and mysteries . . . you are sure to love this book if you are into adventures’ Kitty, age 9
‘Full of mischief, mystery and crime’ Holly, age 13
‘I would have kept reading this book all night if it wasn’t for my mum and dad’ Amina, age 10
‘A gripping tale of a mystery, secrets and friendship’ Amelie
‘An exciting and intriguing read . . . full of action and suspense’ Sidney, age 13
‘The best book that I have read in quite a while. I absolutely loved it!’ Emma, age 11
First published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-0891-5
Text copyright © Laura Powell 2017
Illustrations copyright © Sarah Gibb 2017
Horse and carriage © Sarah Gibb. All other images © Shutterstock
The right of Laura Powell and Sarah Gibb to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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