by Issy Brooke
Chapter Fifteen
Cordelia sat at the dressing table, her hands folded patiently in her lap. Ruby was behind her, attending to her hair, pulling most of the mousey-blonde curls back into a bun, before working loose some tendrils to cascade artfully around her face.
It was a style that went very well on a young woman, she thought. Now, as a widow in her thirties, she thought a different hairstyle would suit her more. For a while she had affected caps and other dressings, that the much older women favoured, but they had aged her dramatically and even people she didn’t know would take her aside for some excruciatingly awkward “quiet advice.”
So here she was, stuck in some middle land of not-young and not-old, when others her age were either at home with their growing families, or clinging to their youth with layers of powder while their children were raised by nurses and strangers.
And then, she thought, there was Freda. “I went to the Carter-Halls’ house today,” she said, startling Ruby who was used to performing this task in contemplative silence.
“Yes, my lady.”
“She has been preying on my mind,” Cordelia said. It was true. She needed to talk about it, and it hardly mattered to whom she spoke; even her maid. Their relationship was shifting by imperceptible degrees every time she spoke to Ruby like this. She no longer cared. “The mistress of the house is in a sorry way, and it has an effect on the whole household. There was no one to open the door to me. When someone did come, the housekeeper, she had had no orders from the mistress for the day as to whether she was at home or not. There was dust on the cornices and a smear of dirt on the tiles in the entrance hall. The curtains and drapes were but half-withdrawn, and that untidily so.”
“Oh.”
“Altogether, it was a house of no direction and under no command. I do feel for the master of the house; it ought to be his place of sanctuary and comfort, yet it is a house of … well, I hesitate to say disorder, but I can see why he travels so much.”
“Hm.”
Cordelia watched Ruby’s deft fingers in the reflection of the looking-glass. They did not falter from their familiar task. Her face was downcast, and her curling mouth set in a line, an unusual expression for her.
“Ruby, you are biting your lip.”
“I am concentrating, my lady.”
Cordelia continued to watch her, and though Ruby did not make eye contact, she knew she was under scrutiny, and eventually she broke.
“My lady, if I may…”
“Please do. I would be fascinated to know your opinions.” She knew it sounded sarcastic but she didn’t mean it so. “I really would,” she added, making it worse rather than better.
Ruby frowned. “Well, my lady. Well. There is a footman here, that I know, ahem, and his sister is a maid at the Carter-Halls’. She stays there only for the obligation she feels to the mistress there. Were it other, she would have fled long ago, with the rest of the staff who would not be party to the master’s … habits.”
Cordelia stiffened. “His habits? He is a man, with a man’s usual failings, of course.” How we all excuse their weaknesses when we are supposed to be the weaker sex, Cordelia thought.
“Oh,” Ruby said, her hands waving in the air. “Oh, yes, the usual failings, no doubt. But there is no call for a man to call his wife mad, insane, and lock her up simply because she is tiresome to him. She is not mad. There is no call for a man to let his children wither and die because he will not pay for the doctor. He never has! Though he is happy enough to pay into a burial club – now what does that tell you?”
“I am shocked!” Cordelia said. “I am appalled at your accusations though, if true, I would also be shocked at what your accusations contain. Have you any proof?”
“I would need double the proof of a rich man to make any progress, and be heeded,” she muttered.
Cordelia opened and closed her mouth, and sat in dumb silence for a moment.
Ruby finished Cordelia’s hair and sprayed a light mist of scented rosewater around her bare neck and shoulders. As if she had not just spoken dreadfully ill of another, she patted a curl into place and said, “There, now, my lady. You are dressed for dinner.”
* * *
Hugo was distant and distracted at dinner. He was tired, and she thought that he might be suffering a protracted hangover. He made polite conversation, and listened half-attentively to her gabbled, excited plans for writing a series of cookbooks that explored regional flavours and methods. He said that it sounded interesting, and showed no interest at all. He reassured her that the fault was all his, told her to make full use of his kitchen and his cook, apologised for his lack of sparkle, and took his leave early.
She was slightly perturbed. After all, he had encouraged her to stay on for longer. They had yet to discuss the ending of his trusteeship and the loss of her home. Maybe, she thought, her plans to be self-sufficient had angered him. He hadn’t proposed to her again for at least three days. She wavered between excitement at the idea of being some kind of travelling writer, and deep despondency that Clarfields was soon to be turned over to Hugo. Marriage to him would keep her house. It was the logical solution.
Oh, we women are supposed to be illogical, she told herself. Why could she not have Clarfields without the added burden of Hugo? It was not fair.
She was wearing her formal evening wear, and she felt restless, as if she were all dressed up for an event that had not happened. On other evenings, when they had dined alone but for the bevy of servants silently along the walls, they had laughed and joked; often they had played cards, or he would read scurrilous stories from the newspapers he had sent from London. Always, they skirted the big issue. What was he waiting for?
It was late and night was falling, but she was not ready to sleep yet. She stepped into the cold, unheated hallway. Someone had lit alternate lamps along the wall, but it felt empty and unloved without people in the space. This was a house for parties, she thought. It was very much suited to Hugo Hawke. She wondered what his next event was going to be; she hoped it was to be a card game evening, and resolved to begin dropping heavy hints.
She walked up the stairs, and along the long corridor, her skirts rustling against the dark wood display cases that stood against the wall. At the far end, someone appeared in black and white, saw her, and melted back into the shadows again; a servant, who knew they ought not to be seen.
Cordelia found her rooms as still and quiet as the rest of the house. Everything slumbered under a layer of inertia. Ruby obviously did not expect her back from dinner so soon. She collected a heavy cloak, one that she favoured for travelling, and swung it around her shoulders. She decided she would walk in the gardens. She had seen a bright moon, almost full, riding high in the sky and she thought that it would illuminate the blue and white flowers to good effect.
The scene in the peaceful gardens did not disappoint. Under the silver light, all was washed out and bleached, save for any blooms which were blue. They glowed, their moment of glory finally come as they could outshine the blowsy reds and pinks which dominated the daytime.
How is it that shadows and darkness bring new things to light, she thought, and repeated the sentence a few times so that she remembered it. She could write that down in her notebook and use it later. She was excited, again, about her new plan, now she looked at the flowers and plants. There was a fashion for instructional manuals about cookery and household management, designed to help young wives with aspirations but little knowledge. Cordelia thought that her books would be a combination of practical information and interesting study. I could write a whole series, she thought. She could travel the country, her research the perfect excuse to go visiting. That would be a far more exciting way to spend her life than chasing a husband just to seem respectable! Yes, she would refuse Hugo, once and for all. Let him have Clarfields. She would make her own way.
She felt sick with sorrow.
She came to a large, soft-leaved plant; sage, with its tall spikes of flowers.
The scent filled the air and she thought about the uses of it in the kitchen, especially in stuffing meats.
And in the sickroom, also, she thought. That brought to mind Doctor Donald Arnall and his enigmatic ways. But how much of his deeds and words were truly strange and how much was simply the filtered perception of other people? She wanted to speak to the man himself. The way to do that, she realised, was to befriend his wife. She hoped that Mrs Arnall would be more congenial and easier to talk to than Mrs Carter-Hall.
There was the snap of a twig somewhere far to her left. She paused. A servant, on a tryst? A poacher, taking a short-cut? The still-uncaught murderer, perhaps, intent on more evil. Or maybe just Geoffrey, lurking in the shadows to keep his watchful eye on her, bound to her by more than staff loyalty; bound to her by history and secrets, as was Mrs Unsworth, in her particular way.
She shook it off, but did turn and began to make her way to the safety of the house. She approached from the back, passing around the outbuildings by the back door of the kitchen area. The soft, pale light from a window was broken momentarily by a dark figure passing in front of it, stealthily bent over carrying a bundle in its arms. It wore a flat cap and from the shape of its face, must have been muffled in scarves or cloth. It walked on the grass rather than the gravel and disappeared between two store buildings. She stopped. She did not want to follow, and be cornered by it in a passageway.
But she also wanted to know who it was. She took a step forward, her heart pounding and her mind telling her she was utterly, utterly, foolish.
“My lady!”
She jumped, bit back her squeal into a cough, and turned to face Geoffrey. “My lady,” he said again. “I apologise for startling you.”
“Oh. Yes. Well,” she stammered, discomforted.
“Allow me to walk you to the main entrance,” he said, very firmly. “It is dark and it is not right for you to be alone in this. Anybody might be abroad.”
“Anybody likely is,” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.” She accepted his offer of his arm and let him take her around the house. Such things would not do in the light of day. But it was dark, and she was foolish, and he was probably correct.
Chapter Sixteen
Everything changed.
All her plans and resolutions were turned on their heads, and she had no warning of it.
The following day, she threw herself into her project. Hugo cleared a table for her in the library, a well-apportioned room next to his study. She laid out great sheets of paper upon which she had drawn sprawling plans and lists of ideas. That morning Hugo stood at her shoulder and asked her well-meaning questions which showed a total lack of understanding but, at least, a pleasing willingness to be involved.
At lunch, they talked idly of other matters. Ewatt Carter-Hall had absented himself again recently, according to Hugo, taking the train from the new railway station in Cambridge to spend a day or two attending to business in London. Mrs Hurrell was still locked up while the coroner and the sheriff ate their way through the inn’s specialities and argued about how a woman could be a murderer. Oh, a woman could be a poisoner all right - but to fell a man with a blow, now that was something else. It thrilled the local gossips.
It was a grey and thunderous afternoon, and unexpectedly, Hugo sought her out in the library. It was late and approaching five. His reticent demeanour had vanished. Now, he leaned casually against a cabinet and folded his arms, one leg cocked and bent, and his whole body in a sinuous curve of suppressed energy.
“How goes the book?” he asked.
She saw at once that he had been drinking.
“Very well,” she said. “Mrs Unsworth and your cook have been most accommodating.” Actually, Mrs Unsworth had said nothing but had glowered and frowned, and Hugo’s cook had been confused but keen. “I have found a fascinating old book of recipes, here in your library, written by a previous mistress of this house, and she details some of the unique foods of this area. There are four different ways of making chestnut stuffing! You must send me some chestnuts this winter so that I might try the recipe myself.”
“Why not return to collect them yourself?” he said, his eyebrows waggling. “If you want my nuts, you must…”
“Hugo, stop that. You are being rude and you know it.”
He spread his hands wide in artificial innocence. “I apologise for my unwitting transgression. What else have you found?”
“There is a cheese that is sold in Stilton and parts around there, which they call the English parmesan,” she said. “It sounds fascinating and I would dearly love to procure some. I have sent my boy, Stanley, to ask around.”
“I believe I have had it; it’s a smelly one, I must warn you. It is quite matured.”
“Some things are better mature,” she said.
“But not to the point of becoming thick with mould,” he pointed out. “Still, I shall put word about for you.”
There was a silence that stretched out. Cordelia began to pile up her books and papers, tidying away ready for another day.
Hugo continued to slouch against the cabinet. He watched her hungrily.
Then they both spoke at once.
“Hugo, I–”
“Cordelia. Listen.”
She stopped, and listened.
“Let’s not beat about the bush. You know I can’t do fancy language. I suppose I ought to spend a few hours waxing lyrical about your eyes or something. I’m not going to do that.”
His attitude was casual, she noted, but now his hands were balled into tight, white fists as he struggled for words.
He continued. “Clarfields is mine. It’s a big old empty house, and I am going to sell it.”
It’s not empty! I live there! She could not help herself. She glared at him.
“But I would be letting my old friend down if you were cast out. The best thing to do is for you to marry me. We’ve been playing at proposals since you came here, Cordelia, but we both know it’s a matter of logic. Flirting is fun. Even I can do that. But it’s not real. Let’s be adult. A quick wedding, and there we are.”
This was it. It was time to tell him of her change of plan. She waved her hand at her neatly-stacked books. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Hugo. But see, this new project of mine … I am going to travel, and write books.”
Now it was his turn to glare. He barked out a short, dismissive laugh. “Oh, Cordelia, you stupid, silly, vainglorious woman. It is another passing fad of yours, a fancy, nothing more. You’ll wake up tomorrow and decide instead to sail to the Africas and chart the stars, or some other nonsense. Nothing you have done has ever achieved anything. Why, you don’t even have children! That’s the most basic thing, the most important thing, that a woman must do. And I am giving you that chance. Home. Family.”
The Angel in the House.
Cordelia was not built to be an angel.
“Here?” she said, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. “Marry you. Live here. Sell Clarfields. Give up my dreams.”
“Dreams? Cordelia, can’t you see that they are just a substitute for what you really should be doing with your life?”
She folded her arms, twitched her hands, unfolded them again, half-turned away, sucked in her breath, and tried very hard to not throw anything. She could have hurled a table at the man. As she fought for control, he came up to her, but stopped short of touching her. He waited, a few feet away, and there was such an expression of patronising sympathy on his face that she choked as she spoke.
“Hugo. Thank you for your offer. I regretfully decline. I have independent means. I have an aim. I have friends. You may have Clarfields but you shall not have me. And I apologise – I truly do – if I have led you on, in any way. For in truth I did not know what I wanted until recently.”
And then he grabbed her, seizing her upper arms. “Just like that? You will leave?”
“I can go this very night if you wish.”
His fa
ce was very close to her. She considered fighting him off, but was it worth it? She didn’t think he would truly harm her. He pressed her backwards, so that her bustle jammed against the table, and leaned his body along hers. “I did not mean, leave here. You will leave Clarfields?”
“Yes, I will leave Clarfields.” Saying it out loud caused her pain. She did not want to leave. In spite of it all, in spite of her defiant words, that was the one true place of sanctuary that she had. She had not realised how much she loved it until the reality of losing it was upon her.
And he saw her weakness. “Marry me … and you can keep Clarfields.”
In an instant, she saw his weakness. “Why did you wish to sell it, Hugo?”
