A Bachelor Establishment

by Isabella Barclay

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Mr Martin, softly.

  His lordship had become accustomed, since his arrival at Ryde House, to two types of gloom. There was the sort of gloom that mercifully obscured all four corners of whichever room he happened to find himself in, and then there was the other type of gloom, signifying despair and dismay. Gazing now at his transformed dining room, his lordship could think of many words, but gloom was not any of them.

  The chandelier had been unwrapped and lighted, throwing out a golden glow; the light reflected softly in the wooden panelling with which the room was generously provided. The old crimson and gold carpet had certainly been taken up and beaten. His lordship knew how it felt. The furniture gleamed and the whole room now smelled of beeswax and polish, rather than of dust and stale mouse droppings. The cloth was laid, the silver sparkled, and light winked from the polished glasses. It was a sight to gladden any man’s heart. His lordship’s heart remained obstinately unglad.

  ‘What the devil?’ he exploded.

  The retainer Munch, shuffling forwards, gave his employer to understand it was nothing to do with him.

  ‘There were three of them,’ he said, defensively. ‘I told them straight – his lordship won’t like it, I said. His lordship don’t like to see things changed, he don’t. I told ’em, his lordship’ll have you gone in less time than the cat can lick her ear for your meddling, presumptuous ways and damn me if they don’t just tie up their hair, push me – me – aside, and you never saw such a flurry of dusting and sweeping and I told them it would have to be done in time for his lordship’s dinner and that Margaret sent me – me – for the stepladder – me – what’s worked here all these years and worked my fingers to the bone, that’s what I done, but no one took no notice and now see what’s come of it.’

  He paused in evident satisfaction and expectation that his employer would, with one powerful bound, rid the house of extraneous females, miraculously restore dust and grime, and the world would be as he had always known it.

  ‘You have to admit, sir,’ said Mr Martin, ‘it does look – better.’

  That it did indeed look better, his lordship would admit. That Munch’s disapproval was rooted in the fear that after these damned – dashed – women had departed, he would be obliged to maintain these standards, his lordship had no doubt. He was half inclined to demand the presence of the three perpetrators and give them to understand their place in the scheme of things at Ryde House, and half inclined (out of sheer devilment) to let things go. Wholly aware that he was very hungry, he waved Munch aside and took his place at the head of the table. Mr Martin, slightly disappointed at this mild reaction, joined him.

  However, by the end of the first course, followed by a baked ham and a game pie which both gentlemen devoured with relish, Lord Ryde had mellowed to the extent of being prepared to allow the miscreants to remain under his roof a while longer. With the guarantee that no further outrages would occur.

  An enquiry as to Miss Fairburn’s dining arrangements brought the information that the lady had enjoyed a tray in Mrs Bascombe’s room. Mrs Bascombe herself was still asleep and therefore could not, theoretically, be held responsible for the assault on his lordship’s dining room.

  ‘My compliments to Miss Fairburn. Please inform her we would be delighted if she would join us for tea.’

  A weakened Munch reeled before this fresh horror.

  ‘Your lordship wants a … tea-tray?’

  ‘Yes, immediately, please. Miss Fairburn will not want to leave Mrs Bascombe for too long.’

  Muttering darkly, Munch disappeared, to re-appear, eventually and simultaneously with the despised object and Miss Fairburn herself.

  His lordship, beyond rising and bowing, left Mr Martin to seat his guest and pour the tea.

  Mrs Bascombe, she reported, was still sleeping quietly. Yes, she, Miss Fairburn, had eaten, thank you, as had Tiller. They were preparing to divide the night between them.

  Lord Ryde spoke for the first time.

  ‘The doctor did not anticipate that Mrs Bascombe would pass anything other than a peaceful night, Miss Fairburn. However, should anything occur to cause you alarm, you may rouse either myself or Mr Martin. We will leave lamps outside our doors. Pray do not bother ringing for Munch. Mr Martin’s opinion is that he falls into a coma at midnight from which nothing short of a naval salute will rouse him.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Thank you, my lord. And on behalf of Mrs Bascombe as well, thank you.’

  His lordship waved this aside.

  She hesitated, staring down into her teacup. ‘I wonder, my lord, have you formed any theories – do you have any idea – how this could possibly have happened?’

  ‘As a stranger to the district, Miss Fairburn, I am at a loss. If any of your neighbours harbour murderous intentions, surely you would know that better than I.’

  Miss Fairburn, suspecting his lordship of sarcasm, took him at his word.

  ‘Well, let me see. There are the Misses Crosby at Crosby Lodge. Sixty-seven and sixty-nine years old, respectively, but I have sometime suspected … Miss Amelia, you know, sometimes has a very strange look about her, and her way of gliding through the rose gardens, silver scissors raised, has more than once caused comment. And then there’s Sir Timothy Relton. Who knows to what lengths he might be driven when his gout is troubling him. And Mr and Mrs Brookes, out at Fern Park – she is a great deal taken up with their numerous offspring and it’s well known that Mr Brookes rarely ventures out of his library, but their eldest child – a delightful cherub of around nine, is, I believe, something of a handful and I, for one, have always maintained that these angel-faced children can often conceal a sinister …’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ interrupted Lord Ryde, with an answering gleam in his eye. ‘I believe you have made your point. This is a neighbourhood of unimpeachable respectability.’

  ‘Well, it is,’ replied Miss Fairburn, somewhat wistfully, Mr Martin thought.

  ‘Do you have any theories yourself, Miss Fairburn?’ he asked her, curiously.

  ‘Well, if not a poacher, as I believe has been suggested, then I would say perhaps young boys, out with their father’s gun. Taken without his permission, of course, and now they would be too ashamed and frightened to own up.’

  ‘Why, ma’am, I believe that may be it.’

  She sighed. ‘Alas, sir, the only possible culprits could be the Jamieson boys and they not only live out near Whittington, but are, I believe, at school.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Mr Martin, eagerly, ‘it could have been a farmer’s son, or any of the tradesmen’s boys.’

  ‘Let us hope that that is the case,’ said his lordship, gravely.

  She watched his face carefully. ‘You don’t agree, my lord?’

  ‘I have no more information than anyone else. Now, do you have everything you need for the night?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, my lord. We are very comfortably housed.’

  His lordship doubted this.

  ‘Remember, if you need anything in the night, you have only to knock on our doors.’

  She set down her cup and rose. ‘Thank you, my lord. I wish you goodnight.’

  ’I’ll see you to your room,’ said Mr Martin, holding the door for her.

  On entering Mrs Bascombe’s room, Miss Fairburn was relieved to find her patient still sound asleep. Releasing Tiller to catch a few hours’ sleep, she settled herself in an uncomfortable armchair by the fire and prepared herself for a long night.

  She heard the gentlemen come to bed, talking quietly as they mounted the stairs. She heard their doors close and felt silence envelop the old house. For an hour or so, all was still. She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes.

  She was awakened from a light doze by a faint sound from the bed. And then another. Mrs Bascombe was awake. Miss Fairburn picked up the candle and stole quietly to the bed. She was alarmed to see her friend, flushed and tousled in the faint light, plucking at her bandages. She m
anaged to pull her hand away and at her command, Mrs Bascombe closed her eyes.

  Minutes later, she was awake again, tossing on her pillows and murmuring incomprehensibly. Responding again to her friend’s voice, she subsided back into an uneasy slumber.

  This did not last long, however, and she awoke some thirty minutes later with a feverish torrent of words. Miss Fairburn applied cold cloths to her forehead and endeavoured to bring her to her senses, but to no avail, and she had no hesitation in calling for Tiller who tersely recommended the doctor be sent for.

  Miss Fairburn could not but agree. Reluctantly picking up a candle, she tip-toed along the darkened corridor. It seemed logical to assume that the big double doors at the end gave into his lordship’s room and Miss Fairburn, despite his assurances to the contrary, was reluctant to wake him. Mr Charles Martin seemed a much friendlier option.

  Tapping gently on the nearest door, she was reassured to hear the sound of curtain rings as the bed curtains were pulled back, but seconds later, the door opened and she was disconcerted to find herself face to face with a magnificently dressing-gowned Lord Ryde.

  Whilst a corner of her mind registered surprise that he did not, if fact, appear to occupy his father’s room, she lost no time in telling him of her anxieties and requesting in a low voice, that the doctor be sent for.

  ‘I have some experience of this sort of fever,’ he said quietly. ‘Before we trouble the doctor, will you permit me to see her?’

  Comforting herself with the thought that no one would ever know, and rather glad to devolve responsibility, even if only for a moment, Miss Fairburn gladly assented.

  Mrs Bascombe’s condition had worsened during this brief absence and even Tiller made no demur at his lordship’s entrance.

  Lord Ryde regarded Mrs Bascombe for a moment, before enquiring if the doctor had left anything against this eventuality.

  ‘He did, my lord,’ said Miss Fairburn, indicating a small bottle, resting on the bedstand, ‘but neither of us can hold her still enough to drink it.’

  ‘I think we can remedy that. Pour out the draught, Tiller. Miss Fairburn, if I hold her still – can you be ready?’

  Accepting the glass from Tiller, Miss Fairburn stood ready.

  ‘You will need to be quick,’ he warned. ‘She will not take it willingly.’

  ‘I am ready, sir.’

  Lord Ryde lifted Mrs Bascombe from the bed and gently but firmly held her against his shoulder.

  Miss Fairburn advanced

  ‘Mrs Bascombe,’ said his lordship commandingly. ‘Elinor. Look at me.’

  Mrs Bascombe ceased to struggle, looked up, and opened her mouth to speak. Quick as a flash, Miss Fairburn tipped the liquid down her throat. Mrs Bascombe uttered a squawk of outrage and struggled again. His lordship held her firmly until slowly, her struggles subsided and she grew heavy in his arms. Slowly, her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep again.

  ‘I will wait a few minutes. Is there another dose, just in case?’

  ‘I am afraid not, sir. The doctor would only leave enough for one. It is very strong, apparently.’

  And indeed, Mrs Bascombe was lying on her bed like one poleaxed. A slight snore could be heard.

  His lordship’s lip twitched.

  ‘I will leave you now, ladies. I don’t think Mrs Bascombe will stir again tonight. Miss Fairburn, I hope you will join us at breakfast tomorrow to apprise me of Mrs Bascombe’s condition.’

  He bowed in the general direction of both ladies and quitted the room.

  Tiller announced she would remain for the rest of the night, and Miss Fairburn, more tired than she would admit, went thankfully to her bed.

  She had intended to mull over the events of this strange day, and to speculate about Mr Charles Martin and a Lord Ryde who apparently disliked his father so much that he would not even sleep in his bedroom, but fell asleep as soon as her head touched the lumpy pillow.

  She woke the next morning with a stiff neck and back and a longing for the comfort of Westfield. She supposed his lordship to be blind to these discomforts – any gentleman who had racketed around the globe for the last twenty years was not going to be greatly disturbed by a lumpy bed and musty bed sheets. There was no escaping the fact, however, that Ryde House was a dreary place and the sooner Mrs Bascombe was restored to the warmth and comfort of Westfield, the better it would be for all concerned.

  And as for permitting Lord Ryde to enter her bedchamber during the night, to manhandle an unconscious (or as good as) Mrs Bascombe whilst in a state of undress himself – Miss Fairburn blushed hotly and prayed her part in the events of last night would never become known.

  Entering the dining room half an hour later, she was able to report that Mrs Bascombe had spent a peaceful night. From the remarks made by Mr Martin, she was reassured to find his lordship did not appear to have mentioned his nocturnal visit and found herself warming towards him. It might be a mistake, she told herself, to accept his lordship at other people’s valuation.

  Both gentlemen were regarding their breakfast board with astonishment and in Mr Martin’s case, with reverence. Miss Fairburn, perfectly accustomed to a choice of tea or coffee, fresh warm rolls and several varieties of fruit preserve, bit back a smile. This pedestrian fare was further augmented by slices of ham, beef, and the remains of last night’s game pie. Munch, observing Margaret moving smartly between table and board to supply the gentlemen’s needs, oozed disapproval to which no one paid the slightest attention. Outside, the sun shone, birds sang, and inside, Lord Ryde enjoyed yet another cup of coffee from an apparently inexhaustible pot.

  Embracing the part of disinterested friend with enthusiasm, he advised Miss Fairburn to take some exercise, saying that she would not be serving her friend by exhausting herself and recommending Mr Martin to show her the walk around the lake. A little overgrown in places, no doubt, but perfectly passable and a favourite walk of his mother’s. A remark which surprised him as much as Mr Martin who had never before heard him refer to his mother. He would, however, come to regret this disinterested kindness.

  To begin with, on exiting the dining room, he encountered a pair of female rumps and was so much astonished by this unexpected sight as to utter an astonished cry, at which one of the rumps giggled.

  ‘What the dev – the deuce?’ demanded his lordship, recovering the power of speech.

  ‘I believe,’ said Miss Fairburn, appearing in her bonnet and pulling on her gloves, ‘that they are scrubbing the tiles, my lord.’

  ‘I swear, Charles,’ said his lordship in an undertone, ‘if instead of bothering with an army, Bonaparte had just picked up half a dozen females instead, we would all be speaking French by now.’

  ‘And they would have cleaned as they went along and we would dine on game pie every night,’ grinned Mr Martin.

  His lordship turned a cold eye upon him.

  ‘You must not let me detain you, Charles.’

  Mr Martin and Miss Fairburn made their escape into the fine morning sunshine.

  Lord Ryde was again to regret his kindness. Unable to access the stairs for female obstruction, he withdrew to the library with instructions he was not to be disturbed, an instruction Munch claimed not to have heard as he ushered Lady Elliott into the room some twenty minutes later.

  His lordship, sprawled coatless in front of the fire as was his wont, was caught unawares. Throwing his retainer a Look, he shrugged himself into his coat, once again thanking his lucky stars he was not some Bond Street beau, unable to don his own coat without the assistance of two strong men. Lady Elliot, who had debated long and hard with herself over the propriety of visiting a bachelor establishment without the support of her husband, watched all this with relieved amusement.

  A parade of good manners and social address would have concerned her greatly. A tired-looking man shrugging himself into his shabby coat was not at all her idea of the dangerous and disreputable rake of whom she had heard so much. It was only as he walked towards her that s
he became aware that charm does not always present a glittering exterior.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am. I believe I had the honour of meeting your husband the other day. I collect you have called to enquire after Mrs Bascombe.’

  She pulled off her gloves and shook his hand with more cordiality than she had expected to feel. Gratitude there must be, of course – this man had saved her beloved Elinor. Liking, she had not expected to experience and was disconcerted.

  His lordship, far more accustomed to the processes of the female mind than he would admit, saw more than Lady Elliott ever dreamed. Biting back a smile, he informed her Miss Fairburn had taken advantage of Mrs Bascombe’s still being asleep to take a little fresh air.

  ‘For it would not do, ma’am, to have two invalids upon our hands,’ he finished, straight-faced.

  Lady Elliott, however, was no fool.

  ‘It would certainly not do for you, my lord,’ she said, tartly. ‘I understand that these days, Ryde House positively bulges with females.’

  ‘It is true, ma’am, that we no longer reap the benefits of a bachelor establishment.’

  ‘One day, you must enumerate these benefits.’

  ‘If you will be seated, ma’am, I will begin.’

  ‘I find it difficult to believe it would take so long.’

  He smiled, reluctantly. ‘Can I ask Mrs Munch to conduct you to Mrs Bascombe’s chamber?’

  ‘That might be wise, my lord.’

  Mrs Bascombe was still asleep, however, and after exchanging a few words with Tiller, Lady Elliott sat quietly to await the doctor, passing the time in silent criticism of Mrs Munch’s standards of housekeeping and mentally refurbishing the shabby chamber in which she found herself.

  Dr Joseph professed himself unconcerned by Mrs Bascombe’s feverish night and had no hesitation in vetoing Lady Elliott’s proposal to remove her at once, either to Westfield or to Greystones, her own establishment.

  ‘I would not care to take the risk,’ he advised, bluntly. ‘I can guess your ladyship’s concerns – the situation is far from ideal, but provided we can prevent any relapse, which we can by keeping the patient quiet and still for three or four days, with luck Mrs Bascombe could be home within a week. His lordship has volunteered to remove himself and Mr Martin to Rushford, but do you not feel, my lady, that the presence of Miss Fairburn and Miss Tiller, together with her three maids and her groom is enough to protect Mrs Bascombe reputation from any untoward gossip that may occur? I for one, would feel much happier to have two gentlemen on the premises.’