A Bachelor Establishment

by Isabella Barclay

  ‘Thank you, but I’m more thirsty than hungry at the moment.’

  ‘Would you like another cup?’

  ‘Not just at the moment, thank you.’

  ‘Well, I shall take my leave, then. I’m happy to see you sitting up and taking notice, Mrs Bascombe. Joking aside – both Charles and I wish you a speedy recovery.’

  ‘Joking aside, my lord, thank you for my life. There – such a dramatic phrase, but, I suspect, perfectly true.’

  She shivered.

  ‘Do you fear to return to Westfield, ma’am? Do you have relations to whom I can apply for aid?’

  ‘My family is so far away as to be useless, and in any event would not respond if I asked, which I won’t do. So, I’m afraid, no. My friends are all here in this neighbourhood. I shall do very well, I assure you.’

  ‘There must be someone.’

  She hesitated, and then said with a certain deliberation, ‘My nearest male relative, my lord, is George Bascombe. If you can find him.’

  ‘I’m afraid if ever I do find him, Mrs Bascombe, I shall do everything within my power to bring him to justice.’

  ‘Nothing is proved,’ she said swiftly.

  ‘Nothing needs to be. The facts speak for themselves,’ he retorted, angrily.

  ‘There must be some other explanation. A man – a boy, rather, because that’s what he was – does not save a life one moment, only to take another, different life an hour or so later. It’s nonsense. You must see that.’

  Lord Ryde took Mrs Bascombe’s cup and refilled it.

  ‘Please drink this. I have upset you and such was not my intention.’

  ‘She took the cup.

  ‘I am not upset, sir. I have had many years to come to terms with this – but remember, I knew Georgie and you did not. There must be some other factor; something about which we know nothing. There has to be.’

  ‘The facts are simple, ma’am. After you were – after he was driven from Westfield, he sought refuge here, at Ryde House. I don’t say he meant to do it, but the temptation was obviously too much for him. He was penniless, homeless – he had nothing. Later that night, my father was discovered, unconscious on the floor of the library. The safe door stood ajar. The safe was empty of anything valuable and George Bascombe was gone. No one has seen or heard from him since. The events of that night caused my father to have a stroke from which he never recovered and two weeks later, he died.

  ‘I never liked him, ma’am, nor he me, but even so –’ He broke off. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to distress you. Whether Bascombe’s actions brought about the stroke, no one will ever know. Possibly, he suffered the stroke whilst Bascombe was actually present and he merely took advantage of my father’s weakness to help himself from the safe and make good his escape. Whichever it was, he left an old man lying helpless on the floor and stole nearly everything he possessed. My father didn’t believe in banks. He kept his possessions close so there was plenty to take away; my mother’s jewels, including the family diamonds – hideous but valuable – cash boxes, the lot. My father could not have made it any easier for him. Including the jewels, he must have got away with the best part of £50,000.’

  Mrs Bascombe gaped. In the window seat, Tiller had long ceased even to pretend to sew.

  ‘It’s one of the reasons you are housed in such discomfort today, ma’am. Blame George Bascombe. Oh, I’ve played my part, I know. For years, I’ve done nothing but take as much as I could get. That’s why I’m here now – to strip the last flesh from the carcase, get out, and never come back. So you need not fear I shall be polluting the district with my presence, ma’am. Once I have what I want, I shall never return.’

  The silence in the room reverberated like a bell. Mrs Bascombe lay back, very pale indeed.

  ‘Dear me,’ said his lordship lightly. ‘Did I just say all that? How very unfortunate. I make you my apologies, ma’am. Your very obedient servant.’

  He swept from the room and finding himself disinclined for company, ran down the backstairs and out to the stables.

  These were located at the rear of the main building, entered through an archway and formed round three sides of a square. Two of the sides had long ago been abandoned and locked up, but on the third side, doors stood open and showed signs of life. Lord Ryde, who remembered still the days when, as a child, he had perched upon the mounting block and watched the noisy bustle around him, found himself experiencing a small pang to which he found no difficulty in ascribing to the wretched Mrs Bascombe. Pulling up short in the archway, he surveyed, as if for the first time, the weeds growing up through the cobbles, the peeling paint, the missing tiles, and the general air of dilapidation. Ryde House itself invoked no such feelings of regret, but here in this stableyard, many years ago, he had been happy.

  The memories were fleeting and painful. He shook his head as Roberts took a step towards him, saying uncertainly, ‘My lord?’ turned on his heel and without any clear idea of what he was doing, walked somewhat blindly around to the front of the house. There he stood for a long time, his back to the building, surveying the abandoned gardens and overgrown lawns.

  After a while, he turned to look at the house itself. Mr Martin, passing through the hall, caught sight of him through one of the windows, paused, and then moved on. Returning back the same way half an hour later, he was surprised to see his lordship still standing on the weedy gravel, hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets – just standing.

  Mr Martin watched thoughtfully for a while and upon his lordship turning to face towards the house, caught a glimpse of his face, and wished he hadn’t. Ringing for Munch, he got Margaret instead, instructed her to warn everyone to stay out of sight for an hour or so and to take the brandy into the library. Being advised that the library was in a state of some upheaval, he amended that to the drawing room and warned her for God’s sake to keep the library doors closed.

  Margaret nodded, curtseyed, and silently withdrew.

  Returning inside some time later, Lord Ryde was struck immediately by the comforting smells of beeswax and lemons – the smells of his childhood – and paused momentarily on the threshold. It struck him that Ryde House, for the first time, felt mellow and welcoming. The floor tiles shone and the old table, polished and gleaming, had been moved to a more convenient location on the other side of the front door, where it had originally stood, many years ago.

  The door to the drawing room stood open and he passed through. This room too bore witness to recent female invasion. The curtains had been pulled back and the spring sunshine poured into the room. A bright fire welcomed him and two chairs, cushions plumped, had been pulled forward to the fire, and waited invitingly. A bowl of ancient but still scented rose petals stood on the table. Best of all, the brandy tray had been placed well within reach of the chairs.

  Lord Ryde poured himself a glass and wandered slowly around the room, examining its contents with sudden attention. Here was the small embroidery table his mother had used. And in here, because the library had been old Lord Ryde’s particular domain, was the shelf where she kept her own favourite books. And in the corner, her footstool, old now, its red velvet sadly faded and worn, on which he had sat at her feet, listening as she read to him.

  Returning to the fire and carefully standing with his back to the portrait of old Lord Ryde – which was certainly going to find its way to an attic before very much longer – he sipped the brandy and allowed his mind to wander back down the years. The welcoming warmth of the house after a long, cold day’s shooting. Walking around the lake with his mother, looking for fish in the cool, dark depths. The contents of her needlework box scattered colourfully across the table. The sound of her voice in the hall, calling to Mrs Trent, the housekeeper of the time. He wondered vaguely what had happened to Mrs Trent. What had happened to all the servants of his youth? Pensioned off, he supposed. His father, whatever his faults, always acknowledged his obligations.

  In contrast to his own behaviour. Even without Bascom
be’s theft, he himself had always regarded the estate as nothing more than his own private bank – to be dipped into time and time again – to supply his demands, whatever the cost. And his demands had been heavy. What that opera dancer in Paris had cost him from beginning to end did not bear thinking about. Pouring himself another brandy, he wandered out into the hall and from there to his dining room. It struck him that the place was very quiet for the time of day. Completely silent, in fact, which suited his mood completely. He had no mind for small talk.

  Again, the dining room smelled fresh and clean. Hours of elbow-grease must have gone into making the table’s long surface gleam like that. How pleasant to come home from a hard day’s work to warmth and comfort, a good meal and good company.

  Home? What the devil had put that notion into his head? This was not his home. Had never been his home. Would never be his home. And as for what had put that notion into his head – that was easy. His lordship had no difficulty laying the blame on that white-faced witch upstairs, who flew at him every time he looked at her. Who defended the worthless George Bascombe with such passion. Who got herself shot, was now in his house and without even moving from her bed had disrupted his establishment with her women and their cooking and their cleaning – all against his express instructions – disrupting his life, undermining his clear intentions and God knows what else as well. Oh yes – he knew who was to blame for this current fit of blue devils as well. And to think she’d been here just twenty-four hours. Who knew what havoc she could wreak over the next few days?

  His lordship resolved immediately to stay out of her way and to spend his efforts depleting the reserves of brandy from his cellar, thus rendering himself insensible – in every sense of the word – to any further outrages they or she might perpetrate.

  With this commendable intention, he strode back into the drawing room and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter Six

  Alas for such good intentions. At eleven the next morning, two days later, his lordship was seated before the fire in the drawing room, brandy in hand and listening with misgivings to the sounds of mass disruption coming from the library. After spending some time mulling over the peculiar deafness of women, he had turned his attention again to the figures provided by his agent. These made disturbing reading and once he had rid himself of these blasted women, he would have Reynolds back up here again to explain himself.

  He stretched his long legs before him, enjoying the knowledge that every female was safely somewhere else and not bothering him in any way at all, when the door opened, and leaning heavily on Miss Fairburn, her arm in a sling, Mrs Bascombe entered the room.

  His lordship closed his eyes, briefly – an action not lost on either lady. Mrs Bascombe choked slightly. He stood uncertainly, and was deftly relieved of his brandy glass by Margaret, who had entered the room in Mrs Bascombe’s wake.

  Suggesting hopefully that Mrs Bascombe was not yet well enough to leave her room, his hopes were dashed when she informed him she had spent a peaceful night and was feeling very much better and, in fact, hoped she might be well enough to depart for Westfield the following day.

  Lord Ryde, much to his astonishment, found himself saying nonsense, she must not attempt anything of the sort until the doctor had given his permission for such an enterprise, and it would have been hard to say who was most surprised to hear him say so. Pulling himself together, he invited Mrs Bascombe to make herself comfortable on the sofa, ring for anything she needed, and begged leave to depart, citing urgent business elsewhere.

  Striding into the hall, he summoned the hapless Munch and demanded his horse be brought round immediately. Catching sight of a small, mob-capped female armed to the teeth with domestic implements, he gritted his teeth, essayed a smile and with the air of one getting to know the natives, said, ‘Good morning, Eliza.’

  ‘Good morning, my lord.’ She bobbed a shy curtsey.

  Silence fell. Both parties stared at each other across a widening sea of incomprehension.

  ‘Settled in all right, Eliza?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, my lord.’

  Mr Martin approached.

  ‘Good morning, Janet.’

  She bobbed another curtsey.

  ‘Eliza,’ corrected his lordship.

  ‘Er – no, sir. Janet.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Pretty much, sir, yes.’

  His lordship turned to Janet.

  ‘Janet?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Not Eliza?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’

  She dropped another curtsey that embraced them both impartially and disappeared.

  His lordship watched her go.

  ‘Wipe that smile off your face, Charles.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How the devil can you tell one from the other?

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Martin, accepting the question at face value. ‘Margaret is tall. Janet is round, and Eliza makes wonderful pastry. It’s easy.’

  ‘Charles, you possess skills of which I can only dream.’

  ‘Well, that’s true enough. Hello, who’s this?’

  The front doorbell rattled.

  A pause ensued, long enough for both gentlemen to realise that, having sent a message for his lordship’s horse, Munch had obviously considered his domestic duties for the morning more than adequately discharged and had disappeared.

  Eventually, Margaret appeared.

  ‘Good morning,’ said his lordship affably.

  Behind her back, Mr Martin mouthed the word, ‘Margaret’.

  ‘I knew that,’ said his lordship. ‘Good morning, Margaret.’

  ‘Good morning, my lord.’

  She opened the door, stepped back, and announced, ‘Lady Elliott, my lord.’

  Possibly due to the cavernous nature of the hall, his lordship’s faint groan was clearly audible.

  Lady Elliott, a mother of five, three of whom were of the male sex and therefore had to have allowances made for them, could not help a smile.

  To her surprise, this smile was returned by the graceless reprobate before her.

  ‘Lady Elliott, how delightful. Again.’

  ‘Lord Ryde, you make one so welcome I really cannot stay away.’

  ‘So I had noticed, ma’am.’

  She cast an appraising glance around the gleaming hall.

  ‘I beg your pardon. I have come to the wrong establishment.’

  ‘In that case, ma’am, do not let me detain you.’

  She could not help laughing.

  ‘Really, Lord Ryde, I do not know how it is, but I was never so rag-mannered before I met you.’

  ‘Alas, ma’am, I hear that wherever I go. I can only attribute it to my devilish good looks and debonair charm.’

  She looked him up and down.

  ‘Can you?’

  It was his turn to laugh.

  ‘Although it is delightful to see you again, ma’am, it must be Mrs Bascombe you have come to visit. You will find her in the drawing room. I am not sure how wise it was for her to leave her room so soon, but you shall judge for yourself. I hope very much you will remain for lunch and look forward to seeing you then.’

  As Margaret led her away, he turned to Mr Martin, stating his clear intention to be off the premises before any more women turned up, and foreseeing that Miss Fairburn would be with Mrs Bascombe and Lady Elliott all morning, Mr Martin had no hesitation in joining him.

  Returning some hours later, they were admitted by Munch who had resumed his duties and who advised them lunch would be served in twenty minutes. He frowned disapprovingly at their mud-spattered riding gear. Fortunately, both gentlemen were accustomed to fending for themselves, and speedily too, and were therefore able to join the party downstairs in time to escort the ladies to the dining room.

  At least, reflected his lordship, he had nothing to blush for here. The room was stark and sparsely furnished – anything
of even the smallest value having been long-since removed – but it was clean and polished and the table well laid.

  And nothing to be ashamed of with the catering, either. The company enjoyed a light and elegant luncheon comprising two full courses, including a plate of honey cakes which more than captured Lady Elliott’s attention. His lordship exerted himself and since he could be agreeable when he chose, kept Lady Elliott well entertained whilst further down the table, Mr Martin and Miss Fairburn chatted, shyly at first, but with increasing animation.

  Mrs Bascombe ate a little, and then at Lady Elliott’s urging, a little more.

  ‘I regret, Mrs Bascombe, I have no fruit to offer you. Our succession houses are in a bad way.’

  ‘Oh, no, my lord. The soup was delicious, but I will have one of those small cakes, if I may.’

  Assuring himself that Lady Elliott was wholly engrossed in a three-cornered discussion with Mr Martin and Miss Fairburn over the relative merits of Bath over Harrogate, (to his certain knowledge, Charles had visited neither), he said in an undertone, ‘Should you be up? If what I said has led you to believe I wish you gone, then I apologise most sincerely. You know, do you not, that you are welcome here for as long as you please?’

  She held his gaze steadily.

  ‘Yes, I do know that. I also know that if you do not stop making me so comfortable, my lord, I might never leave. This is in the nature of a holiday for me and I intend to make the most of it. You have been warned.’

  ‘In that case, perhaps tomorrow, if you feel up to it, and weather permitting, you might like to stroll down to the lake with me. There is a little bench where you may rest and the views are very pretty.’

  She smiled in delight and he thought the sun had come out.

  ‘That would be delightful. I should love to.’

  He reflected briefly on a woman whose existence had been so narrow that even a short walk was a major event. Unless, of course, it was his company she found so attractive. Watching her now, talking with Mr Martin and Miss Fairburn, he found the thought amusing.