by Amanda Scott
“You think of everything, ma’am. I shall not fail you.”
“And the funeral, my lord?”
“Saturday, if this cool weather holds,” he said. “I hope to return Friday with my nephew. It means collecting him from Harrow a day or so early, but under the circumstances—”
“Certainly, the school authorities will not object, sir.”
Nicholas chuckled. “That is very likely an understatement of the case. I daresay they will be only too pleased to be rid of him.”
“A young gentleman of resourcefulness, I collect.”
“Those are not precisely the words his headmaster might choose,” Nicholas grinned, “but they will suffice. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I must finish this business before I go.” He indicated the untidy pile of papers on the desk. “Get me those measurements, ma’am. I’m off within the half hour.”
Taking his words for dismissal, both ladies rose to their feet and stepped toward the door. But before they reached it, Sarah bethought herself of another problem and turned back hesitantly. “My lord, I wondered about Beck. He will be returning, and … well—”
“You may tell that rascal that his services will no longer be required in this establishment,” Nicholas said shortly.
Sarah paled at the thought of confronting Beck with such a statement. Even with Penny to support her, she didn’t think she could manage it. “My lord, I …”
He was watching her closely, and his tone gentled. “Perhaps I should leave Dasher with you when I go. He can handle Beck.”
Sarah could believe it. There was something very solid about Dasher, as though it would take a good deal to put him out of countenance. “Thank you, my lord,” she responded sincerely.
“Think nothing of it. Such an arrangement will answer very well. Give him whatever orders you like, and he will see your needs are met. You will find him to be a most resourceful person.”
Thus it was agreed, and the two ladies retired to Sarah’s bedchamber, where Miss Penistone delivered a gentle rebuke upon the subject of widows in sprig muslin dresses, and Sarah was soon stripped of the offending garment. The required measurements were given to a housemaid to deliver to his lordship, and it was decided that a simple white muslin frock would have to do until the seamstress arrived from East End village. Sarah would have liked to relax with a cup of tea and a bit of conversation until that lady’s arrival, but Miss Penistone declined to encourage her in such idleness.
“There is little time to spare, love, for I know you will wish to be settled in at the Dower House as quickly as possible. Let us find Mr. Dasher.”
Dasher, with his bull-like shoulders, unprepossessing countenance, and air of reserve, did not at first glance seem to be a man of action, but it was clear that Miss Penistone quickly recognized a kindred spirit. When Sarah introduced them, they drew a little away, speaking quickly and obviously to mutual purpose. Miss Penistone then returned to her charge and spoke approvingly of his lordship’s man, as they walked through the library and on down the path to Dower House.
Sarah was amazed to discover that the path had already been cleared, but that was nothing compared to her astonishment when they reached the house itself. Every window stood wide open, and dust seemed to fly everywhere under the energetic exertions of what seemed to be an army of servants. A manservant came out the front door carrying a wooden chair, which he added to a meager collection of furniture standing in the front garden.
“Merciful heavens!” Sarah exclaimed. “It has only been a couple of hours since his lordship and I were here!”
“They certainly seem industrious,” Miss Penistone agreed. “Mr. Dasher said he had acquired some help to begin the task. It looks as though it won’t take them long.”
“There are so many of them!”
“Yes, indeed. A tribute, I am sure, to Mr. Dasher’s skill as an organizer though he did mention that the locals are much more amenable now that his lordship has come into the title.”
Sarah, remembering Darcy’s petulant comments on the difficulties of finding servants, could well believe it, since Dasher seemed to have produced a whole battalion with a snap of his fingers. There were only three days to go before Nicholas would return, but the impossible now seemed probable. The work would not be finished, of course, but the house might at least be made habitable before then if she and Miss Penistone were not too nice in their requirements.
She was about to suggest that they go on inside to see what progress had been made, as well as to prepare a list of things to be done, when Dasher cleared his throat directly behind her, nearly causing her to jump out of her skin.
“Dasher! Don’t do that!”
“Mr. Dasher,” declared the unflustered Miss Penistone in the same breath, “you seem to be working a miracle here.”
“Beg pardon, my lady. Thank you, ma’am. If you please, my lady, there is a gentleman by name of Sir William Miles says he’s wishful to speak with you.”
“The magistrate!” Sarah exclaimed. She had forgotten all about him.
VIII
THE MEETING WITH SIR William Miles was not nearly the ordeal Sarah had expected it to be. It took place in the library, and Sir William sat on the settee near the merrily crackling fire, while she sat in a chair facing him. With Miss Penistone there to support her, Sarah was not at all nervous and was able to answer his questions with poise and confidence.
Sir William was a bluff and cheerful man, clearly more at home in the hunting field than in a lady’s parlor, but it was just as clear that he took his duties as magistrate very seriously, and the questions he asked were relevant and to the point. He took her carefully through her description of what had transpired in the library and showed no inclination to cross-question her. As Nicholas had foreseen, he merely wanted to hear what Sarah could tell him.
Sarah began her tale with the pistol shot, saying nothing of her earlier quarrel with Darcy. Therefore, nothing was said about the fall, and if Sir William was aware that Darcy had a large lump on the back of his head, he did not mention it. There was only one point that he asked her to clarify.
“Beg pardon, my lady,” he said then, “but would you mind going over the bit about the pistol again?”
“I don’t know what else I can add,” Sarah replied. “I had knelt beside my husband and was shaking him when I saw it. I had got blood all over my skirt, and without really thinking clearly at all, I leaned over him and picked it up.”
“You leaned over him?”
“Yes. The pistol was between him and that desk.”
“I see. Was it under his body or just alongside?”
Sarah closed her eyes, repressing a shudder as she tried to visualize the scene again. “Alongside, I believe. I know I didn’t have to pull it out from under him.”
Sir William stared into the fire for a moment, working his lips as he considered her words, then suddenly, he shot a singularly piercing gaze at her. “Have you considered the possibility, Lady Moreland, that the late earl, for reasons unbeknownst to us, might have elected to put a period to his own life? In a word, madam, might your husband have shot himself?”
It was tempting. Indeed, it was very tempting, and Sarah knew that such an interpretation by Sir William would make things a good deal easier for all of them. She glanced at Miss Penistone to find that lady’s expression as bland as ever. However, just as Sarah was about to agree to a vague possibility, Nicholas’s words echoed in her mind. It was as though he were right there speaking to her, sternly warning her that they must do nothing to aid the real criminal. So, regretfully, she shook her head.
“I am quite certain, Sir William, that my husband would never have done such a thing. There could have been no reason for it. He had no financial worries, and I can think of nothing else that might have driven him to such an act. Someone k-killed him.” The break in her voice rather caught her by surprise, and she realized she had been holding herself under very tight control. Before, when she had discussed Darcy’s de
ath, with Nicholas or Miss Penistone, she had kept her thoughts on the surface of things, merely describing what she had actually seen and heard. Oddly enough, this was the first time she had actually put the matter into such simple terms, and she paled at the vision her words brought to mind. She hadn’t particularly liked Darcy—she certainly hadn’t loved him—but it was altogether dreadful to think of his dying at the hand of another in such a violent fashion.
Watching her, Sir William nodded, and his response was gentle. “That’s the way I figure it, too, ma’am, not believing the lad to have had the bottom for that sort of thing. Still and all, I was curious to know what you would say.” Resolutely pushing the unsettling visions aside, Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. Though it had been a very small trap, it was nevertheless gratifying that she had escaped it. Perhaps there were advantages to taking other people’s advice now and again. Sir William stayed only a few moments more, but before taking his leave, he asked that she have someone notify him when Beck returned from Town. “He may be able to shed some light on this matter,” he said. “Ought at least to know one or two of his master’s enemies.” Sarah agreed and passed the message along to Dasher.
The East End seamstress arrived late in the afternoon, bringing several gowns with her that had already been cut and pieced to Sarah’s approximate size. All that was necessary was a final fitting and a few minor alterations. The seamstress spent the night, and with the help of Miss Penistone and the maidservant, Betsy, two mourning gowns were ready for Sarah the next day. Besides Betsy and the other two girls hired by Darcy, several more maidservants had taken up residence in the servants’ quarters by then, and Dasher had also managed to find four young men to serve as footmen in the main house. Since they were chosen as much for size as for ability, the uniforms that arrived from London on Thursday fit them perfectly.
Sir Nicholas had first thought to hire his servants in Town, Miss Penistone informed Sarah, having gained her information firsthand from the worthy Dasher. “But he concluded that it would be better to use local people in order to better the Park’s image.” Sarah remembered these words when the little seamstress mentioned a shop in the village that could provide materials for curtains and upholstery, as well as bedding and linens, if her ladyship was of a mind to bestow her patronage there. She added diffidently that no doubt her ladyship would prefer to order such stuff from Town.
“No such thing,” Sarah declared, smiling. “I should be most obliged to you in fact, Mrs. Potter, if you would ask that shopkeeper to visit us with samples from which we might choose. Such an arrangement will be a great deal more convenient than to be forever having to run up to Town.”
Seeing the light her words brought to that good lady’s eye, she knew she had made the right decision. Even if the shop could not provide exactly what was wanted, it was important to improve relations with the local people. She was sure Nicholas would agree, and it would be more convenient.
Beck did not return from London until well into the following day. She saw him as she was returning to the library from Dower House. He seemed surprised by all the activity and was clearly about to approach her when Dasher intercepted him. She could have no exact idea of what was said, but the expressions playing across Beck’s face piqued her curiosity. First, there was shock and dismay. Then, however, there was surprise and disbelief, followed by anger and belligerence. He moved as though to push past Dasher, but the other man forestalled him merely by laying a hand upon his arm. Beck was the taller, but there could be no doubt as to who would win a match of strength between them. Dasher reached into an inner pocket of his black coat and pulled out a thick envelope which he passed to Beck. Then he gestured toward the stables and said something further. Beck was clearly receiving his congé, and he was not at all pleased about it. Glaring angrily, he turned on his heel, casting a malevolent look at Sarah in passing that caused her to be certain that he, at least, believed she had murdered his master.
She did not dwell on it, however, merely being glad that he had gone. Her days were much too busy to allow any time for thinking of the past or worrying about what Beck thought or didn’t think.
It seemed that she never had a moment to relax. Work progressed rapidly, and while servants washed, waxed, polished, and painted, she and Miss Penistone scoured the main house and the attics of Dower House for furniture. The cellars there had long since been closed off for one reason or another, and those at the main house seemed to contain only dusty kegs and bottles of wine, but they managed to collect an assortment of the bare necessities.
By Friday morning, the weeds had been cleared from the front garden, and the trees nearest Dower House had been pruned. Ivy had been cleared from walls and windows, and the outside walls had been crisply whitewashed and trimmed with black paint. Inside, the smell of bee’s wax and lemon oil had replaced that of dust and mildew. The drawing room now contained several chairs, a small sofa, two side tables, and as an extra touch, a fire had been laid in the newly cleaned fireplace, ready to light. The windows were bare, waiting for new curtains, but a blue and red carpet lay upon the highly polished floor, and a bowl of fresh flowers on one of the side tables added a note of cheerfulness.
Across the hall, the dining room boasted little more than a table and four chairs, but at least, Sarah reflected, it was not bare. They would have to take their evening meals at the main house anyway, until a cook could be found for Dower House.
Upstairs, the bedchambers contained only dressing tables and a chair or two. Sarah had taken the patchwork coverlet and the French seat from her room in the main house as well as the cheval glass from the downstairs saloon. The beds would be moved later. All in all, she thought with satisfaction, they had done rather well.
Dasher had also been busy, and the main house gleamed from attic to cellar. He had disposed of Matty and Tom by pensioning them off, and a widow from East End had been installed as cook, her first presentations proving to everyone’s satisfaction that the standard for dining had vastly improved.
By the time the yellow curricle rolled up to the front door in grand style on Friday afternoon, Sarah felt as though mountains had been moved. She was arranging flowers in the pewter vases on the library mantel shelf when she heard the arrival and moved to the window to watch. Timmy leaped down and ran to the horses’ heads, while Nicholas descended in a more leisurely fashion, followed immediately by a tousle-haired lad of about thirteen years. The boy looked up at his uncle, laughing, and she could see a clear family resemblance between the two. But though Colin boasted the same crisp fair curls and firm chin, his eyes were a lighter blue, and his face was dusted with freckles. He was thin and wiry, rather than broad-shouldered and muscular, but no one could doubt he would fill out and grow taller, given a few more years. The two wasted no time before bounding up the steps and into the house, and Sarah stepped to the hall to greet them.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” Nicholas said, smiling. “May I present my nephew, the Honorable Colin Bessling, who will be staying with me for a time.”
Sarah nodded and made the proper welcome while, with an engaging grin, the boy managed a very creditable bow. Nicholas asked immediately about the progress of Dower House and seemed pleased to hear that the ladies intended to spend the night there.
“But I thought Dower House was haunted,” mused young Master Bessling idly.
“Nonsense,” Nicholas responded sternly. “You thought nothing of the sort.”
“I distinctly recall that Gram once said she left Ash Park rather than be relegated to that ghost-ridden monstrosity,” Colin insisted blandly. But his twinkling eyes gave him away.
“I don’t believe she ever said any such thing,” Nicholas declared roundly, “and you, my friend, had best think twice before starting any ill-conceived rumors where I can hear them. Forgive him, my lady. ’Tis mere boyish high spirits, all on account of being let out of school early.”
“I shall keep my wits about me, my lord,” Sarah assured him with a chuckle.
“I have never been particularly missish, you know, and I am afraid that, were I to encounter a ghost at Dower House, I should simply invite him to acquaint me with his name and history.”
Nicholas grinned appreciatively, but she noticed that the boy gave her a rather measuring look. It was forgotten a moment later, when Dasher hurried into the hall and bore young Colin off to show him to his bedchamber, and Nicholas invited Sarah to show him what had been accomplished at Dower House.
Miss Penistone met them in the entry hall, expressing her pleasure at his lordship’s safe return. Then, the three of them toured the house. Nicholas commended them without reservation for the work that had been done and chuckled when Miss Penistone handed him a list of further requirements. He seemed especially pleased when Sarah told him that she had decided to acquire as much as possible locally.
“I am glad to hear you say that, my lady, for it can only be beneficial to us all.” He glanced at the list. “I see that your first priority is to install your own cook. I should have thought a lady’s maid would be more welcome.”
“Well,” Sarah began doubtfully, “if you don’t object, sir, Betsy has agreed to work for us.”
“An excellent notion,” Nicholas agreed. “She is a good worker. But she is no lady’s maid. I think you will agree that a proper dresser should be brought from London. I have, in fact, already arranged it, and she will arrive later this afternoon.”
Something in his tone told Sarah more than his words had done. “Lizzie!” she exclaimed.
“The same, and delighted to come, I might add.”
“Oh, splendid! But that means … that is, I collect that you must have seen my uncle, sir.”
“Indeed. And your aunt. And she, I might add, is as formidable as ever.”
“Are they still furious with me?” Sarah asked in a rather small voice.
“A bit. I think your uncle will come round eventually, but Lady Hartley is undecided as to whether she should be more enraged by the impropriety or by the stupidity of your actions.”
