by Jo Beverley
He glanced at her and said, “You look upset, my dear. Why don’t you go back to the house. This is no business for a lady.”
Chloe ignored his suggestion and urged Mercury to a little more speed. She had determined to go to the beach to show the men she wasn’t to be shunted aside, but when she arrived at the path she saw the body was already in the cart and coming toward them.
Sir Cedric halted beside her. “That’s right. No need for you to come down, my dear,” he said kindly. “I suggest some hot sweet tea and a rest in your room. In times of stress, my sister is a great believer in Dr. Linmer’s Nerve Pills and always has a supply on hand. She will be only too pleased to send some over if you request it.” He patted her hand. “How fortunate this happened when Lord Stanforth was here to take the burden from you.”
Chloe smiled tightly and agreed. After he had ridden ahead to the beach, however, she walked her horse and waited. She saw Sir Cedric stop the cart and pull back the cloth to look at the corpse, then continue down to where Randal and Justin waited. The cart rolled on, up to the road.
Garford gave a salute. “Nasty business, Your Ladyship. Reckon we’d best take him to his Aunt Katy’s place.”
Chloe looked at the shape beneath the cloth—so recently a man and now no longer. Frank Halliwell had lived above the stables, but Chloe recollected now that he had been raised by his mother’s sister, a spinster who kept goats and chickens for her livelihood.
“Very well. I will go ahead to break the news,” she said.
She picked the undergardener to accompany Garford in the cart and sent Budsworth, the gardener, back to his tasks. Then she trotted inland to Katy Stack’s smallholding.
Chloe found the well-padded, middle-aged woman digging up potatoes in her plot, her strong movements showing that her bulk contained a lot of muscle. She looked up and stopped to lean on her spade.
“ ’Day to you, Milady.”
Chloe slid off the horse and tethered him to the fence. “I’m afraid I come with sad news, Miss Stack.”
The woman’s face became blank, almost stupid—the universal reaction of the local people to any hint of trouble. “Frank, I reckon. What’s he gone and done?”
Chloe walked up the path toward the older woman. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident, Miss Stack. He fell off the Head. He’s dead.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, with a sharp, almost vicious movement, the older woman drove her spade into the earth so that it stood there straight, and wiped her rough hands on her apron. “You’d best come in the house, Milady.”
“Thank you. They’re bringing the body here, Miss Stack. I hope that is all right.”
“Where else? I’m the only family he has hereabouts. His mam and dad died of fever when he were nobut a lad.” She led the way into the kitchen of the small cottage. The room was clean and pleasantly decorated with flowers and bright pieces of embroidery. Chloe looked at plain Miss Stack with surprise.
“This is a very pleasant room, Miss Stack,” she said.
“I like it,” said the woman flatly. “Reckon we’d best have some tea,” she added. There was a blackened kettle sitting on a grid over one corner of the fire. She pushed it farther over the heat. Immediately, steam began to wisp out of the lid. “Sit you down, Milady.”
Chloe chose one of the plain chairs by the pine table. Miss Stack washed her hands in a bowl of water before taking a seat opposite.
“How’d it happen then?”
“We’re not quite sure, Miss Stack, but he appears to have fallen from the headland near the house. It would have been very quick.”
“Aye.” The woman looked at her rough, strong hands. “He were a good lad, Frank. A worker. He were saving to start his own livery in Lancaster. Had big ideas. Still had hopes, I reckon, of Lady Belinda.” This last was said with a sarcastic edge which told Chloe the woman was aware Belinda had no right to be so called.
“Frank loved Belinda?” she queried in surprise.
“Aye. They were close as you like not that long ago. None of us’d been surprised if they’d have wed, even though her la-di-da mother wanted better for her. But then she up and married Mr. George.”
The woman heaved herself up to attend to the boiling kettle. “Don’t do, that sort of thing. Folks should keep to their own. But Nellie Massinger’s always had notions. Sending Belinda to that school in Lancaster, and the boys to the grammar school. Now that Belinda’s My Lady, Nellie’s took the notion to send the youngest to university down south.”
The pot was tinware, but Miss Stack opened a cupboard and took out two fine china cups and saucers. It was into these she poured the strong tea. She added milk and sugar and brought them to the table, placing alongside them an earthenware plate of lardy-cake.
Chloe took a small piece of cake and complimented her hostess. It was very good. Her chief appetite, however, was for information about Belinda and Frank.
“Once Belinda became the widowed Lady Stanforth, however,” she said, “and had a jointure, she could look a great deal higher than Frank, I’m afraid.”
“I know that and you know that, but there were no telling Frank. He seemed to think she’d come round, seemed to think he could talk her round. He were an handsome lad, fair enough. Happen he thought that’d turn trick, but I told him, Belinda’ll be looking for more than a bonny face now. Young’uns never listen.”
Chloe would have liked to learn more, but the cart could be heard in the lane. Miss Stack drank down the rest of her tea and rose to her feet. She took off her apron for the solemn moment and went to meet the men, directing them to bring the body into her small parlor and lay it on the floor there. She and Chloe observed the process, then Miss Stack placed a penny on each eyelid to hold it shut.
Frank did not look so very different, Chloe thought. He was dirty and bruised but if his neck was broken, the men had managed to lay him down so it was straight. He looked totally irrevocably dead, however. In such a brief time, the spirit had left the flesh.
She glanced at the older woman, wondering how she must feel. This man had been like a son to her. The total absence of expression was perhaps more telling than any tears. Stony-faced, Katy Stack laid a hand for a moment on the young man’s bruised cheek, then draped the sheet back over the corpse.
“I’d best go see the vicar,” she said as they left the room.
“I could do that for you if you wish, Miss Stack,” said Chloe. “As Frank worked for the Hall, we would wish to bear the cost of his burial, if you would allow it.” It seemed such an inadequate gesture of support.
Katy Stack nodded. Her face was still blank but Chloe saw there was moistness in her eyes. “Kind of you, Milady. I’d rather not leave him alone, you see.”
“I understand.” Chloe laid a hand for a moment on the woman’s work-worn ones. “I’ll make the arrangements, Miss Stack, and if there’s anything you need, send someone to the Hall.”
After conducting her business with the Reverend Sotherby—and receiving his acceptance of her invitation to the dinner party, which had completely slipped her mind—Chloe took the opportunity to walk through the graveyard to her husband’s resting place. It was not a practice that had much meaning for her. She could remember him in his house, connect him with his horses and his acres, but not with this rectangle of earth and carved monument. The sight of Frank’s body had brought back memories of Stephen’s death, however. He too had gone suddenly from life into death.
The small Heysham church of St. Peter’s was very old, dating back to before the Norman Conquest, and there were more historic connections. High on the headland was a ruined structure said to be a chapel built by St. Patrick. In the churchyard stood a curious Viking memorial, a hogback burial stone. It was a gray stone, the shape and size of a large pig’s back, covered with carvings of people and animals. It supposedly marked the grave of a Viking warrior called Thorold, who died in the tenth century. It had been dug up only ten years before and attracted a steady stream of
antiquarians, the latest being the Dutchman, Herr van Maes.
The whole churchyard was an ancient place, and Chloe always felt as if the spirits of a thousand generations hovered comfortably about. She could not blame them. Set on the headland in view of the rolling sea, this graveyard was a place to contemplate the hand of God.
Standing by Stephen’s grave, looking out across the bay, she braced herself against the brisk salt wind. One day Justin would lie here, she supposed, with what Lady Stanforth beside him? The thought caused her discomfort. She could not, must not, think this way of Justin. His choice of wife was nothing to do with her. She must not again be trapped by the Delamere charm, experience a few moments of delight during a lifetime of exasperation and disappointment.
A small voice told her Justin was not as like Stephen as she thought. Then she remembered the tales Stephen had told of their adventures. She had always known her husband could never have been the instigator of the most ingenious and inventive mayhem to their credit. On their elopement journey, had Justin not foolishly challenged a carter to a wrestling match and, having beaten him, continued to take on all comers until a blacksmith had nearly broken his back? Such bravado was probably admirable in a soldier, but not in a husband.
As she rode slowly back to the Hall, Chloe was very aware that the sooner she left Delamere, the better.
6
WHEN THE INHABITANTS of Delamere Hall sat down to a cold luncheon, Sir Cedric joined them. The gentlemen were at first inclined to avoid discussion of the death but Chloe and, more forcefully, the Duchess, soon dissuaded them from being so delicate. Justin and Randal accepted this with resignation, but Sir Cedric was shocked. Chloe had noticed in the past that his notions of the behavior suitable for a Dowager Duchess did not mesh with reality.
On this occasion he was bold enough to remonstrate. “I think, Your Grace, that Lady Stanforth”—he indicated Belinda—“cannot like to talk of it. She was . . . er . . . related to the dead man.”
Chloe thought it was true that Belinda looked pale and not as composed as usual, which wasn’t surprising if Frank had once been her sweetheart. When the young woman spoke, however, it was to say quietly, “I suppose we all know one another hereabouts, and Frank’s mother was my father’s cousin. But his death doesn’t distress me any more than another man’s would. I would like to know what you think occurred.”
So, thought Chloe, Belinda does not intend to acknowledge any closer relationship than that. She didn’t blame the girl.
The Dowager Lady Stanforth, who had drifted down to luncheon in yet another old-fashioned gown, spoke up piercingly. “A young maid was once blown off the Head in a storm.”
“I have heard of such cases, Aunt,” said Justin kindly. “But today there was no more than a brisk breeze.”
“Do we know where he fell from?” asked Chloe.
“Yes. There are marks,” replied Justin. “The drop isn’t sheer, as you know, and it’s obvious he tried to find purchase as he slid. It was quite close to the house, but over to the north a little and out of sight. If you and Randal had been looking toward the Head you would doubtless have seen him. It is doubtful anyone else did.”
“Was there anyone else there with him?” asked the Duchess sharply.
“There is no way to tell from the ground, which is firm and dry. None of the staff is admitting to it. Was anyone here out of the house this morning, apart from Chloe and Randal?”
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken by Belinda. “Are you suggesting someone caused Frank to fall? Why would you think such a thing?”
Justin answered her. “It is certainly difficult to understand, but then he had no business in that part of the grounds. After Chloe and Randal rode out he was sent to the storage shed for a bag of oats. He was not seen again. The Head isn’t dangerous. It’s difficult to imagine him walking off the edge in a fit of absentmindedness.”
“A young maid was once blown off the Head in a storm,” said the Dowager pleasantly. Everyone smiled awkwardly and ignored her.
“Well,” said Belinda stolidly. “I was out in the rose garden and I saw nothing untoward.”
Chloe remembered seeing her leave the house. Frank had been alive then.
“The rose garden is to the south of the house. Is that not correct?” Sir Cedric asked. “It lies between the stables and the place where the young man fell?”
Belinda cut a piece of cheese. “I’m not sure where it is you say he fell, but the rose garden is on the southwest. The most direct route to the seaside of the house from the stables would take a person that way.”
“And when did you go there?”
“Between nine and ten. I spoke to Chloe as I left the house.”
Chloe corroborated this and added the fact that the maid and baby were with Belinda, just in case Cedric took the notion to consider George’s wife a suspect. She guessed that, in addition to her grief, Belinda was nervous lest her relationship with the groom be exposed. Having been in such a situation herself, Chloe sympathized with anyone threatened by scandal. As a duke’s granddaughter, Chloe had been able to face down Society but had still been scarred. Belinda would be destroyed.
Sir Cedric’s interest in Belinda was obviously waning, but he asked, “And how long did you stay in the rose garden, Lady George?”
Belinda shrugged. “I can’t be sure. I didn’t have a thought as to time. After I’d gathered the petals from the blown roses, I walked farther along the seaside of the house and down through the herb garden to pick a few other plants I needed. I was gathering supplies for my potpourri , you see. I spoke to Budsworth, the gardener. There had been no alarm raised then.”
Justin broke in. “And how long was it before Chloe returned to the house with the news?”
“I don’t know,” said Belinda simply. “I had to go up to feed Dorinda. I heard nothing until my maid told me, just before lunch.”
Justin looked around. “Frank would have gone by the rose garden and along the sea side of the house, or by the longer route around the front and through the kitchen garden to get to where he fell. As it happened, both were occupied. He must have proceeded to the Head after Belinda left the rose garden, but why he would go there remains a mystery.”
“Unless he intended deliberately to do away with himself,” said Sir Cedric solemnly. “That seems to be the most likely explanation. Nobody in the house had any apparent reason to wish him harm, and it seems clear nobody on the staff felt great enmity toward the young man. He was quite popular, particularly with the females. Everyone admits he had been in low spirits recently. There is no need to make a scandal of this, however. For my part, I am willing to accept this was just an unfortunate accident.”
Chloe thought it was kind of Cedric not to put the label of suicide on the death, but wondered at his exposition. Did he not realize Frank had been in low spirits because he was a servant in a house of which his equal was now mistress?
Furthermore, Chloe wondered, was Cedric really taking the word of the staff for truth? She knew they would keep their secrets from the gentry if they wished. No enmity toward Frank? She had caught a reference to him and Matthew, though she had thought it over a woman. If Frank had still been hopeful of Belinda, that did not seem likely. Chloe couldn’t see Matthew setting his sights on one of the Ladies Stanforth, no matter how unexalted her birth.
She was dismayed to think, however, that she had spoken to the groom so soon before his death and been unaware of the forces converging upon him, whether they had been internal or external. . . . She dragged her attention back to the desultory decision making.
Justin was agreeing to go along with a declaration of accidental death. Both he and Sir Cedric looked at Lord Randal, who had taken no part in the discussion.
“Nothing to do with me,” Randal said casually. “Even if there was something fishy, I’ll lay odds you’d never get to the bottom of it if you tried.”
Chloe waited to be consulted but, happily in accord, the gentlemen ro
se and the baronet took his leave. Justin and Randal went off together. The Dowager and Miss Forbes rose and wandered away. Belinda said she had to go to Dorinda. Thus, Chloe and the Duchess were left to finish their cups of tea.
The Duchess looked at Chloe’s scowl.
“And what’s nibbling at you, my dear?”
“Men,” said Chloe, darkly. “They have it all settled to their satisfaction, and not a word to us. Do they think we have no brains?”
The Duchess chuckled. “If you don’t take care, my gel, you’ll turn into a radical like that Wollstonecraft woman. Men do men’s work and women do women’s. Pity you never had children. You’d find you had enough to keep you busy without wanting men’s tasks.”
Chloe flushed. “Am I so unreasonable, Grandmama? I do not want to run the estate now Justin is back, but I do not relish being treated as if I were of no account. I know the people here better than any of them. Yet, they even asked Randal for his opinion!”
The Duchess shrugged. “You could work on them and bring them around, but what’s the point? Save it for your husband. He’s the one you’ll need to impress with your abilities. The more I think of it though, Chloe, the less I like this notion of you marrying earnest Ernest. I ask you, who’s more likely to let you run wild and poke your fingers in everywhere, someone like Randal or someone like Sir Cedric?”
Chloe refused to answer, though she silently gave the Duchess that point.
“What you need, gel, is another feckless man who’ll go off and leave you in charge. Or, if you don’t like that, marry a naval man. He can be depended upon to be absent nine months of the year.”
Chloe knew this was not what she wanted, though she chose not to investigate her feelings too closely. She put her cup down decisively. “I’m more than half convinced not to marry at all. Having achieved that rare state for a woman—independence—would I not be foolish to give it up? Perhaps it’s time we left Delamere, Grandmama. It’s clear I am not needed, and I would like a change of scene.”
