The Widow (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  Mrs Young was very happy to make a small detour to Sagborough.

  “Oh, Sagborough! That is where I used to live! Just fancy you going there — such a coincidence. Do you have many acquaintances in the town?”

  “No one,” Nell said, then, to deflect any further questions, she added, “I have business in the town, to do with my late husband’s affairs. We shall only stay for one night, and then go on to York to see the historic sites.”

  “Oh, attorneys and such like, I suppose. Such matters are most disagreeable. You must stay at the Carrbridge Arms, for that is quite the best establishment in Sagborough. Do not go to the King’s Head, it is far too rowdy there.”

  The Carrbridge Arms looked to be no better and no worse than any other inn, and not noticeably different from the King’s Head which they had passed earlier on the main street. However, Mrs Young alighted and was immediately recognised and treated with great deference by the various servants who emerged to attend them.

  “You must provide Mrs Caldicott with every comfort, Wainwright,” she said to the innkeeper. “Your best room, and not one of those looking out to the yard, for they are far too noisy. Mrs Caldicott is my particular friend, so I expect you to pay her every attention, do you hear? Well, my dear, I must leave you here, for I have some distance yet to travel today. Wainwright and Mrs Wainwright will take good care of you, only do not eat the fish except on Fridays and Saturdays, for the fish barge only comes once a week and it will not keep, not in this warm weather. Mrs Wainwright’s game pie is to be recommended, however. Quite famous locally for her game pies, is Mrs Wainwright. Oh, just one more thing before I go…”

  There were several more things, in point of fact, but eventually she was got back into the carriage and driven away. Despite the lengthy farewell, when Nell and Louis had had something to eat and had settled into their room overlooking a narrow field and a canal, it was still only an hour after noon.

  “What do you say to a walk, young man?” Nell said to Louis. “You have slept in the carriage the whole way, so if you tell me you are tired, I shall not believe you. Shall we go and find Percharden House?”

  Louis nodded.

  15: A House In Mourning

  A maid set them in the right direction, and Nell and Louis began walking. Sagborough was not a prepossessing town. It had no ancient edifices or monuments to admire, no great boulevards or parks or palaces to boast of. Beside the canal and along the York road clustered warehouses and small manufactories and craft shops, in the centre were several fine churches, a number of better houses and the principal shops, but the western edge of the town was quieter, the larger buildings giving way to well-kept smaller properties with leafy gardens, orchards and fields. Before long, they came to a high wall on one side and, a little further on, a pair of gates, the gatepost bearing the words ‘Percharden House’.

  Nell opened the gate and they entered the grounds. The drive strode away from them in a straight line, with pairs of trees marching either side of it in regimented precision. Heaven forfend that a tree should droop out of alignment or fail to grow at the exact angle required. In the far distance, a glimpse of grey stone could be discerned.

  Louis sighed.

  “Not much further now,” Nell said cheerfully. Her spirits always rose when she ventured onto such properties. Such places were where she had been raised, and where she felt most at home. She was always Miss Godney of Daveney Hall at such times.

  Louis held tight to her hand as they walked. Abruptly, he stopped.

  “Chicken!” he cried, pointing through the trees to a lawned area. “Blue chicken!”

  Nell laughed out loud. “That, Louis, is a peacock. Do you see his long tail? If he were to lift it up, you would see how beautiful it is. Is he not a lovely colour? Your Grandmama had a ballgown once that was just that colour. It was magnificent. I do not think he is inclined to show us his tail. Shall we walk on?”

  They emerged from the tree-lined drive to find the house immediately before them. It was everything that Daveney Hall was not. Instead of mellow stone and ancient irregularity, Percharden House was austerely modern, a single long building in grey stone, and to Nell’s eye’s, very plain. But Louis gazed upon it with awe.

  “It is straight,” he said. “A straight house. I like it.”

  It was true that everything about it was constructed on straight lines. Even the approach to the house, so often arranged as a circle for the convenience of carriages, was here a square edged with rigid topiary. Hand in hand, Nell and Louis crossed the open expanse of raked gravel, finding themselves dwarfed by the vast columns flanking the steps to the entrance, the pediment several storeys above them.

  It was only when they had tramped up the many steps to reach the door that Nell realised that the knocker was swathed in crepe, indicative of a recent death in the family.

  While she stood, uncertain whether to retreat at once, the huge mahogany door opened. A very tall butler gazed down at her.

  “Good day, madam. Please come in.”

  Momentarily lost for words, Nell entered the house, Louis still clinging to her hand. The entrance hall was every bit as grandiose as the portico, and although Nell considered it starkly plain, Louis stared around him with apparent pleasure.

  “I beg your pardon,” Nell said to the butler. “I had not realised the house was in mourning, or I should never have intruded upon the family’s grief.”

  The butler was too well-trained to show any surprise, but he said, “You are not here, then, to offer condolences?” No doubt he had been confused by Nell’s widow’s blacks, and assumed she was a family member.

  “I am not.” She hesitated. It was impossible now to call upon the residents of the house and enquire into the meaning of the letter and why it was amongst Jude’s things, but she could not sensibly withhold it from the intended recipient. “My only object was to deliver this letter,” she said, producing it from her reticule and handing it to the butler.

  At once, his impassive demeanour gave way, and he uttered a cry of astonishment. “Oh! Her ladyship has been awaiting this most anxiously. You must give it to her yourself, madam.”

  “Impossible! I cannot disturb a lady in mourning, not when I am wholly unconnected with the family.”

  “No, no, you must,” he said eagerly. “It will cheer her tremendously. Please — let me take you to her. She will wish to thank you personally.”

  Nell could not easily refuse, and perhaps there would be a cup of tea offered, which would be most refreshing after her walk. She inclined her head in acquiescence, and the butler led them into a large room leading directly off the hall. It was, like the rest of the house, starkly rectangular and decorated with subdued simplicity, nor did the furnishings soften the severity of the effect, for the chairs and sofas were arranged with great regularity into squares.

  “Straight,” Louis muttered under his breath, and Nell could only agree.

  The butler crossed the room to the massive hearth, where a fire burned despite the warmth of the day. “The letter has arrived, my lady,” he said, his excitement evident. “A little late, but it is here.”

  The object of his address was a very elderly lady, richly garbed in black twilled sarsenet. She was quite wizened and frail, yet she sat rigidly upright in her chair. “The letter? At last!” The butler handed it to her and she turned it over and over, feeling the seal, then running her fingers over the direction, as if she could scarcely believe her eyes. “Read it to me, Craven. Read it at once.”

  Nell and Louis stood, unregarded, near the door, still hand in hand, Louis gazing about him with avid curiosity, while Nell watched the little drama taking place beside the fire. This letter was long awaited? That was unexpected.

  The butler took the letter from the old lady, broke the seal and unfolded it. ‘My dearest AB, There is snow today. After weeks of balmy days with the illusion of spring, now we are plunged back into winter again. God is teasing us, is He not? He gives us snowdrops and daffodil
s and primroses and catkins all over the bushes, and then He blasts them all with icy winds and buries them in snow. Even the rivers are trimmed with ice, and all the roofs sport great icicles like crystal daggers waiting for the butcher’s boy to pass beneath before they drop, silently lethal. But as soon as the sun emerges, they drip-drip-drip, the drops falling from the sky like diamonds. I should like to gather them up where they fall and make a chain of them for you to wear about your neck, but as soon as I reach for them, they are gone. Life is like that, is it not? One may have the most beautiful, precious object in one’s hand, and cherish it above all things, and yet it may still be broken or tarnished or lost. Men are careless creatures, and often we destroy the very thing we love above all others, and then everything changes. The warm days of summer give way to the icy blasts of winter, which will, in their turn, eventually yield to spring again. Only one thing never changes, and that is the affection of your ever loving son, Felix.”

  Felix! How strange to hear that name again, and in such different circumstances, although… was it possible that this was the same Felix Harbottle whom Mr Nathan Harbottle had been seeking? The one who wrote but once a year to his mother, and always from a different port? Perhaps it was supposed to be Southampton this year. It was too confusing, to have two disparate worlds collide in this unforeseen way.

  The old lady laughed in delight, and clapped her hands excitedly. “He never fails me, Craven. The mail may be erratic but Felix never fails me.”

  “This did not come by the mail, my lady. It was delivered by hand. The lady who brought it is here now.” He waved Nell forward imperiously. “This is the lady.”

  “Come nearer, pray,” the old lady said, peering vaguely in Nell’s direction. It was only as she drew closer that Nell realised that the eyes that gazed out from the wrinkled face were sightless. That must be why the furniture was arranged with such angular precision, to present fewer obstacles. “May I ask to whom I am indebted for the service of bringing my son’s letter to me?”

  “I am Mrs Caldicott, my lady, from Southampton, the widow of Captain Jude Caldicott.” She curtsied, and Louis, still holding her hand, bowed. “The letter was found among my late husband’s possessions, and as my son and I needed to leave Southampton for a while, I thought to bring the letter here and see if I may discover my husband’s connection to your family.”

  “From Southampton? And your husband is a captain in the navy?”

  “His command was mercantile, not military, my lady.”

  “Nevertheless, I believe there is no mystery regarding your husband’s connection to my son. Felix has been severed from his family for more than twenty years now, but every year, around the time of my birthday in April, he writes to me to reassure me that he is still alive. Every letter arrives from a different port, and clearly Southampton was the chosen port this year. Felix gave the letter into your husband’s care, to be taken to the post at the appropriate date. That was not done, since your husband died. When did he die?”

  “February, my lady. May I ask… is your son the same Felix who was sought by Mr Nathan Harbottle?”

  “You know Nathan? Ah, he was in Southampton recently, was he not?”

  “He was. Then you are a Harbottle too!” Nell cried. “You are Lady… something Harbottle?”

  The old lady laughed. “Did you truly travel all the way from Southampton without knowing to whom you were to deliver this letter? But then it is addressed only to ‘AB’, is it not? My initials, written into all my books, and so Felix always addressed me. ‘Dearest AB,’ he always called me. Lady Amelie Bucknell I was born, but now I am Lady Harbottle. The Dowager Lady Harbottle, that is, for my daughter-in-law is Lady Harbottle also. Wait— Did you say your name is Caldicott?”

  “It is, my lady.”

  “Then you are the lady of whom Nathan spoke, of whom he was so anxious, the one whose husband—” She stopped abruptly. “Mrs Caldicott, please sit down… in this chair close beside me, if you would be so good, for then I can see you just a little — the outline of your face, splashes of colour. Ah, now I see your widow’s weeds, just like mine. You have lost a husband recently and I my oldest son just a week ago today. He was buried two days ago, the very last of my sons, excepting only Felix. Five sons I brought into the world, and only one now remains to me. We are alike in our mourning, are we not?”

  Nell had to smile at the comparison, she in her cheap bombazine and Lady Harbottle in the finest silk.

  “Craven, bring some refreshments for Mrs Caldicott.” As the butler crept away, Lady Harbottle started suddenly. “There is someone else here.” She moved her head this way and that, trying to see.

  “This is Louis, my son. He is eight years old.”

  Louis bowed again.

  “He was so quiet I did not realise he was in the room. Children are not usually so soundless. Come nearer, child. Nearer still, so that my ancient eyes may see you. Ah, there you are. Young man, there are some interesting objects in the glass case near the leftmost window. You may examine them and commit to memory all that you see there. Then you may tell me what you have observed.”

  Louis looked to Nell for permission. She nodded and he scampered away.

  “Now, Mrs Caldicott—” Lady Harbottle began, but before she could continue, the door opened and another woman in black entered the room. Nell jumped to her feet.

  “Mama! Craven tells me you have received your letter at last.” She was tall and long-limbed, an attractive woman in middle age. Nell guessed her to be not much above forty.

  “Ah, Jessica, do come and meet my most surprising visitor, who has brought my letter to me all the way from Southampton. This is Mrs Jude Caldicott.”

  “Caldicott!”

  “My daughter in law, Lady Harbottle, Mrs Caldicott.”

  Nell curtsied low, but the younger Lady Harbottle exclaimed, “Are you Nathan’s Mrs Caldicott? Surely it cannot be!”

  “I did indeed meet Mr Nathan Harbottle in Southampton,” Nell said, and explained again how the letter had come into her possession.

  “But what an extraordinary coincidence, is it not?” the younger Lady Harbottle said. “That the very person Nathan spoke of, who knows nothing at all of Felix, should be the very means of bringing your letter to you, Mama.”

  “Not a coincidence at all,” the dowager said. “Nathan has talked to everyone who might ever have known Felix. It is hardly a surprise that one of them should turn out to have this year’s letter.”

  Louis reappeared at Nell’s elbow, tugging frantically at her sleeve. “What is it, Louis?” she whispered.

  “Are you finished, young man?” the dowager said. “Come here, and tell me all that you saw in the glass case. I wager you will not remember all of them.”

  “I can,” Louis said. “There was a very long feather, a blue egg in a nest, a weasel, a wooden tube with holes in it, a pocket watch, a ring with a red stone, a pair of dice, one black with white spots and one white with black spots, a wooden box, a small metal box and a very old book that belonged to the first baronet.”

  “Well!” the dowager said. “You have an excellent memory, Louis. The wooden tube is a flute carved by the first baronet, and the book was his psalter, but how did you know it belonged to him?”

  “I read the sign beside it, although it was hard to read some of the letters,” Louis said. “Books are easier to read.”

  “So they are, for the letters are printed. You are a very clever boy, to read so well at your age. Perhaps you would like to read to me later?”

  “Yes, please, but…” He tugged Nell’s sleeve again. “Mama, there is a picture of Papa on the wall.”

  “Of Papa? Louis, how can that be?”

  “It is, it is! It is Papa! Come and see!”

  The younger Lady Harbottle rose from her seat and held out a hand to Louis. “Will you show me, Louis?” He nodded and trustingly took her hand.

  Nell followed them across the room. On the wall behind the glass case hung a num
ber of miniatures, no doubt recording the features of Harbottles through the generations. They all three peered at the one that Louis pointed out.

  “It is rather like,” Nell said. “It is hard to tell with the wig.”

  “That is Great-uncle Matthew,” Lady Harbottle said. “Rather a character, by all accounts. He was the second son, and swore he would never marry unless he was obliged to in order to secure the succession. Kept a string of mistresses, but he never did marry. Became a famous judge, eventually. Is that not so, Mama?”

  “Infamous, more like,” the dowager said, with a throaty laugh. “Liked to hang everyone brought before him, and thought that was too good a punishment for most of them. There is a larger portrait in the gallery, Jessica. Take Mrs Caldicott to see that. Louis, will you stay with me? Perhaps you could read to me for a while — there is a book on the table just there.”

  Louis rushed eagerly for the book, so Nell judged he would not object to being left behind. She followed the younger Lady Harbottle out of the room.

  “Your son is very obliging to stay with an old lady when he had much rather be exploring, I am sure,” she said to Nell.

  “If there is a book involved, he is perfectly amenable,” Nell said. “The difficulty will be separating him from it later.”

  Lady Harbottle laughed. “He is a lovely boy. So well mannered! How lucky you are to have a child! William and I were never blessed, although we were twenty years married.” She sighed with sentimental fervour. “How I should have loved to have a child or two. A son for William, and a daughter for me — that is what I hoped for. But there, it was not to be. Here we are.”

  She led the way across the room to another door. A footman rushed to open it for them, and they passed into the gallery. Nell had expected the usual long, narrow room, but to her mind this was more like a ballroom, being almost as wide as it was long. Tables, globes and groupings of chairs filled the centre of the room, but with the minimum of effort, the floor could be cleared to leave room for fifty or sixty couples without crowding. A large balcony above the centre of the room provided for an orchestra, and doors along the wall suggested the possibility of smaller rooms for supper or cards. Above the whole arched a magnificent curved roof, seemingly supported by sturdy pillars set into the walls. It was, like the whole house, unembellished but imbued with an austere beauty.