by Joan Smith
BEHOLD, A MYSTERY!
Joan Smith
Chapter One
It was the vilest trick ever played on a lady. A forced marriage could hardly be worse. Indeed what else am I faced with but a forced marriage? The only difference is that I have a choice amongst four unsuitable partis. Of course I shall marry Horatio. Otto would not have me as a gift; I would not have Gregory; I do not care a groat for Latin, which makes Felix ineligible, and I cannot let poor murdered Aunt Hettie’s fortune go to the dog, Duke.
That is the alternative. I marry one of her great-nephews, or I become a housekeeper for her hound for the next twelve months. Aunt Hettie did it on purpose to force my hand. She knew Duke dislikes me cordially, and the feeling is fully reciprocated. And now Duke has vanished.
“A shame and a caution,” Horatio said when the will was understood. I do not say “read,” for one reading was not sufficient to make my aunt’s intent clear. We none of us could credit such diabolical chicanery.
“Intolerable!” Gregory exclaimed.
“Anguis in herba,” Felix murmured.
And Otto said, with a hateful smile, “Which of us will you honour with your hand, Jessica? No, no. I did not mean the back of your hand!”
I had no intention of striking him. I merely lifted my hand to shake a finger at him.
It all came about at the end of December. It was the custom for Aunt Hettie Farr to recast her will at the beginning of each new year. I doubt she actually made many changes, but she used this cunning ploy to force her potential heirs to come and spend an extremely tedious and uncomfortable week with us at Downsview.
Auntie’s estate is a hideous monstrosity dating from the Jacobean period, done in the Perpendicular Gothic style, with strapwork, pointed arches and much misapplied classical detail. It is nestled amidst the Sussex Downs, with a view of more Downs, almost entirely lacking in features. The long row of chalk hills rises and falls gently. From the crest of a rise one may, on a clear day, catch a glimpse of the sea, or The Weald. Farms and villages nestle amidst the folds of the rolling hills. I thought it pretty when I first came, but one cannot enjoy the same view forever without wearying of it
I had been gazing at those Downs for a decade, since coming to Aunt Hettie when I was just turned sixteen. My mama was her favorite niece. Hettie is actually my great-aunt. She was not blessed with children of her own. She, the ugliest of the Chapman sisters, had made the best match and offered me a home on Mama’s death, for which I was and am grateful.
The offer was not pure charity. I worked for my keep, performing those ladylike chores a demanding old lady can always find for a poor relation. If, as my story progresses, you are left with the notion that I disliked her, you will be mistaken. There was kindness beneath her bristly exterior. She had her annoying little ways, and no doubt I have mine, but we came to respect each other, and even enjoy moments of closeness during the latter years.
I sewed and did her correspondence, ran short errands and read to her in the evening, in return for which I received a roof over my head and twelve sovereigns a year, paid quarterly. Our life was not exciting, but at the end of each December there was the annual visit of four smart London bachelors to look forward to.
We sat in the gloomy purple saloon awaiting their arrival on a dull grey afternoon. On an ordinary day, Duke would have accompanied us. He usually sits drooling by the grate, for he is old and grey like his mistress. But for this special occasion she had him banished belowstairs.
The oaken panelling consumed any wan ray of sunlight that penetrated the dust-stained windows. A few damp logs smouldered in the grate of a Tudor fireplace. Mrs. Manner sat with us. She was another poor relation, relict of a clergyman, who had already been a fixture at Downsview when I arrived ten years before. Her sole function, as far as I could determine, was to sit with Aunt Hettie and receive the old lady’s insults. Auntie would have respected her more if she had defended herself, but Mrs. Manner was no adversary. If she recognized a slight, she always turned the other cheek.
She and my aunt were a perfect contrast as to type. Mrs. Manner was small and soft and round and sweet, with some remnants of beauty still in her blue eyes. Auntie was tall and tough and lean and sour. She could never have been beautiful, but I dare say she was handsome in her youth, or why would Aldous Farr, the younger son of an old and famous noble family, have married her?
Aunt Hettie wore a grey worsted gown and a grey lace cap over her grey hair, to match her grey eyes. A jabot of Belgian lace rose right up to her chin, to hide the wattles of her neck. Though she was on the windy side of seventy, she was still vain. On ordinary days, the jabot was decorated with a marcasite brooch shaped like a starfish, only I think it was supposed to be a flower.
In honour of the expected company, the marcasites had given way to an impressive amethyst brooch that afternoon. On her feet she wore new black calf-skin slippers, where one was accustomed to seeing shagreen. Those were the only upgradings of her toilette.
I, being younger and in need of a husband, had made major improvements to mine. Mrs. Manner had helped me to roll my chestnut hair up in papers the night before, resulting in a riotous display of corkscrew curls that ill became my sober countenance.
Like Auntie, I have grey eyes and a long, lean body. I am neither a beauty nor quite an antidote. I wore my best day frock of dark green sarsenet, with a lace collar fashioned with more enthusiasm than skill by my own hand. One end hung lower than the other, but with Mrs. Manner’s assistance and a few stitches, we had evened it up. I wore my mama’s string of pearls and felt very grand in all this unaccustomed splendour.
Auntie did not comment on my appearance, but only looked with her sharp, knowing eyes, and allowed a commiserating smile to move her lips. She was well aware that for nine December visits I had been putting forth my best effort, and every time it had come to nought. A perfect example of hope springing eternal.
After a long wait, we eventually heard the rumble of a coach approaching. My heart lurched, but I would not give my aunt the satisfaction of darting to the window to display my eagerness. Otto! my heart sang. Four gentlemen were coming, but any lady with blood in her veins would put Otto at the top of the heap. He was the one who made the visits special. I had about as much chance of receiving an offer from this dasher as I had of marrying the Prince of Wales, but he added a certain piquancy to the visits, with his flirting ways and heedless charm.
“Sounds like a carriage. Who is it, Addie?” Auntie asked Mrs. Manner in a calm voice, but I suspect she was looking forward to her visitors quite as much as I.
Mrs. Manner had the seat nearest the window. She glanced out and said brightly, “It is a carriage.”
Auntie’s lips pulled into a derisive line. “The lads decided not to walk from London, I daresay.” Really, Mrs. Manner was enough to try the patience of a saint.
“Felix would not be driving a carriage,” Mrs. Manner pointed out.
“His brother is the most selfish thing in nature, but I think we might count on Gregory to at least give Felix a drive,” Hettie said.
Felix and Gregory Chapman were actual blood relatives of Hettie, and therefore some distant kin to myself as well. The other two bachelors, Otto and Horatio Fair, were great-nephews of Hettie’s husband, and from a higher social shelf entirely. Their papa was Baron Kidd. Otto, the elder, was heir to the title. They were not called Lord Otto or Lord Horatio, however. It seems a baron’s sons are only “Honourables.”
“Or perhaps Felix has set up a rig, now that he has written that famous book,” Mrs. Manner suggested, and smiled her sweet smile at Felix’s good fortune.
“Felix did not write a book,” Aunt Hettie stated firmly. “He translated some old thing from the Latin. Pluta
rch’s Lives of the Noble Romans, was it? Something of the sort.”
She knew perfectly well that it was, but this was her manner of belittling his accomplishment. In fact, Felix’s translation had received excellent reviews from the critics, and I hoped for his sake that it would make him rich. And all the time I sat listening to their chatter with one ear while on nettles to learn which gentleman had arrived.
We were not long in doubt. The shuffling gait told the tale even before he poked his head into the saloon. It was Horatio Farr. I liked him enormously, and in fact felt he was the one most likely to make me an offer, because he had a heart made of melted butter, and felt sorry for me.
There was enough of Otto in him to make him physically appealing. He was tall with black hair and kind blue eyes, yet they were not eyes to set a maiden’s heart aflutter. He was a blurred, faulty copy of Otto, and rather foolish to boot. It was unkind of nature to give the elder son and heir the brains and looks of the family as well.
Horatio entered at his habitual gait, with his head inclined forward, perhaps because of his height. “Ladies,” he said, making a sort of general bow. Then he went to Aunt Hettie and did the pretty before folding his long body into a seat by the smouldering grate.
“A nasty day,” he said. “I expect you feel the cold here, Auntie.”
“I like it,” she replied. “Jessica has managed to get herself a cold. She’ll pass it to all of us before the week is out.”
Horatio inclined his head towards me. “Sorry to hear it.”
“And you are not wearing your woollen shawl, Jessica,” Aunt Hettie said, skewering me with one of her knowing smiles. My woollen shawl is old and tatty. She knew why I had discarded it, despite the sore throat.
“Cook is preparing her cold mixture,” I said.
“A cold syrup won’t keep you warm.” my aunt pointed out. “You ought to run down to the kitchen and see how the brew is coming along. I’ll take a bottle of it upstairs myself tonight. I am not feeling any too stout.” Then she turned to Horatio and said, “How are things at the Elms? I hope you are keeping up that little property your Uncle Siberry left you.”
“Just dandy. That is to say, the roof is falling apart.”
“The roof perishing, and you with five thousand a year! That is inexcusable, Horatio. You owe it to your future sons to keep it fit, and expand the acreage if possible.”
“I have the roof lads there this minute looking it over.”
“I should hope so.” She turned to me. “Why are you sitting there staring, Jessica? I told you to see how the cold medicine is coming along. You’ll have ample opportunity to roll your eyes at Horatio over the next week. Tell Cook not to forget the raisins. And use rum instead of wine.”
Horatio cast a pitying smile at me as I left.
The kitchen was awash with a variety of delightful odours, for Hettie did not stint on her meals. A joint was roasting, a plum-cake sat steaming on its dish, and at the stove, Cook stirred the simmering cold medicine. Linseed and liquorice, raisins and lemon juice, water and pounded sugar, rum, and belladonna to suppress a cough, combined to create a strong odour.
Cook’s face was pink and moist from her job, and her figure was full, as a cook’s should be. “I heard a carriage. Does she want tea served?” she asked me.
“We’ll wait until the others come. I’m here to see how the cold medicine is coming.”
“And to remind me to use rum instead of wine. As if I didn’t know! This is done. I’ll set it aside to cool and fill the bottles later. How’s the sore throat, dearie?”
“Scratchy. I’ll gargle with brine. I find that better than anything, if you catch it early.”
She made me up a brine solution, and I took it to my room to wash my throat. When I returned below, Felix had arrived.
He is pale, tall and slender, with rusty hair the color of a fox. There is something of the fox in his sly face too. He is fair-looking, but he takes no notice of how he is turned out. His blue jacket was shiny at the cuffs, and his cravat looked as if he had knotted it in the dark. Unlike the other gentlemen, he did not travel with a valet. It seemed he had acquired a carriage, however. He was discussing it with Horatio.
“Just a plain black carriage and team. It is light; it has no need of four nags to pull it. Now that my labours are beginning to pay off, I can afford the luxury. It is my only one. Fortunately I am not afflicted with amor sceleratus habendi.”
Horatio said, “Eh?”
“The accursed love of possessing,” Felix translated.
“What you ought to put your blunt into is property,” Hettie declared. “Horses and carriages are just an expense; an estate makes money.”
“What would I want with an estate?” Felix said, staring as if she were mad. “I haven’t time for such things. My books, my research, my translations ...”
Mrs. Manner cast an admonitory glance at him, and he began backtracking himself into Auntie’s good graces. “Unless it were a splendid estate such as Downsview, of course. Naturally I would hire a steward to look after it—if I had such a place.”
Auntie looked from Felix to me. I don’t know how she did it, but that look managed to convey that I must be taken along with the estate. Felix, who was quicker than I expected at grasping her meaning, said, “Domus et placens uxor.”
“I wish you would speak English, Felix,” she said testily.
“Home and a good wife, Auntie,” he replied, his clever eyes smiling at me. “Naturally a man needs a wife.”
Horatio became frightened and erupted into speech. “Good Lord, have you offered for Jess, Felix? I hadn’t heard of it,”
“No, he has not,” I said firmly.
“No one has offered for Jess,” Auntie agreed, then added, “unfortunately.” I sat feeling like the unwanted runt of the litter.
Horatio said merrily, “Can’t think what ails all the lads hereabouts. There cannot be a prettier gel for a mile around.”
To take the palm within such a small circumference was hardly flattering. There was no other gel of any sort within a square mile, but I appreciated his moral support.
Auntie disliked to serve tea before the whole crew had arrived, but the evening shadows were closing in, and if she felt as hungry as I, she was more than ready for her tea.
She soon gave the faded bell-cord a yank to summon the butler. Juteclaw was an ancient skeleton of a man, but spry for his eighty years. He appeared at the door with his wisps of white hair in wild disarray.
“Are ye ready for your tea, madam?” he asked.
“At once,” Aunt Hettie said, and he left with a bob of his head, at the same lively gait. She had been trying for a decade to teach Juteclaw to wait until he was spoken to before speaking, but it was a lost cause.
We waited, making desultory conversation as daylight faded to dark, and Juteclaw came to holler, “Shall I light the lamps, madam?”
He did, and we all sat on, waiting for the diversion of the tea-tray.
Chapter Two
Before long, Juteclaw returned, bent under the weight of the heavy silver tea-tray. Horatio, always the perfect gentleman, took it and placed it on the sofa table. I was the official pourer, since my aunt could not lift the pot and Mrs. Mariner had once dropped it, doing considerable damage to the sofa and carpet, but more to her self-esteem. She was never allowed to forget it.
Gregory Chapman arrived just as I was pouring. Being the elder of the brothers, he had inherited his papa’s estate, but it was a small one. Its income was certainly not enough to support the lavish style of life he had adopted. I expect he had mortgaged Hanshurst to the chimney. Gregory had rooms in London at the Albany, where bachelors of the ton lived. He enjoyed horseracing, cards, balls, and the company of ladies. His only hope of indulging in such frivolities after he lost his estate, as he inevitably must, was to marry a fortune. He had sufficient looks and charm that he might very well succeed.
In appearance, he was not much like his brother Felix. He was a bi
gger man, both taller and broader, with a fine set of shoulders. His hair was chestnut like mine, but his eyes were green like Felix’s, set in a pleasantly masculine face. His toilette was the epitome of elegance. There was no lack of nap on his blue superfine jacket. His cravat was a marvel of intricacy; his biscuit trousers were spotless, and his Hessians gleaming.
He rushed forward and placed his two hands on Hettie’s shoulders as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Aunt Hettie! How do you do it, old girl? I swear you become younger and prettier with every passing year.”
Her stiff old face creased into smiles. It was well-known that Gregory was her favourite. She had once told me Gregory reminded her of her papa. What she could not like was his spendthrift ways. If he would only remove to the country, run his estate at a profit and visit her oftener than once a year for the short remainder of her life, he could be assured of inheriting the bulk of her fortune. But that was Gregory all over. He could not curtail his immediate pleasures, even for such a prize as Downsview.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Master Jackanapes,” she said, but she said it with the air of a coquette. “Jessica, pour Gregory a cup of tea. And a slice of that plum-cake. Or perhaps you would prefer sherry, Gregory?”
The other gentlemen had not been offered sherry.
“Both! I shall have both,” Gregory declared. He briefly acknowledged the rest of us, then drew a chair close to Hettie, where he proceeded to beguile her.
Hettie sent Mrs. Manner off to oversee the preparations for dinner, and I had the other two gentlemen to myself. We instituted some chatter amongst ourselves, but between lapses I caught the gist of the other conversation.
“Have you given any thought to standing for Parliament, as I suggested?” Hettie asked Gregory.
“You may be sure I have, Auntie. The devil of it is, Lord Basingstoke picks the man for our constituency, and always sends a dashed Whig up to Parliament.”
Aunt Hettie was a confirmed Tory. They discussed this for a while, with Auntie suggesting other constituencies he might stand for. When I caught another fragment, she had switched to chiding him for running his estate into the ground.
