by Dawn Harris
The fossil collection, which father had begun some thirty years ago, was displayed in waist-high cabinets across the width of the room, against the wall dividing the workroom from the library. In the centre was a long specially made table, constructed in sections; the tools and microscope father had used an hour before he died, were still at the end nearest to the fossil cabinets. Our desks, placed so that we faced each other, were beside the middle window to gain the best of the light, essential in an east-facing room.
In the darkest corner, well out of the morning sun on fine days, stood a tall bookcase, filled with father’s favourite books, including a copy of his own, “The History of the Isle of Wight.” The idea for this book had come to my father, Robert Davanish, Earl of Angmere, through his own love of the Island, and a desire to learn more of its secrets. A task he’d taken very seriously, wanting his book to be the most accurate and detailed ever written about the Island. This meant finding out the truth about everything from the tale of the immensely rich Isabella de Fortibus selling the Isle of Wight to Edward I, when on her deathbed, down to the rumours that the great grandmother of one of the Island’s most respected men had been a rather ambitious parlour maid. The Island’s powerful families naturally played a large part in its history; the story of William Saxborough being the most intriguing, and scandalous. And the one, I have to admit, I most enjoyed investigating. Father wrote the actual book, which had been very well received, and had an impressively long list of subscribers.
My job had been to record the Island’s historical facts, and those of the great families, from Roman times to the present day, along with stories of shipwrecks and smuggling. And to help solve the mysteries we found.
I don’t know how long I leant against that door, but eventually I forced myself to walk round the room, touching familiar things, before stopping in front of the charts that ran the length of, and were fixed to, the long inside wall opposite the windows. These showed father’s first discoveries for a second book, on the Island’s history before the Romans.
The shutters that usually covered the charts, keeping out the light, had not been pulled down on that last night, as we had meant to continue working after dinner, and the ink was already fading. Deciding I must make a start somewhere, I removed those sheets, rolled them carefully and stored them in a cabinet in case I ever decided to carry on with that venture.
The room felt decidedly chilly, and as I went to close the windows, I saw father’s spectacles. He had put them on his desk before going to dress for dinner on that fateful December day, leaving them ready for use that evening; an evening he was never to see. I picked them up, blinded by tears, and slowly ran my finger round the metal frame, choking over the memories of those frantic searches whenever he mislaid them, and how, invariably, I was the one who found them.
Slipping them into his desk drawer, I closed the window with fingers that still trembled, wishing I’d never come in here, for I felt father’s presence in a way that didn’t happen in other rooms. And I knew exactly what he’d advise me to do in this situation; that I should simply get on with things.
Thus I took a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer, spread it out on the long table, securing each corner with fossils kept handy for that purpose. Selecting a new quill pen, I checked there was plenty of ink in the standish, and jotted down the sequence of events concerning Cuthbert’s death, as I recalled them.
I took my time, wanting to be sure of including every tiny detail. My hand shook a little as I recorded how I had found his body, my writing becoming firmer when I moved on to the facts surrounding the incident. I noted I had not seen his horse; that Giles had found it later in a dense thicket with its leg broken, and had put it down himself. He had also gained Thomas’s permission to remove the gate, so that when Marguerite went that way, she would not be reminded of how Cuthbert had died. Giles had always been very considerate of his mother’s feelings.
I added that no-one knew who had closed the gate, and that I had found no fresh marks on it. A picture of what I had seen came into my mind; that for several yards in front of the gate, the mud had been much smoother. Yet, how could that be? People rode down the track every day. As I puzzled over it, the door opened, and Jeffel came into the room. Having told him I did not wish to be interrupted, I raised my brows at him in surprise.
‘I beg your pardon for disturbing you my lady, but Mr Arnold would be grateful if you could spare him a few minutes on a matter of importance.’
William Arnold, the Island’s postmaster and highly respected Collector of Customs, was based at Cowes. Now in his middle years, he had been a good friend to my father, and never bothered me over trivialities. On going into the library, his unusually grave expression made my heart sink a little, for the last thing I needed was yet another problem. Neatly dressed in breeches, a dark brown coat, white shirt and a plain cravat secured with a workmanlike pin, he bowed and greeted me with his usual quiet good manners, but refused my offer of refreshments, insisting he must not stay long.
I always had time for William Arnold. An agreeable man, who had been most helpful in supplying information about Island trade and shipping for my father’s book; a copy of which father had given him for his own bookcase. Perhaps the most demanding of his many responsibilities was the detection of smuggling activities on the Isle of Wight. Unlike some in his position, he did not accept bribes to turn a blind eye to free trading. Nevertheless, a great deal of contraband was brought ashore unnoticed, there being too many landing places around the Island’s coastline for his men to watch them all. He freely admitted too that he often sent up a prayer, when invited to a dinner party, that his host would not offer him smuggled brandy.
In exchanging the usual civilities I inquired after his wife, and he said, ‘She’s in good health, thank you, ma’am. The children keep her busy, of course, but she doesn’t mind that, she tells me.’
I asked if he had recent news of John Delafield, one of Mrs Arnold’s brothers, who had emigrated to New York some years previously, and he admitted sadly, ‘Regrettably not. I’m afraid our correspondence has become somewhat lax of late, which is as much my fault as his. And I doubt he’ll ever come home now he’s acquired a rich American wife. Although I don’t say as much to Martha, of course. She still misses him a good deal.’ And he went on to explain the purpose of his visit. ‘It grieves me to tell you ma’am, that my most reliable informant says Smith’s farm is being used to hide smuggled goods.’
Jeremiah Smith was one of my tenants, and I had made it perfectly clear to him, as I had to them all, that my land was not to be used for smuggling purposes. That is, if they wished to remain my tenants. The laws governing smuggling were far from sensible, but while they remained in force, I would adhere to them. To find I was being disobeyed made me so angry I couldn’t speak for a moment. A fact that did not escape my visitor.
‘I can see you’re as mad as fire ma’am, and so would I be if-------’
‘I want him caught, Mr Arnold.’
He inclined his head. ‘You can be sure I shall do my best, ma’am.’
Seething, I strode over to the window, staring unseeingly at the ox-eye daisies swaying in the breeze. ‘When my father was alive, Smith wouldn’t have dared to defy him. I imagine he thinks a woman is easier to fool.’
‘No doubt he does ma’am, him being a man of little intelligence.’
Turning away from the window, I saw the understanding in his eyes, and apologised for my outburst with a rather shamefaced laugh. ‘I’m afraid I was so furious I-----’
‘Think nothing of it, ma’am. I don’t, I assure you. Believe me, if every landowner was even half as co-operative, my job would be a good deal easier.’
I sat down again, calm enough now to think coherently. ‘So what happens next? Will you search Smith’s farm?’
He hesitated. ‘Well ma’am, regrettably it’s not quite as easy as that. These gangs naturally prefer farms close to the coast like Smith’s, where contraband can be
hidden quickly. Donkeys hauling kegs inland carries a greater risk of being caught. Mind you, houses and farms near the coast are the first places we look, so the hiding place has to be well thought out. We’ve found contraband hidden inside hayricks, under barn floors, in deep ditches, even buried in fields. But I have to catch Smith with the goods, and it might only be on his farm for a day or two. It would be easy if I knew where Smith’s hiding place is, but my informant wasn’t able to tell me.’
I nodded in sympathy, appreciating his difficulties. ‘Well, I’ll keep my eyes open, Mr. Arnold. I visit him frequently, and he’s used to my poking into corners, asking awkward questions.’
‘Ma’am, I applaud your sentiments, but Smith is a rogue and—’
‘He’s also extremely lazy, which is why I inspect his farm so often. And I might notice something.’
He paused, weighing up what I had said. ‘In truth ma’am, I should be grateful for any information. But, we’ll get Smith sooner or later, you can be sure of that.’ And he got to his feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me ma’am, I must be about my business. I’m much obliged to you for your support in this matter.’ After he’d gone, I sat thinking about Smith. He was both lazy, and greedy. Hiding contraband on his farm paid well, and required very little effort from him.
Smuggling was a fact of life on the Island, and many landowners were happy for a keg of brandy to be left by a rear door. The law hadn’t stopped smuggling, nor would it when men earned more in one night’s smuggling than in a week of working long hours on the land. When challenged by Mr Arnold’s men at sea or by the Riding Officers ashore, they fought ferociously, for capture meant a long prison sentence, or five years pressed into the Navy, causing great suffering to their wives and children. Men who worked for the Revenue service were not popular with other locals, although Mr Arnold himself was highly respected in Island society. Even by those who regularly bought their brandy from smugglers.
Well, what other people chose to do was their business; as for Smith, he would regret the day he decided to disobey me.
I asked myself how father would have dealt with Smith, but had to admit it had not been the same for him as it was for me. Father had taught me how to run the estate, and it was a task I usually enjoyed. I had known all the tenants, apart from Smith, most of my life, Smith having lived at Cliff Farm for just five years. The others were decent, hard working people, and I had not expected any difficulties from them, or Smith, for that matter, following father’s death. For, I kept their houses in good repair, dealt with any problems they had, showed genuine interest in them and their children, and believed them to be satisfied with their lives.
It was Cuthbert Saxborough who had warned me that, as a woman, I could not expect to control my tenants as my father had. And despite my protests, I knew most men agreed with him. Smith was clearly one of them. Well, he would soon learn how very wrong he was.
Not wanting to put Smith on his guard by storming down to his farm now, I decided to wait until morning, when I would be calmer. I returned to my notes on Mr Saxborough’s demise, but I couldn’t concentrate and eventually gave up. Needing something to take my mind off Smith, I decided to visit Marguerite Saxborough. I had called on my godmother virtually every day since she became a widow, for I loved her dearly, and an hour with her always left me smiling. It was exactly the tonic I needed right now.
When Parker, the Ledstone butler, ushered me into Marguerite’s own personal drawing room, I found her reclining on a day bed, a pretty cap perched on her golden locks. Beside her, on a small table were medicines to cure every possible disorder, from smelling salts to an evil-looking potion for palpitations of the heart. She greeted me languidly, apologising for the curtains being drawn, but she had the headache. In fact, the curtains were only partially drawn. Her couch, positioned by the window, overlooked a formal garden and a particularly splendid fountain, and had an excellent view of the long drive that ran up to the house. And, more importantly, everyone who used it.
Scattered around the floor by the day bed, were several bandboxes full of letters and mementoes. As I sat on a chair beside her, she indicated the boxes in despairing fashion, saying distractedly, ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Drusilla. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Giles says there isn’t enough room at Norton House for everything I want to take.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ I teased affectionately, indicating the letters spilling onto the floor. Of the five houses belonging to the Saxborough estate, Ledstone Place was naturally the most splendid; Norton House, the finest of the rest, had been left to Giles in his father’s Will, along with a sum of money in keeping with his position as the younger son. It was there he and Lucie would start married life, and Marguerite was to live with them.
The announcement of their betrothal had appeared in the ‘Morning Post’ shortly before Christmas, and I couldn’t help thinking how different our lives had been back then. Before France declared war on us, and when Giles’s father, and my own, had been alive.
It had been obvious from the start that Lucie and Giles were smitten with each other, and everyone, including Marguerite, had watched their courtship in delight. But, now, the prospect of moving made her say mournfully, ‘I don’t want to live at Norton House, Drusilla. I must go, of course. Only I know I shall hate it. Ledstone is my home and I want to end my days here, not in that horrid little cottage.’ As Norton House possessed some fine reception rooms, several large bedchambers, and gardens that ran down to the beach, I had some difficulty keeping my composure.
What she really wanted, was for her and Giles to remain at Ledstone; but that was out of the question, Thomas had his own life to lead. Thus, I pointed out cheerfully, ‘But you have always wished Ledstone had a view over the sea, and there is no better sight of the Solent than the one from Norton House.’
‘That may be so, but all the rooms overlooking the Solent face North,’ she complained petulantly, and shuddering at the prospect of having to sit in cold north-facing rooms for the rest of her days, pulled her shawl even tighter across her ample bosom.
I bit my lip firmly. ‘To view the Solent from a south facing room, you need a house on the mainland.’
‘What? And move away from all my friends?’ Marguerite’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Besides, that would mean crossing that awful stretch of water.’ Her whole body shuddered. ‘And that, I have sworn never to do again. The last time it took eight hours and I thought I was going to die.’
‘Then I’m surprised you wish to have a view of the water.’
‘Oh, but the sea is so pretty to look at with all the boats bobbing about on it. Cuthbert often used to drive me to watch our brave sailors putting out to sea.’ A tiny sob escaped her. ‘Only that’s all over now.’ Impulsively she reached out and clasped my arm. ‘Oh why did he have to jump that silly gate?’ I didn’t know the answer to that yet. In fact, there was only one thing I was absolutely certain of; that I would not stop until I had found out.
CHAPTER FOUR
I comforted her as best I could, and after she had dried her tears, I tried to distract her mind from such thoughts by turning her attention back to the problem of the letters.
Gazing at the vast collection before me, I was convinced she had kept every letter she had ever received. ‘Well, I won’t burn Cuthbert’s love letters, no matter what Giles says,’ she announced in growing agitation.
Startled, I protested, ‘I’m quite sure Giles doesn’t mean-----’
‘Or those from my parents, or my poor dear brother.’
‘But you hated your brother.’
‘Well yes, I did, when he was alive,’ she agreed cordially. ‘Only now he’s dead, I find I like him much better.’ I struggled with myself before giving way to a fit of the giggles, for which I was gently chided. ‘He was my brother Drusilla, however detestable. I won’t throw his letters away. And if I keep them, then I must keep those from Cuthbert’s brother too.’
I stared at her, convinced I hadn’t heard c
orrectly. Cuthbert’s six sisters had all married gentlemen on the mainland; four of them, including Mr Reevers’ mother, having since died, but I had never heard anyone mention a brother. ‘Mr Saxborough had a brother?’
‘Oh yes. Vincent was the youngest of them all, although I only met him once. He died when Giles was barely out of leading strings. Cuthbert never spoke of him after that, but he wouldn’t want me to burn his letters. Nor those from my friends. Nor the invitations from my London season.’
No wonder Giles was concerned about having enough space at Norton House, which was less than half the size of Ledstone Place, if he had to house such items as five bandboxes of letters, mostly from long dead relatives. Persuading her to part with any of them would not be easy, but as most letters had been left unfolded and thrown into the boxes in haphazard fashion, wasting a great deal of space, I suggested, ‘If it was all packed very carefully, I daresay they would fit into two bandboxes. Then you’d have three empty ones and----’
‘Giles won’t realise I’ve kept everything,’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘Drusilla, you are so clever. I would never have thought of that.’ Not that she made any effort to do the task herself, being content to watch me first fold, then flatten all the letters. When everything fitted easily into two boxes, she beamed, ‘Thank you, Drusilla. ‘What should I do without you?’
I regarded her in some amusement. ‘Get someone else to do it, of course.’ An infectious chuckle escaped her, and she settled herself gracefully on the sofa, not in the least put out by my accurate assessment of her character.
Then, suddenly, she snatched up a card I’d placed in one of the bandboxes, hugging it to her bosom before showing me what it was. An invitation to her own wedding. Misty-eyed, she admitted candidly, ‘Most people thought I married Cuthbert because he paid Papa’s debts.’ Since her husband’s death, she had talked of him frequently. ‘They were very considerable, it’s true. But that isn’t why I accepted him.’
