“Mrs. Roberts,” I said, “you will please put Violet into clothes suitable for her age, the brighter the better. Burn the blacks.” Coming down off my high horse, I made an effort to be realistic. “You may lose what she’s wearing at the back of a storage cupboard or put it in the poor box, but I do not want to see it in the nursery again.”
I thought I saw a flash of satisfaction on Nanny’s round face before she took Violet by the hand, saying, “Come, lambie, let us find something more cheerful for you to wear.” And then they were gone through a door at the far end of the room, presumably Violet’s bedchamber.
Now, at last, I could indulge my curiosity about the land that lay behind Falconfell. I crossed to one of the western windows and peered out. Oh! The hills to each side of the house were as nothing to the rugged hills—mountains, surely—behind us. There was a bit of forest near the house, but above the line of treetops rose high moors and rocky crags which seemed to climb all the way to the sky. But not so steeply I couldn’t see a path winding its way up the side. Ah, the challenge of it. I would go out this very day—
Today, I would take Violet for a short walk around the house. A sedate walk suitable to the steps of a five-year-old. We would discover the garden, perhaps pause on the bridge over the river, searching for fat trout. But one day soon I would find my way to the moors, let the wind whip my face, and blow away the miasma of mourning.
But would it? It wasn’t just the pall of death I felt at Falconfell. There was something else, something elusive, that just wasn’t right. Too many people vying for power? Certainly, Hammersley must think so if he was contemplating marriage on the very day of his wife’s interment.
Violet interrupted my thoughts, returning in a soft pink party dress with rows of ruffles. It was clearly tight about her small chest and two inches short at the hemline. I blinked, shot a glance at Nanny Roberts, who appeared apologetic. “Violet has outgrown most of her dresses, Miss Farnborough. What with the mistress sick for so long . . .” Her voice trailed away. She did not meet my gaze.
“You look delightful, Violet,” I said. “Did you wear that for a party?”
“There were a great many people,” she declared proudly. “They liked my dress. Papa picked me up and carried me about and ladies gave me sweets.” She paused abruptly, her pinched face returning to lifeless. “That was before Mama got sick,” she mumbled.
“Violet, will you show me your dresses?” I held out my hand, which she clasped tight with an accepting confidence I had not expected. Perhaps Hammersley had spoken with her as well.
The room beyond the nursery was not her bedchamber, after all, but a small kitchen for making nursery tea. Beyond was Nanny Roberts’s room and finally Violet’s bedchamber, with her clothes tucked up in a child-size pine wardrobe and matching chest of drawers. The contents were pitiful. Several frilly dresses clearly intended only for special occasions, all too small. Some well-worn play clothes, but in drab colors and again too small. As were the two pair of white muslin pantaloons found in a drawer. I spoke to Nanny Roberts in a whisper. “Did no one have the ordering of the nursery while Lady Hammersley was ill?”
“No, miss.”
“But surely you might have spoken to Lord Hammersley . . .?”
“I did mention it, miss, but he’s been right distracted. I reckon he said something to Mrs. Maxwell, but nothing was done.”
“Are there stocks of fabric at Falconfell, and seamstresses? Or must we send to . . .?” I paused, not having the slightest idea what the nearest city was.
“The mistress used to have Miss Violet’s clothes sent from London, miss. There’s also a place in York for something needed a bit faster.”
I was beginning to suspect why there were so many party dresses and so few garments for daily wear. It was quite possible Helen never saw her daughter except on occasions when she was expected to “wear a fine dress for Mama.”
“We are so far from any village,” I persisted, “there must be fabric on hand for servants’ gowns, and someone who can sew.”
“Indeed, miss. Martha Beaseley sews a treat. Mends for the lot of us, she does.”
“Good.” I gave Violet an encouraging smile and assured her she would have new dresses in no time. And she would, if I had to sew them myself. “I’m off to find Mrs. Maxwell and discover what fabric might suit and then, young lady, I shall return after luncheon and we will go for a walk. How does that sound?”
Violet’s dark eyes widened. She stared at me as if I’d said we were to go swimming in the churning waters of the river. “We don’t go out, miss,” Nanny Roberts said. “Least ways, not beyond the kitchen garden.”
“Whyever not?”
“The mistress, Lady Hammersley, thought it too dangerous, miss. Said Falconfell was the devil’s place, a lost world that could swallow up the poor mite.”
Momentarily shocked into speechlessness—how could Nanny say such a thing in front of the child?—I dropped to my knees in front of Violet and gave her a hug. “Then we shall discover Falconfell together,” I told her. “An adventure, Violet. But not in this dress, for we don’t want to spoil such a lovely gown, now do we?” I glanced up at Mrs. Roberts. “Surely there must be something she can wear?”
Nanny sighed. “I’ll do my best, miss.”
“But not the black.”
“No, miss.” I feared my credit with Nanny Roberts was rapidly fading.
Another smile into Violet’s wary eyes. “Until after lunch then.” I bounced to my feet, nodded to Mrs. Roberts, and made my way down all the flights of stairs to the kitchen. If I was to conjure up new clothes for Violet, I must do it through the housekeeper, Mrs. Maxwell, who, I suspected from the general mismanagement of the household, would prove to be the Enemy.
I was right.
Chapter Six
The smell of baking bread should be listed as one of the wonders of the world. In this case, however, it was deceptive, hinting at culinary marvels the kitchen at Falconfell seemed unable to produce. I smiled at the tableau of faces staring at me from various corners of the kitchen—a cook plump enough to be suspected of eating the best food before it made its way upstairs and two wide-eyed kitchen maids. “Good morning,” I declared, “I am Miss Farnborough, a connection of Lord Hammersley, come to help in this time of need.” Addressing myself to Cook, I added, “Would you be good enough to tell me where I might find Mrs. Maxwell?”
After bobbing an awkward curtsey, as if she had little use for such niceties in her kitchen, Cook waved a wooden spoon in the direction of a corridor leading off one side of the massive kitchen. Everyone seemed so stunned I could only wonder if no one from above stairs ever descended to this part of the house.
The corridor presented me with six doors, all shut tight. “Second on t’right, miss,” a young voice called. I turned to nod my thanks to the young kitchen maid. At least someone here didn’t look at me as if I had two heads.
I am not sure what I anticipated as I rapped on the door, but certainly not a female as tall as Hammersley himself, with a figure nearly as sturdy, lacking only the breadth of his shoulders. Her sharp face was framed in black hair well-streaked with gray, but her eyes were Hammersley eyes—bright blue. Clearly, the lords of Hammersley had scattered their seed where they would. She had also inherited the pride and a good dash of the family arrogance, it seemed, for she looked me up and down with as much disdain as the dowager.
I introduced myself. With cool aplomb she stepped back and allowed me in, gesturing me to a chair set in front of her desk. Clearly this room was her office, where she ruled the functioning of the household from a position second only to Fraser. The desk, fashioned of some anonymous wood, was more highly polished than the furniture upstairs, and it was clean, not an account book, inventory, or list of chores in sight. Had she heard me speaking to the kitchen staff and hastily shoved everything out of sight? Or did she sit here all day long doing nothing?
A thought for later, as Mrs. Maxwell had seated herself
behind her desk and was regarding me with a face as stony as the crags outside. She did not ask what brought me to her office. She did not ask, as most housekeepers would—and I assure you I have dealt with a great many housekeepers in my time—in what way she might help me. She simply sat there and waited for me to initiate the conversation.
I swiftly outlined what she undoubtedly already knew—my expectation of helping Lady Hammersley during her illness, the abrupt change of plans to supervising Violet’s care. Mrs. Maxwell remained silent, with not so much as a nod or a “Poor child.” I plunged on. “I have discovered that Violet has outgrown nearly all her clothes, Mrs. Maxwell, and I was hoping there might be fabric laid by here at Falconfell and a seamstress who might provide Violet with some garments while we wait for an order to arrive from London. Or York,” I added faintly as her gaze remained cold and uncooperative.
“There is naught but fustian in gray, black and white for the servants,” she declared, “a bit of white linen for the master’s shirts, and black bombazine for mourning.”
Refusing to be daunted, I asked, “Lady Hammersley ordered no cloth for herself . . . or perhaps some former mistress of the house . . .?”
“The mistresses of Falconfell have never worn anything but gowns from London.”
“But surely the children . . .?” I persisted.
“The village might have a bit of cloth,” Mrs. Maxwell conceded, “or ’tis possible to send to Newcastle, though I must say I cannot like the thought of a child of Falconfell garbed in what fabric might be found there.”
Fortunately, I do not crumple under basilisk stares, and I soon had the direction of two shops not more than a half day’s journey away, as well as the approved creators of children’s clothing in York and in London. I thanked Mrs. Maxwell with as much sincerity as I could manage and retreated to my room to write requests to the local merchants for bolts of fabric suitable for a female child of five. My efforts, alas, came to an abrupt halt when Fraser informed me that Hammersley had not returned. No Hammersley, no franks for my letters. Also, it seemed, no post. When my letters had been properly franked, a messenger would be sent down the valley to post them in the village.
All of which brought home just how far from civilization I was. Even after my letters were sent, it would be necessary to wait for a twice-weekly courier to ride fifteen miles to the nearest village to pick up any reply. This, then, was life at Falconfell. I vowed to send for swatches from my personal dressmaker and make sure Falconfell was well stocked for the future.
And right there in the expansive entry hall where I had tracked Fraser down only to find myself standing there with my letters still in my hand, the truth nearly swept me off my feet. My third day at Falconfell and already I was thinking like its mistress. My feet took me back to my room; my head remained in a tangle.
Fortunately, Violet gave every evidence of becoming as tall and willowy as her mother, negotiating all the stairs to the ground floor with remarkable alacrity. We exited through the massive front door, which Fraser threw open after cautioning us not too stray too far. “’Tis not Hyde Park, miss,” he said. “Some nasty pitfalls hereabouts.”
“Have no fear,” I assured him, “we only intend to circumnavigate the house, though I was raised on Dartmoor and am accustomed to being wary.”
“You’d best speak with Mr. Ross, miss, before venturing off the grounds. He’ll arrange a guide to show you where the dangers are.”
“Mr. Ross?”
“The master’s cousin, miss, Ross Hammersley. He is steward here at Falconfell.”
Ah! A cousin I had not met, though I suspected he was the near twin of Hammersley I had seen in the funeral cortège. But why had he not sat down with us at table? “Thank you, Fraser. I promise I will not be foolish enough to climb the mountain on my own.” I offered a smile when his expression remained anxious. “And I promise Violet will come to no harm.”
“Of course not, miss.” Fraser bowed us out, the door creaking shut behind us.
I would have liked to stand on the bridge and watch the spring-swollen stream rush by on its way to becoming a river, but mindful of my promise to Fraser, as well as my responsibility for Violet’s welfare, I rejected that notion until I had more knowledge of her character. Was she obedient, or was she likely to break away and run heedlessly close to the bank?
Our trek around the sprawling stone house proved adventure enough. Although the windows of the great house were still shuttered or draped—and I really must do something about that, the gloom inside was unremitting—here, spring flowers that were nearly past their bloom when I left Wiltshire were just beginning to unfold. Violet and I paused again and again to examine haphazard clumps of daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths coming into bloom on the sheltered south side of the house, adding unwitting cheer to the great stone pile and giving promise of rebirth. With something akin to awe, Violet petted the catkins on the willow bushes. Had she truly never seen them before, or never been allowed to examine them, let alone touch?
And then we rounded the corner and I gasped. The gardens behind Falconfell were small compared with the great houses to the south, for there was little room between the house and the rise of the mountains, but what there were, were filled with a seeming army of gardeners, digging, weeding, trundling wheelbarrows, setting out plants. And standing, arms akimbo, watching the activity was a man who was clearly a Hammersley, master of all he surveyed. Not, however, the Lord of Falconfell.
The moment he caught sight of us, he strode in our direction. “You must be Miss Farnborough,” he declared. “Welcome, cousin, to Falconfell. I’m Ross Hammersley, also a cousin and steward here.” He bent nearly double to speak with Violet. “They’ve let you out I see, poppet. And so they should, for this is the time for violets. Would you like to see some?” He offered her his hand.
She set her small fingers in his, saying, “Oh, yes, please, Cousin Ross.”
We walked along a gravel path to the back of the garden, not far from a tall stand of firs, where, to my surprise, there was a garden set into the side of the cliff. Flowers and trailing vines peeked out from among a nice mix of living rock, judiciously placed boulders, and niches of good rich soil. The garden brimmed with violas of every color from deep purple to violet, yellow, and white. Scattered among them were primroses in nearly every shade of the rainbow. “Delightful,” I cried. “My sister’s nose would be quite out of joint. She has been trying to direct her gardeners into creating such a display, but I fear she has no convenient cliff to work with.”
Mr. Hammersley chuckled. “You must tell that to old Edgar, our head gardener. I fear he gets little praise since Helen . . .” He glanced at Violet, who was happily sniffing each cluster of flowers, and clamped his teeth over his tongue.
“I’ll do that,” I assured him, adding, “I am told I must ask you for a guide up the mountain, Mr. Hammersley. “I was born and raised on Dartmoor and would dearly love to explore the high country.”
“Dartmoor,” he declared, looking stern, “is a walk through the fens of Lincolnshire compared to the Pennines. It’s not just sudden precipitate drops or bogs that can swallow you whole. We have shake holes, Miss Farnborough, do you know what those are?”
I confessed I did not. Which annoyed me, because I pride myself on being well-informed.
“You have perhaps heard of people falling into old mine shafts?”
“Indeed.” I frowned, wondering at the connection.
“There are places not far from here where the ground has dropped away, as if into a mine shaft, forming deep pits. To make matters worse, in those areas any portion of the ground might give way at any moment, forming a new pit.”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “I have never heard of such a thing.”
“It’s not exactly something we brag about to those who live in more salubrious climes,” was his laconic reply. He cocked an eyebrow and I laughed. And immediately sobered. Ross Hammersley reminded me so much of his cousin in better da
ys that it hurt.
“I would still like to go exploring,” I said. “Will you lend me a guide? Tomorrow perhaps?”
“Will I do?”
I didn’t quite manage to swallow my surprise. “I would not think of taking you away from your work when clearly you are so busy—”
“I haven’t been up Falconcrest since the thaw began. I believe an inspection trip is very much in order.” He winked at me. And I confess to feeling flattered. Ross Hammersley’s attitude was a vast improvement over the treatment I had received from all but Fraser and Thayne himself.
We set a time of one o’clock the next day, and Violet and I finished our walk around the walls of Falconfell, an excursion that had turned out even better than I had anticipated. I experienced a momentary a twinge of guilt, wondering if I had overstepped my bounds by planning an afternoon for myself. But I was not an employee. I was a visitor, a guest merely “helping out.” An independent female, free to come and go as I pleased, as long as I remembered my responsibilities to Violet. Which I would.
I returned Violet to the nursery and set out to discover if the lord of the manor had returned. I still had letters to be franked.
“Violet has no clothes?” Hammersley stared at me as if I had just affirmed the moon was made of green cheese.
“Nothing suitable for daywear, nothing that fits.”
He scowled. “Impossible. After Helen became too ill for the ordering of the house, I distinctly remember telling Mrs. Maxwell to make certain Violet had everything she needed.
“Clearly, she did not consider clothing a necessity.”
At the sarcasm in my tone, Hammersley winced. “So the crisis comes earlier than expected,” he muttered, looking thoughtful. “I take it you do not approve of Mrs. Maxwell.”
Brides of Falconfell Page 4
