“I do,” he said, and he could not any longer resist taking her hand. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it gently, then, reluctantly, he released it. “I am glad — all your friends must be glad — that you found happiness in a difficult situation. And your father left you penniless, and the house mortgaged. Was there nothing left at all?”
“Perhaps, when Woodside is sold, there will be some little sum left that we may live upon, with care. My brother-in-law would provide us with a cottage, and we might live as impoverished spinsters do everywhere, making do, accepting dinners from acquaintances who feel sorry for us, and occasional gifts of woodcock or trout, and dwindling into old age.”
“Mrs Price, I do not know your sisters, but what I know of you convinces me that dwindling into old age as a spinster will never be your fate.”
She laughed, then, her whole face lighting up with amusement. “Oh, Mr Audley, what a way you have with flattery! But you need not say such things, not to me. I can face my future with equanimity, I hope, whatever it may be. Even so, I thank you for listening to me so well. You are a good friend.”
It was true, he thought with sudden realisation. He had begun in his usual way, hoping to entice her into a flirtation, but she was immune to such deception. Instead, she had been the one enticing, drawing him into a situation he had never before experienced — a true friendship with a woman. He had male friends, but women had never been more than objects to be assigned to categories. Some were to be avoided, like matchmaking mamas and their ambitious daughters, and some were to be played with, like the bored wives or lonely widows, and most were to be ignored beyond the courtesies of daily life. But Lucy fitted into no category. She was herself, someone he was utterly comfortable with, someone he cared about and worried about, someone he could talk to, as he had never talked to anyone before. He was intoxicated with the novelty of it, dizzy with exhilaration. Oh, the freedom of talking, of being able to talk to someone about anything at all, and for as long as he needed to.
And so he told her all about his sisters, and how he had begun to wonder about them for the first time, and how Tilford and Kingsley had seemed to want to dissuade him from pursuing the matter, and how this niggled at his mind like a persistent fly buzzing in his head.
“I wish I knew where they might be,” he said plaintively.
“Perhaps Uncle Arthur murdered them all for their fortune,” Lucy said gaily, and then they were both laughing so hard he had a pain in his side and tears rolled down her cheeks.
And all he could think about was that he had a true friend at last.
11: Secrets (March)
Lucy was quite astonished when the innkeeper came up to them and said that it was gone three o’clock and when would they like the carriage to be made ready?
“Good heavens, how did it get to be so late?” Mr Audley said, jumping up. “Yes, the carriage, at once, if you please. Mrs Price, I shall go and settle up, and chase the ostlers, but you had better not wait here alone.”
“I shall wait in the yard,” she said, gathering up her reticule and gloves, for even Lucy was not insouciant enough to sit in an inn common room by herself.
The yard was empty. But just through the arch was the main street, with its bustle and crowds, and there Lucy was naturally drawn, watching the townsfolk hurry about, heads down against the brisk wind. One or two acknowledged her as they went past, either recognising her or simply seeing from her clothing that she was a lady. A woman she did not recall waved cheerily to her from the other side of the street. But one person stopped, stared at her a moment, and then crossed purposefully to the inn.
“Mrs Price? It is Mrs Price, I think?” She wore the plain, brown garments of a servant and carried a basket, but Lucy did not recognise her. She would certainly have remembered if she had ever seen her before, for the woman bore disfiguring scars that covered half her face, and even puckered the skin around one eye.
“I am Mrs Price, but I do not believe I know you.”
“I am the cook from West End House. The Tilford family.”
Lucy’s suspicion vanished instantly. “Oh, Mrs Combermere? The person responsible for that wonderful cherry cake.”
She laughed merrily. “Yes, I make all the cakes. There is nothing quite like mixing dough for chasing away all one’s cares, I find. But I have something for you, Mrs Price, or rather, something for you to give to Mrs Kingsley.” She fished inside her basket. “I have been carrying it round for days in the hope of seeing you. Ah, here it is. My receipt for apricot jam.”
She proffered a paper, which Lucy took without paying it much attention. “Thank you, but… do tell me to mind my own business, if you will, but whatever happened to your face? That looks like a very painful affliction.”
Mrs Combermere laughed again. “Why, bless you, I do not mind a bit talking about it. I collided with a pan of boiling water, which is one of the hazards of working in a kitchen. It was very painful at the time, but that was many years ago, and nowadays it troubles me not at all. How kind in you to enquire.”
“I am very glad to hear that it is no longer painful,” Lucy said. “But tell me—”
At that moment, Mr Audley strode out from the yard, and Lucy, positioned as she was to observe both of them, was astonished to see Mrs Combermere’s face change from smiling cheerfulness to something that might have been fear. Dropping into a deep curtsy, she muttered a hasty farewell and set off, head down, at a brisk pace.
“Who was that?” Mr Audley said.
“Mrs Combermere,” Lucy said slowly, gazing after the rapidly disappearing form of the cook before she was swallowed up by the crowds.
“Who? Never mind, here is the carriage now. You had better get off to Hammerford End to collect the girls. I shall see you back at the Priory.”
“Will you not come in the carriage?” Lucy said. “This wind is bitter to walk in. You will be frozen.”
“That would not be proper,” he said, but he smiled at her in a way that made her all too aware of his charm. No wonder women succumbed to his advances so readily! If she were less susceptible, even Lucy might be drawn to him.
“Walk fast, then, to keep warm,” she said, as he handed her into the carriage. She was still clutching her gloves in her other hand, and his hands, too, were ungloved, so that her fingers seemed to tingle under his touch. As he shut the door and gave the coachman the order to drive on, she chided herself for such fanciful notions, quite worthy of romantic little Fanny. Tingling fingers, indeed! Why, anyone would think she was developing a tendre for the appealing Mr Audley, which was, of course, quite ridiculous.
As the coach lurched into motion, she put him out of her head, and wondered instead how the Tilfords’ cook had recognised her when they had never met, and why she was so afraid of Mr Audley.
~~~~~
‘Dearest Lucy, You draw such a vivid picture of the Longmere Priory family, that I almost feel I know them. How I should love to be with you as you accompany Deirdre and Winifred about, and how delightful it will be when they fall in love! I am sure it cannot be long, for they have so many admirers that one or other of them is bound to suit one of the girls. And then you will have all the joy of a wedding, you lucky thing! But I wonder if you do not have an admirer yourself. You seem to accidentally bump into the charming Mr Audley rather more than might be thought necessary, which makes me wonder if he may be lying in wait for you sometimes. Is he unusually attentive, in your opinion? What sort of man is he, apart from the expensive clothes which show off the width of his shoulders, and the shapely legs, which you have mentioned more than once, Lucy dear. But I shall not tease you about him, except to say that he sounds most agreeable. I have heard nothing from Margaret since she arrived in Shropshire. Is she all right? Your affectionate sister, Fanny.’
~~~~~
MARCH
Lucy had an odd experience at this time. She had begun to be rather obsessed with money, having so little of it left, and no readily available supply, so she now kne
w to the penny how much money she had at any one time. After her shopping trip in Market Clunbury, she had but twenty one pounds, three shillings and ninepence halfpenny left. So it was a shock when, a few days later, while preparing for another such visit to town, she discovered that in fact she had only twenty pounds, three shillings and ninepence halfpenny. Somehow, there was a pound less than she had expected. Had she miscalculated? She thought not. Numbers in general were something of a mystery to her, but money was different. She had always kept good records as mistress of Walter’s cottage at Mill Place, able to account for every penny spent.
Still, she must have made a mistake this time. To correct for her faulty memory, after this second outing she carefully tallied up what remained and wrote it down on a scrap of paper, tucking it away for safety in a drawer of her writing desk. So the second time that a coin disappeared, she was quite sure of it. It was not a pound this time, merely a florin, but still enough to be significant. After that, she took to locking her door at night, but again a florin disappeared. It was mystifying. So when Lady Day came round, and she had received her salary from Mr Kingsley and her widow’s pension, forwarded by Robin, she decided to stitch the sovereigns into her mattress to keep them safe.
But she discovered that she was not alone in losing money. When she invited the Miss Hardcastles for tea one afternoon, they admitted to having the same problem.
“We used to keep a few coins in a jar on the mantel,” Miss Hardcastle said. “Now we have to keep them in a purse, and sleep with it under the pillow, for we cannot afford to lose even a farthing.”
“Even so, it happened again one time,” Miss Emily said. “A sixpence, that time. It is a great loss, for we have nothing except what we have raised from selling a few odds and ends. We do a bit of sewing for Miss Augusta sometimes, too. But we cannot imagine who would do such a thing, or why.”
“One of the servants, perhaps?” Lucy suggested.
“But how would he get in, when the door is locked and the windows barred?” Miss Hardcastle said.
That reminded Lucy of her discussion with Mrs Coombs. “Might there be a secret passage?” she said.
“Oh no, dear. We asked Miss Deirdre and Miss Winifred about it, for girls always know these things, do they not? Besides, their rooms are also in the old part of the house, just down the corridor from our room. But they said there was nothing like that. So it must be someone who reaches in through the window, I daresay. Very ingenious. We have taken to keeping our money hidden under a floorboard, and covered with a rug and a chair, and we have not been troubled since.”
Mr Audley had not forgotten his promise to explore Mrs Kingsley’s lying-in suite for secret passages and hidden rooms, and one afternoon, when it was too wet to go out, he took Lucy away from the morning room with an excuse about wanting her opinion of a tear in a waistcoat.
“A torn waistcoat?” she whispered, laughing, as they crept guiltily up the stairs.
“Well, I had to think of some reason to spirit you out of the room, and such a matter would be of no interest to Gussie or the girls. They will think that I am shamelessly taking advantage of the poor relation to do some sewing for me.”
“More likely they will think you are shamelessly trying to seduce me. After all, you have a well-paid valet for torn waistcoats.”
“It is his day off,” he said, with a grin. “I have thought of everything. Besides, you are impossible to seduce, Mrs Price, to my chagrin, and I have been obliged to give up all attempts of that nature.”
That just made her laugh.
The lying-in suite was in the old part of the house, at the end of the first floor corridor that also housed the Miss Hardcastles and Deirdre and Winifred. The floor below was given over to the old kitchens and domestic offices, and above were only attics. The furnishings were all under holland covers, but there was no mistaking the small shape of the cradle. Lucy lifted a corner of the dust sheet, and found a beautifully polished wooden cradle, the carvings depicting oak leaves and acorns and a variety of woodland creatures. She saw the face of a roe deer, a squirrel, an owl and a small mouse, its tail twisted around a plant stem.
“This is a lovely piece of work,” she said, sadly. “Those poor babies! Were they baptised?”
“I believe so,” Mr Audley said. “They are both buried in the family vault.”
The layout of the rooms was exactly as Mrs Coombs had described, the two outer rooms, where the nurse and maids had slept, and the inner bedroom, with the small room adjoining it where Mrs Coombs had slept. There were no other rooms or cupboards, and all the windows were barred.
Mr Audley was undeterred, and cheerfully set about tapping all the walls.
“What are you doing?” Lucy said, amused.
“Trying to find any patch of wall that sounds hollow, for it might hide a secret room. Ah! There! Do you hear the difference? There is a space behind this panelling. Now we need to find out if there is a secret catch to release the door.”
He began to run his hands over the wall, slender hands, with long fingers. Lucy watched, half amused by his determination and half mesmerised by those intriguing hands, wishing she could touch them… No, that was foolish. She must stop this nonsense at once. He was an attractive man, to be sure — very attractive, if she were honest, and so delightfully easy to talk to — but he was a flirt and a womaniser and not in the least to be trusted.
She stood back, looking carefully at the panelling. Knowing it was there, it was possible to discern the outline of the door and a dark shape at the top… With quick steps, she moved that way and reached up, standing on the tips of her toes. A satisfying soft click sounded, and the door gently opened.
“How did you do that?” he said, his face alight with pleasure. “How clever you are, Mrs Price.”
“Lever, up there, and no one has ever called me clever before. Annabelle is the clever one of the family.”
“I expect that is just book learning,” he said. “She is the governess, is that not so? Then I daresay she knows how to find Constantinople on the globe, and the reigns of all the Kings and Queens of England, and name all the rivers of Portugal, but would she be able to look at a secret door and spot the lever to open it? I wager she would not.”
Lucy could not but be flattered by this assessment, and he smiled at her so warmly that she felt herself blushing. This would never do! “Is it a secret passage?” she said, her voice not quite steady.
But it was only a small cupboard, with pegs for clothes and a thick film of dust on the floor. Careful examination revealed three more such cupboards, and no secret passages. Lucy was crushed.
“Are you very disappointed?” he said.
“A little,” she said. “We are left only with two options — the babies died from some accident or unsuspected illness, or—”
“Or Gussie killed them,” he said gently. “For myself, I find that impossible to believe.”
“As do I,” she said. “The deaths must have been a natural event, and it is only my foolish fancy that suggests anything more sinister.”
“You have a vivid imagination,” he said.
“Rosamund says I read too many novels,” Lucy said sadly. “I daresay Uncle Arthur has not murdered your half-sisters, either.”
“Undoubtedly they are all respectable matrons by now, with children of their own and nothing to trouble them but their husbands’ digestions and whether the junior footman is stealing from them.”
“I thought someone was stealing from me,” Lucy said, “but I daresay that was just my fancy, too.”
“Oh? Tell me about it,” he said, and so they sat on two covered chairs and she told him everything about the thefts from her room.
“And this has only happened to you?” he said. “No one else is affected?”
Immediately Lucy was flustered. She could not tell him about the Miss Hardcastles, but she could not lie, either. “No… well, yes, but… it does not matter!” she ended helplessly.
“Mrs Pr
ice?” he said in the gentlest tones imaginable. “Am I not your friend? Can you not tell me?”
“It is the governess,” she said in desperation. “She… she still lives here, and… she lost some coins too.”
“The governess,” he said, thoughtfully. “But there is still something you are not telling me.”
“I am not supposed to! She does not want you to know! She does not want charity, you see, so she lives very quiet and… and I wish you would not look at me in that way, Mr Audley.”
“In what way, Mrs Price?” But he was smiling at her in the friendliest manner.
“As if you suspect me of… of something, I know not what.”
“Mrs Price, you have such an open and honest nature that you cannot dissemble. You should not consider taking up a career on the stage, for you would never make a convincing actor. There is still something you are not telling me. If it must remain a secret, then so be it, but I confess, your reticence is a disappointment to me. I had thought us good enough friends to be beyond the need for secrecy.”
“It is not my secret, Mr Audley.”
“Ah. Then we will speak of it no more. Have you examined your own room for secret passages? Perhaps you may have more success there. And it might be useful to examine the mysterious governess’s room, too.” He paused for a moment, and then added in sorrowful tones, “It is such a pity that I have forsworn to flirt with you, Mrs Price, for you blush so delightfully that I might have enjoyed considerable sport. Shall we go back downstairs? I think we have had long enough for you to examine my waistcoat now.”
He spoke in such an easy, conversational manner than she could not be cross with him.
The Chaperon (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 2) Page 11
