Lucy soon discovered that, whatever secrets the house held, Mrs Combermere was less concerned than her employers about them. She talked easily about the children — “They should get out into the sunshine more often, the poor mites,” she said when Lucy described seeing them at play — confirmed that the dower house was occupied by retired servants, and laughed about the little burial ground. “Some folk are so sentimental about these things. When a creature dies, it is best to accept that it is God’s will and not grieve beyond the bounds of good sense.”
Only about herself was she reticent, turning aside all questions about her origins, and saying only that she had been with the Tilfords for a long time. “For ever, it feels like,” she said, with a laugh. “I can barely remember a time when I was not with them.” And she laughed again, as if at some private joke.
Lucy did not mention the disfiguring scar that marred Mrs Combermere’s face, and after a while she hardly noticed it.
There was only one odd moment, when Lucy was talking about the children.
“So strange, the different hair colours. Some red, like Uncle Arthur, and some blonde, as Aunt Laurel was, and some with coal-black locks. Now, in my own family, we are all middling shades of brown, like a set of mice. I should like to have had black hair — so striking, do you not agree? But it all comes from the parents, or the grandparents, and that is all luck, I daresay, as to which child gets which ancestor’s hair, or some in between colour. I remember a farmer once who had bright red hair, but all his children were brown haired, and all their children, too, but then one arrived that had the exact same colour as her grandfather. So strange the way that happens, sometimes. Where shall I leave the jelly to set?”
Mrs Combermere’s mixing spoon stilled momentarily as soon as Lucy mentioned hair colour, then began stirring again more slowly. After Lucy had left her jelly on the marble slab in the still room, and begun sorting through the currants, she said in casual tones, “Of course, black hair runs in the family, does it not? Aunt Laurel’s sister Maria has black hair.”
Mrs Combermere dropped her spoon into the mixing bowl. As she fished it out, she said with uncharacteristic gruffness, “How do you know that?”
“There is a portrait of the first Mrs Audley with her three eldest daughters at Stoneleigh Hall. Mr Leo Audley showed it to me. Mrs Audley’s hair was powdered, and Mr Audley’s also, in his portrait, so I could not see their natural hair colour, but Aunt Laurel had the prettiest blonde hair then, all over curls, and Miss Maria had black hair, although not so curled. Quite straight, in fact. She must have to use a great many curling papers, I should imagine, something I have the utmost sympathy with, for mine is just the same. All my sisters have the straightest hair imaginable, which is such a trial, is it not? Except Rosamund. She is the only one whose hair curls naturally. She looks so splendid when she is dressed for the evening, with curls around her face and falling down her back.” She sighed. “I am a great trial to my maid. She spends hours on my hair, yet it never looks right, somehow. I can never get that effortless elegance that some women achieve. There! The currants are ready to be washed and floured.”
Mrs Combermere laughed. “You are a chatterbox, Mrs Price, but you work hard while you talk.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon, Mrs Combermere. You have very kindly allowed me to run on far too much. I know my prattle can fray the nerves sometimes.”
“Not to worry, madam. I like your prattle. Jane, this is ready for the oven.”
But Lucy knew she had touched a nerve with the subject of hair colour. Was it possible that Aunt Laurel had a lover, one with black hair, perhaps? And yet, she seemed such a timid creature, it hardly seemed likely, and after all, black hair ran in the family. She chided herself for being fanciful.
She was occupied in the kitchen for several hours, and when she finally emerged, a little tired but pleased to have been so productively employed, she decided to take a turn about the garden until it should be time to dress for dinner. The woods were extensive, so the pleasure grounds comprised only a ring of lawn around the house, with a few shrubs in sad clusters and rather weedy flowerbeds under the windows.
Lucy had walked twice around the entire garden, and reached the dower house for the third time when she caught a flash of white skirt leaving the building, crossing the yard and disappearing into the woods. The urge to give chase was almost overwhelming. Here at last was a glimpse of the mysterious occupants of the dower house, and that white gown was not in the least servant-like.
Resolutely, she suppressed the urge, for her uncle had as good as forbidden her to go into the woods. She walked on around the lawn, but twice she caught sight of the white-clothed figure hurrying along the path deep in the trees. There was only one place to go on that path, and that was the burial ground. So when Lucy came to the path leading to the rotunda, impulsively she turned onto it, and was immediately swallowed up by the trees. Passing the rotunda without a glance, she plunged on through the trees on the small track until she came to the wider path.
As soon as she came to the burial ground, she saw the figure sitting on the seat, a small posy of flowers in her hand. The woman looked up in alarm, then smiled. “You must be Mrs Price.”
Lucy hesitated. “Forgive me, I intrude. Let me leave you to grieve in peace.”
“Oh no, the grief is long gone. They have been dead these many years, but I still come here to enjoy the solitude and think my own thoughts. I bring flowers for them, in season, so they know they are not forgotten, but the pain I once felt — it troubles me no more.”
“I am very glad of it,” Lucy said, creeping nearer. The woman was above thirty, but not yet forty, her complexion clear and unlined, her eyes bright.
And her hair was black.
If Lucy had not been thinking of black hair that very morning, she might have thought nothing of it, but now the sight of it, the jet-black tendrils either side of the woman’s face, without the hint of a curl, sent shivers down Lucy’s spine. Black hair, like the children, so she must surely be family, and her age —! She was the right age.
“You are Maria,” she said, and even then she expected the woman to stare in surprise, or burst out laughing at her foolishness. Surely she must be wrong?
But the woman smiled sadly. “I am. But you must not tell anyone, for it is a great secret. Especially you must not tell Leo or Augusta.”
“But why ever not? They would be delighted to know—”
“There you are, dear. Come back to the house now.” Mrs Combermere, a rather strained smile on her face.
“She knows,” Maria said. “I did not tell her, but she knows. Good day to you, Mrs Price. I dare say we shall not meet again.”
She rose and turned to go, and Lucy received the greatest shock, for when she saw Maria on her feet, the flow of her gown made it very clear that she was with child. And across one cheek was a great scar, from the edge of her mouth almost up to her eye.
Lucy could barely gather her wits sufficiently to make a curtsy. Then, as Maria walked away without haste, Lucy plumped down onto the wooden bench, her legs quite unable to bear her weight a moment longer.
Mrs Combermere gathered her shawl about her, saying nothing, and then hurried away after Maria.
Lucy hardly knew what to think. Were the dark-haired children all Maria’s, or was she jumping to conclusions? Was Maria respectably married after all? Who, or what, was really buried in that quiet clearing in the woods? And if Maria was here, where were Caroline and Martha? She burned with questions.
All that evening, Lucy was uncharacteristically silent, thinking over all that she had learnt. In truth, it was not very much. Aunt Laurel’s sister Maria was alive and well, and living in the dower house. She had a nasty scar, just like Mrs Combermere, although of a different nature — a knife wound, perhaps, rather than a burn. And Maria was with child. Nothing else could be said for certain, except that Mrs Combermere was aware of the whole of it. And there was another mystery, a cook with the accent
of a lady, who was party to all the family secrets. Well, perhaps that was no more than the privilege of the servant of long-standing, but perhaps there was more to it…
When the ladies withdrew after dinner, Lucy was obliged to exert herself, for there were two female guests and neither of them seemed inclined to sit and gossip with Aunt Laurel. Mrs Trellings was the very young bride of the principal chandler in town, who seemed to have no conversation at all. Mrs Burford was the wife of a local attorney, a delicate little doll of a woman, but amusing company, for she had once entertained the Marquess of Carrbridge to dinner. With only the slightest prompting, she regaled the ladies with every dish his lordship had tried, and how much of each and the degree to which he had seemed to enjoy each one. Aunt Laurel tried, not very successfully, to suppress her yawns, for she had no doubt heard the tale many times before, but Mrs Trellings listened in wide-eyed wonder, and Lucy, by means of gentle exclamations of interest, encouraged the recital to continue until the gentlemen appeared.
After that, Lucy was called upon to play whist, a game which required all her powers of concentration. Even so, she several times went wrong. Fortunately, her partner was Mr Burford, the attorney, who smiled gently at her mistakes and told her it was of no consequence. When she discovered that the Mr Burford she had met in Brinshire was his brother, they talked very happily of their mutual acquaintances in the county until it was time for the guests to depart.
Lucy woke the next morning with only one thought in mind — that the answer to the mystery of Aunt Laurel’s sisters lay in the dower house, and thus she should go there to seek answers.
For perhaps five minutes she wrestled with her conscience. It was none of her business, she told herself sternly, and if Uncle Arthur and Aunt Laurel wished her to know about such matters, why, they would have told her themselves. They must surely have good reason for keeping silent.
But she could not resist. Curiosity burned inside her, and would not be denied. All she would do, she decided, would be to go to the dower house and find Maria and ask her directly. What harm could there be? And if Maria refused to answer her questions, then so be it. It was not for herself, she thought virtuously, for imagine how relieved Mr Audley would be to know that Maria was safe and well, and how much more delighted would he be if she could give him a good report also of Caroline and Martha? She dismissed Maria’s injunction against telling him, for why should he not be told about his own sisters?
Accordingly, she threw on some clothes and crept out of the house, dodging the housemaids hard at work in the dining room. Crossing the lawn to the dower house, she hastily scuttled round to the side, where some fruit trees kept her out of sight of the main house. It would never do to be observed by Aunt Laurel or Uncle Arthur!
Now what? She could hardly march up to the front door and ask for admission, but the side door would be open…
But it was not. Even though she could hear someone humming tunelessly somewhere inside the house, so some, at least, of the occupants were up, when she lifted the latch, the door would not shift. It was locked.
Undeterred, she searched about in case a spare key had been left conveniently nearby. The scullery door at Woodside had been locked at night, but there was a key kept under a loose stone so that the two maids who lived in the village could let themselves in. There were no loose stones, and no buckets or boxes hiding a key, but eventually she found it perched on top of the meat safe. Quickly she unlocked the door and let herself in.
The corridor inside was unwindowed and dark. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, then took two steps forward, then another two. The humming had stopped, and the house was silent, as if everyone still slept. Not even the clatter of the house maid’s ash pan and brush disturbed the quietude.
Two more steps and then two more, past closed doors on either side, and then round a corner into the light from a high window…
Lucy almost bumped into the figure waiting there, a woman of thirty or so, gowned and robed for the night still, her dark hair in a plait reaching to her waist.
“Oh… hello. I am looking for Maria. Is she about?”
The woman snarled like an animal, and raised something long and metallic above her head.
Lucy screamed, and turned to flee.
There was a blinding pain on the back of her head, and the world went dark.
23: Discovery
Lucy woke, incongruously, to find herself lying on one of the lumpy sofas in the morning room, with Mrs Combermere’s scarred face bending over her.
“She is awake!”
Aunt Laurel’s face loomed above her, tear-streaked and anguished. She still wore her nightgown and robe, and looked even more out of place in her own morning room than Mrs Combermere in her cook’s apron.
“Lucy, dear? Are you all right?”
It was a difficult question to answer. Her head throbbed unbearably, but apart from that, she felt curiously normal. Her heart was not pounding, her breathing was easy, there was no weakness or pain elsewhere. Cautiously, she sat upright, but the room did not spin or go black.
Somewhere, far away, a woman’s high scream cut the air, and Aunt Laurel startled, with a little moan.
“Arthur is taking care of it, dear,” Mrs Combermere said. “All will be well.”
Dear? Why would Mrs Combermere call Aunt Laurel ‘dear’? Lucy felt sure the answer was obvious, and if her head would just stop pounding she would be able to work it out, but somehow the answer skittered away from her whenever she tried to think about it.
A man came in, a physician, it seemed, who hastily examined Lucy’s head until she screamed with pain, gave her some laudanum, left a bottle on the table and told her to take more when she felt the need, then dashed away again.
“Will you take a little brandy?” Mrs Combermere said. “It will do you good after such a shocking experience.”
“Thank you.” Her hands were steady as she sipped, and Mrs Combermere nodded approvingly.
“You are a sensible girl, Lucy, not to make a fuss.”
Not long afterwards, Uncle Arthur came in, looking harassed and tired, his coat torn and his breeches mud-stained. “All safe,” he said. Then, looking at Lucy, “She is well?”
“Just a bump on the head,” Mrs Combermere said. “Dr Colne has dosed her. Arthur, we have to tell her the whole, now. She knows a part, but it is much safer to tell her all. She will not betray us.”
Us? Lucy looked more closely at Mrs Combermere, but the wisps of brown hair beneath the cap told her nothing. But the eyes—! She had Aunt Laurel’s eyes, and her age… And instantly she understood.
“You are Martha. Then where is Caroline?”
Mrs Combermere — Martha — smiled sadly. “You have just met her, wielding a poker. We keep her locked away in the cottage. It is that or an asylum, for she is quite, quite mad. Poor, dear Caroline.”
“Ohhh… And I unlocked the door,” Lucy said remorsefully. “I am so very sorry. Curiosity is my besetting sin, and always has been, but some family secrets are best left undisturbed, I see that now. But you need not fear that I shall reveal it.”
Uncle Arthur grunted. “Bit late to be sorry, frankly. Lucky that you screamed so loud, for you were found at once, and we caught Caroline before she got out of the grounds. Close thing, though. Still, she’s all right and tight now. Maria is with her. I shall go and change, and you should get dressed, Laurel. As for telling the girl any more than she already knows… you must do as you please, Martha, as you always do.”
He and Aunt Laurel went away, although Lucy noticed that Aunt Laurel took the brandy glass away with her. Martha sat beside Lucy on the sofa, and took her hand in hers, gently stroking the back of it with her work-hardened fingers. It was strangely comforting.
“I always thought you should be told, frankly. You are a sensible girl, I knew you would understand. Do you want to hear the whole story?”
“If you wish to tell me of it.”
“Very well, but you must pr
omise me faithfully not to tell Leo or Augusta.”
“But why?”
“Because Augusta would tell Leo, and Leo is a man and a rich one, at that, so he might take it upon himself to interfere, and that would never do. Will you promise?”
She hesitated, but her desire to know the truth won. “I promise.”
“Good girl.” Mrs Combermere arranged her skirts more comfortably, and settled down to tell her tale. “The trouble began when Father died. There were guardians and trustees and a great many interfering busybodies who thought they knew best. Caroline became very difficult… moody and turbulent. Maria was already out, but she got very flirtatious and… well, there were incidents. But Laurel was newly married, so she and Arthur were able to arrange for the three of us to go and live with them in Somerset, and that worked well for a while. Caroline came out, and almost at once she was betrothed. When she was in one of her good moods, she was so lively and high-spirited, and all the gentlemen flocked around her. The wedding was arranged, and then two days beforehand, we held an evening party in celebration, and…”
She paused, looking sideways at Lucy. “There is no easy way to express this, but you are a married woman, so I will just say it. Maria seduced Caroline’s betrothed, and they were caught hard at it in the shrubbery.”
“Goodness!” Lucy said, blushing despite herself.
“Caroline did not see it, fortunately, and we were able to cover things up, but the foolish man then took his own life in remorse. Poor, poor Caroline… she could not understand why he did not come to marry her. We could not make her believe that he was dead, and so she waited and waited, wearing the dress she was to have been married in. Every day, she went to the church, waiting, until one day, a glimmer of understanding came to her when we were all in the kitchen, and she attacked Maria with a knife. I tried to intervene, and so I got the pot of boiling water.” She gestured to her face. “You can imagine the uproar.”
The Chaperon (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 2) Page 22
