‘You’re cold, Mary,’ Edward exclaimed.
‘No, I’m fine—honestly,’ she protested, but Edward headed back through the door, returning moments later with a thick blanket, which he tucked over her shoulders.
As she had hoped that he would, Edward bent down onto one knee and took her left hand in his. In the glowing orange light from the surrounding candles, Edward’s boyish face had never looked more handsome to Mary. She thought then of how stupid she had been with her immature fascination with Lord Rothborne, then instantly castigated herself for potentially spoiling this wonderful moment thinking about him.
‘Mary Kate Mercer,’ Edward said in a trembling voice. ‘Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
Mary smiled and tears welled in her eyes. ‘I would be delighted,’ she said, almost unable to vocalise her acceptance.
Edward leapt up and threw his arms around her. ‘I’m so happy you said that, Mary!’
She watched as he withdrew a ring from his pocket and slid it onto her finger.
‘It was our great grandmother’s,’ Edward said.
Mary held it close to her face. It was a solid gold band with a stone set in the centre. It was simple, but where it came from made it the most beautiful thing on earth. She loved it. ‘It’s beautiful, thank you.’
‘I’m sure she’d be delighted to see that you got it from me. More delighted probably than the rest of our family will be about the situation.’
Our family. Her euphoria, her belief that her future had just started crumbled in the instant Edward had mentioned her family. She allowed herself to be held by him but her thoughts had returned home. Her stifling lifeless home. She could only imagine her father’s reaction at the news she was to marry her cousin. What would that do to his bout of melancholia? Then she thought of Edie. Her twin sister who was also sweet on Edward. How would she ever find the words to tell her? Only her mother would understand and she was miles away, locked up in a sanatorium.
‘What’s the matter, Mary?’ Edward asked, sensing her sudden detachment.
‘You mentioned our family. What on earth will Caroline, Edie and Mother make of it all? I doubt they’ll talk to us ever again.’
‘Your mother will be absolutely fine, Edie will come round eventually and Caroline—well, who cares about her anyway?’ Edward squeezed her hand. ‘At least you won’t have to worry about getting used to a new surname!’
Mary smiled and hoped that it was enough to cover the growing discomfort inside. She knew, as soon as she saw the note, what Edward was going to do tonight. Perhaps she had known sooner, when they had first made love. But now it was real and serious, they would have to tell people. Tell the other servants at Blackfriars. Tell Mrs Cuff and Mr Risler.
Edward began to kiss Mary’s neck, moving his lips slowly up towards her mouth. Mary banished thoughts of the future and reciprocated his kiss. Edward gently lifted the blanket from Mary’s shoulders and allowed it to fall to the petal-strewn floor before beginning to unbutton her dress.
An unfamiliar sound woke Mary. Birds singing unusually close by. She opened her eyes in horror; she was lying on the wooden floor in the upper part of the old folly. ‘Edward!’ she gasped, leaping up and pushing away the pile of blankets under which they had slept. She pulled open the door and peered outside. The dark, night sky was beginning to yield to daylight. The other servants were bound to be awake by now. ‘Edward, get up! We need to get back to the house.’
Edward’s eyes pinged open on hearing the urgency in Mary’s voice. Instantly he knew what had happened. The pair quickly pulled on their clothes. Mary began to scoop up the blankets.
‘Leave all that, I’ll come back for it later,’ Edward urged.
‘What about the candles? Someone might see them.’
‘It’ll be okay, nobody ever comes over here.’
The pair dashed back down the spiral staircase, aware that they were running out of time. Edward rowed back to the boathouse as fast as he could, the oars chopping desperately and noisily at the water. Mary’s eyes darted all around them, certain that someone would see them. Everybody—even the gardeners—rose early.
‘Let’s split up. I’ll go the longer way round past the ice house and back in through the meat larder. See you at breakfast,’ Edward panted, kissing Mary on the lips.
‘Bye, fiancé!’ Mary called after him, hurrying back towards the kitchen.
Although her son, Cecil was now the Earl of Rothborne, Lady Rothborne occasionally liked to flex and exhibit her seniority within the Mansfield family. Following the death of her husband, she insisted on having his former bedroom, located as it was in the most favourable position of all the rooms in Blackfriars. It was situated on the first floor with windows facing south over the main gardens and windows facing east over one edge of the lake. Since being widowed at the age of fifty-two, she had found the need for very little sleep; she was usually the last family member to retire for the night and the first to rise. Today, like most mornings, she enjoyed standing at the east window watching as the faintest glimmers of the morning sun began to penetrate the night sky. On warmer days, she would open the window to let in the wondrous sound of the blackbirds’ dawn chorus on the early morning breeze. For Lady Rothborne, there was no time of day quite like it. Everything was still. The world was at peace and happy. She looked out of the window, absorbing the minute changes and new things that she could see, suddenly made visible by the rising sun. She spotted something moving on the path beside the lake. A deer, perhaps? she wondered. She squinted hard and pressed her face to the window. Two people walking. Running. They began to grow into focus.
‘The footman and the third housemaid,’ she said quietly. ‘Very interesting.’
Lady Rothborne continued to watch until the pair had separated and disappeared inside the house using two different entrances.
A wide smile erupted on her face.
Mary pushed open the kitchen door and braced herself for a tirade in French, but Bastion was nowhere to be seen. The kitchen thankfully looked deserted. Mary closed the door and heaved a sigh of relief. She’d made it back in without being seen. Now she just needed to get back upstairs. What was the time?
‘Nice night for it,’ a booming, hollow voice said.
Mary leapt with fright and turned in the direction of the voice, which she did not recognise. An unfamiliar man was sitting at the table clutching a bottle of red wine. ‘I just stepped out for…something,’ Mary stammered.
‘Of course you bloody didn’t,’ he said, slurring his words. Whoever he was, he was very drunk. ‘I’ve been here since… God knows. Could be days. Enough time to know that you’ve been out all night,’ he accused with a lopsided grin and pointing his finger. ‘Naughty. Very naughty.’
Mary stepped closer. He was well-spoken and, despite being in a dishevelled state, was clearly not a servant or tradesman. He was handsome in a rugged, masculine way with tousled, slick, black hair and a white shirt, almost entirely unbuttoned, revealing a well-toned chest and stomach. ‘Are you Lord Rothborne’s cousin, Sir?’ Mary ventured.
The man grinned again. ‘Yup. But please don’t tell me I look like that ugly little cad. I rather hoped I’d inherited Mummy’s beauty.’
‘I’d heard you were coming—I’m a housemaid here,’ Mary said, wanting to soften him up in the hope that he wouldn’t then tell anyone about her nocturnal foray, but also desperate to get back to her room.
Frederick’s eyes lit up. ‘A housemaid. How delectable.’
Mary shrugged, unsure of how to respond. ‘It’s okay.’
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, taking a gulp of wine from the bottle.
‘Miss Mercer.’
‘What’s your real name? Surely your mother didn’t name you Miss Mercer?’ he said with a laugh.
‘It’s Mary,’ she said, a little uncomfortably.
‘Mine’s Frederick.’ He stood and offered her his hand to shake. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mary.’
‘Of course, keep the Blackfriars’ wheels turning,’ he muttered, taking another swig of drink. ‘Before you go, could you tell me something?’
Mary stopped close to the door and faced him. ‘Of course.’
‘Being a housemaid, you must know a bit about the bedroom department.’
Mary’s face flushed. ‘Pardon?’
‘I know, bloody crude of me to ask, but does my dear cousin actually bed his good lady wife? Hmm? I mean, they’ve been married for what six years and there are no signs of any mini Mansfields yet, are there? Most peculiar.’
‘I don’t think I’m in any position to talk about that,’ Mary answered.
‘They have separate rooms though, don’t they?’
Mary nodded.
Frederick took another swig of wine. ‘I only ask because I’m next in line to the Blackfriars throne you see. If Cecil doesn’t produce an heir, then this—’ Frederick said gesturing the wine bottle around the room—‘all comes to me. Every last piece of God-awful furniture, every last servant. You’ll be mine, Mary Mercer. How would you like that?’
Mary was desperate to leave the company of this awful drunk. How can I get away from him? Time’s running out!
Mary’s heart sank: her time had run out.
Standing at the door, mouth agape, was Mrs Cuff.
‘Miss Mercer, what are you doing in here with Mr Mansfield? Where’s your uniform?’ Mrs Cuff stammered, quite unable to believe her eyes.
‘So, sorry, Lady Housekeeper,’ Frederick said, turning his attention to Mrs Cuff. ‘All my fault. Miss Mercer heard a noise and came to see what the bother was. I was the bother. All my fault. Now I’m keeping her chatting. My humblest, most sincere apologies.’
Mrs Cuff glared at Mary, seeming to accept the absurd notion that Mary could possibly have heard a noise from three floors up in the attic. ‘Right, well, you’d better get into your uniform and get to work.’
Mary slunk from the room.
‘Cheerio, Mary,’ Frederick called. ‘Time I went to bed, I think.’
Mary hurried up the stairs to her bedroom, certain that she would be for it when Mrs Cuff finally caught up with her. She opened the door; Clara was just in the process of lifting her dress up over her body.
‘Where have you been?’ Clara asked.
‘Nowhere exciting,’ Mary replied. She no longer trusted that what she said to Clara wouldn’t be gossiped about in the servants’ hall.
‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened yesterday, Mary,’ Clara began. ‘I didn’t mean to betray your trust. Can we be friends again?’
‘Just forget it. Let’s get to work,’ Mary said.
Chapter Nine
Morton inserted the memory card from his camera into his laptop and plugged in his iPhone. He was sitting in shorts and a t-shirt in his study, sipping at his fourth cup of coffee of the day. He drank too much of the stuff; Juliette was always telling him that he needed to cut back. She was right, of course, but it was the one thing that helped him through the eye-straining slog of staring at a computer screen for hours on end. The low bubbling of tourist chatter filtered in through the open study window, the warm day having brought the visitors to Rye by the coachload.
Morton navigated through the file directories on his computer until he found the photographs that he had taken on his camera at Blackfriars. The first picture was of the back path to the estate, with the house looming large in the distance. He lingered on the image for a few seconds, then turned to the wall of his study covered with notes, pictures and information from the Mercer Case. He looked Mary square in the eyes, almost pleading for the time-frozen image to reveal what had happened on that path that fateful day in 1911. Turning back to the laptop, he clicked onto the images taken on his phone; a dull yellow tinge on each revealed that they were taken in the dimly-lit depths of the Blackfriars archive. He knew the contents of the first page: an excerpt from the Blackfriars wages book. As he scanned down the page, he caught Edward Mercer’s name again and scribbled down the date of his last wages: Friday 19th May 1911. Where had he gone, just one month after Mary’s disappearance? Sacked? A new job? Dead? The thought then entered Morton’s mind that maybe, he too had vanished without trace. The desire to know more about what happened to Edward was enough for Morton to hold off temporarily looking at the rest of the images. A change of employment would be almost impossible to ascertain; a death search would be simple. Opening up the Ancestry website, Morton ran an open-ended death search and found Edward immediately. His death was recorded in the June quarter of 1911 in the Rye registration district. He knew that the death may have had nothing to do with Mary’s disappearance, but since Edward featured on both the family and work lists for people close to Mary around the time of her disappearance, it was certainly an intriguing lead.
Having become momentarily sidetracked, ordering a next-day priority death certificate for Edward from the General Register Office website, Morton switched his focus back to the photographs taken at Blackfriars. The second image was of the Day Book, which mentioned the disastrous start of Mary’s work at Blackfriars. Morton re-read the contents of the page then held his breath as he clicked onto the next image, which he had taken covertly; he hoped that his haste to take the pictures hadn’t resulted in their being out of focus or illegible. Thankfully, the image was clear. The entries for Monday 10th and Tuesday 11th were brief and routine: food supplies purchased and landscape works completed around the estate. Then he came to Wednesday—the date of Mary’s disappearance.
Wednesday 12th April. Lady Philadelphia and some of the female staff returned prematurely from the hunting trip to Scotland. Lady Philadelphia suffering from morning sickness. Discovered one of the housemaids, Miss Mercer, in Lady Philadelphia’s bedroom wearing her finest ball gown and some of the most precious Mansfield jewellery. Servant dismissed. Replacement currently being sought. Lady Philadelphia much improved upon return to Blackfriars. Mrs Cuff.
Morton re-read the entry several times, trying to absorb the content. He didn’t know what he had been expecting to find, but something so trifling and bland left him with a sagging feeling of disappointment. Mary had been found wearing the lady of the house’s clothes and jewellery and was then promptly sacked. It was understandably a dismissible offence, but why did Sidney Mersham not want him to see the entry more than one hundred years later? Morton stared at the screen. The document clearly added new information about Mary’s last known hours, but its revelation to Morton would not now have damaged the Mansfield reputation: it was hardly a headline-grabbing scandal. If it hadn’t been for her subsequent disappearance, it would have been almost a comical end to her employment with them. What happened next? he wondered. Where did you go from there, Mary? What am I not seeing that they don’t want me to see? There was clearly something he wasn’t quite getting. Morton read the entries for the rest of the week: nothing of any consequence had been noted but for the return of the rest of the household from the hunting expedition.
Saturday 15th April 1911. Household all returned from hunting trip to Scotland. Mr Risler remained in Scotland with Mr Frederick Mansfield for extended break.
Morton looked at his copy of the letter that Mary had written from Scotland. It had been postmarked Monday 17th April. There was a definite overlap in time when Mary was sacked from Blackfriars and wrote the letter from Scotland whilst the family were also in that country. Did Mary go to Scotland because the family were there? Was there someone there she ran to?
He clicked the previewer on to the next image. It was for the Day Book commencing Monday 17th April. Only one entry stood out from mundane estate business:
Tuesday 18th April. Doctor visited and confirmed that Lady Philadelphia is expecting a child.
Morton looked at the final image taken secretly at Blackfriars.
It was for the week prior to Mary’s sacking, commencing Monday 3rd April 1911. He carefully read the page. Among the routines and incidental comings and goings, he noted down the entry detailing the Mansfield expedition to Scotland.
Wednesday 5th April. Lord Cecil, Lady Philadelphia and Mr Frederick Mansfield departed for Boughton House for the annual deer hunt. Accompanying staff: Mr Risler, Mrs Cuff, Jack Maslow, James Daniels, Edward Mercer, Thomas Redfern, Sarah Herriot, Clara Ellingham, Eliza Bootle, Susannah Routledge, Agnes Thompson.
Morton examined each name. Did Mary go to Scotland to be with one of you? he wondered as he stared at the entry. He looked curiously at the page as a whole. Something was different between the first week and the following two weeks. He clicked back and spotted it: the handwriting was different. The week’s entries beginning Monday 3rd April and Monday 10th April were written by the same person and signed off with Mrs Cuff’s signature. The week commencing Monday 17th April was written by a different hand and signed by Mr Risler. When he looked again at the Day Book for early January, he saw that it had also been signed off by Mrs Cuff. He could only surmise that up to the week of Mary’s sacking, Mrs Cuff was solely responsible for the Day Book, the entries afterwards being completed by Mr Risler, the butler. Not that exciting, but again worth noting. Morton’s rising fear that Mrs Cuff might have also died around the same time was allayed when he confirmed her continued employment as housekeeper in the wages book. If she hadn’t died or left Blackfriars, was it then a simple coincidence that she stopped being the person to sign off the Day Book after Mary vanished? Morton thought maybe not. He scribbled the information on a Post-it note and stuck it to the wall. He clicked ‘print’ on all the images taken at Blackfriars, ran a yellow highlighter over the relevant parts, then Blu-Tacked them to the wall.
The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2) Page 12
