She had, of course, packed her own case because neither she nor her mother employed a maid who could do it for her. It would be different, of course, at Ashgrove; there would be a housemaid assigned to her as lady’s maid, to unpack her case and hang up her clothes and even press them if necessary before she wore them, and in the morning her clothes would be laid out for her and a bath run. She looked at the clothes in her case, frowned and took them out again and repacked them as carefully as she could. Her cheeks flushed as she imagined the maid tutting to a fellow servant. ‘Of course you can tell she’s only a shop girl. You should have seen the way she packed her clothes, something shocking it was. Talk about creases, it will take me half the night to press them to make them look half decent…’
Although no-one else was in the room and the conversation was entirely inside her own head, Rose found that she was blushing. She could not help but think that things could have been so different if… but no, she must not go there, she must not dwell on what could have been, but instead focus on the here and now….
‘Oh, Rose, I don’t know how to tell you.’ It was the day after her father’s funeral and her mother had clutched at her sixteen year old daughter’s hand and led her into her bedroom to sit down on the bed beside her. This in itself was unusual, for her mother regarded her room as her own private sanctuary to which Rose was rarely invited. So Rose had known instinctively that something was wrong, more horribly wrong even than the death of her father which, if truth be told, though it was too awful to admit, was almost a relief for them both. Worryingly, whatever her mother wished to say, she wanted to keep from their servants, Dobson, the cook and Doris, the daily help. She remembered afterwards the smell of lavender which had filled the room and remained with her long after her initial feelings of devastation, caused more by her shock at the obvious wretchedness of her mother than by the news she had to impart, the implications of which she had not fully comprehended then.
It was only later, when she had been alone in her room, turning her mother’s words over and over in her mind that it had slowly dawned on her that what had hitherto been a relatively comfortable and naïve middle class existence, was about to become unravelled. Much later still, when she thought back on that day, she remembered also the blackness of her mother’s mourning dress which mirrored her own, casting dark shadows across the rooms like crows.
‘It’s too awful, Rose. It’s even worse than I’d feared.’ In the privacy of her room, away from the prying eyes of servants, her mother had given way to tears and wept freely. Rose, still very much a child in some ways, had felt awkward and afraid. She had pressed her handkerchief into her mother’s hand and stood and waited for the sobbing to cease, or at the very least subside, not sure whether she wanted her mother to explain what she meant, or to be left in blissful ignorance.
‘We’re destitute, Rose,’ her mother had said, mopping at her eyes with the piece of cloth, ‘totally destitute! Your poor, dear father, God rest his soul, has left us with nothing but death duties and his gambling debts.’
Rose had stood there, not taking in fully her mother’s words. Mrs Simpson was not prone to exaggeration and so Rose had known that it was right to fear the worst; it was not simply going to mean a few less treats; their very way of life was threatened.
She had been six when her father had gone off to fight in the Great War. Her recollections of him were somewhat hazy, but she had remembered that he had been a tall, strong mountain of a man, always laughing as he teased her mother while he stole a kiss, or bent and scooped the young Rose into his arms, the little girl giggling and wriggling as he lifted her up to sit on his shoulders, she all the while clinging on to his hair and his ears least she should fall. She had felt so high up, sitting there on his shoulders, peering down at the world beneath, that sometimes she had pretended that she was sitting astride an elephant like the pictures she had seen of people in India.
It had come as a shock when she found that he was gone. She could not understand why he would leave her, her mother telling her that he was a brave hero gone to fight for his country, had meant nothing to her. She had wanted him to be there with her. The years had passed and she had grown up. When he had returned she was no longer the little girl he remembered and he was no longer the big, strong, laughing man that she had idolised. She suspected later with hindsight and an adult’s understanding, that they had both felt a little disappointed in one another and somehow cheated knowing that they could never get back those lost years.
From both Rose’s and her mother’s perspective, Mr Simpson had returned from the war a broken man. Physically he had been intact unlike so many other poor wretches who had returned with missing limbs and scarred faces, or not at all, and initially his mind had seemed undamaged. But it soon became clear by his brooding silences and inclination to be alone that he was a different man from the one who had left home. Rose’s mother had explained to her that during the war her father had seen some terrible things that still haunted him and that, while he did not wish to talk about them, he was finding it difficult to forget. Her mother had clung on to the hope that in time things would change, and she would eventually get back a resemblance of the man that had gone away. Instead things had got worse as her husband had found it difficult to concentrate and keep a job and had sought solace instead in drink and gambling, the knowledge of which Mrs Simpson had tried in vain to keep from her daughter. Rose and her mother had both watched helplessly as, in equal measures, the family’s money was squandered and Mr Simpson sunk into a rapid decline, his health deteriorating until, barely six years after he had returned from the front, he had died, and the full desperateness of the Simpsons’ financial situation was revealed.
Rose’s mother had gone to pieces and so it was the girl herself who was forced to be the practical one and find a solution to their financial crisis. It had not been easy. Mrs Simpson had initially refused to even contemplate giving up their servants or their home even though they had barely a penny to their name. Rose’s suggestion that they take in paid lodgers was met with an outright refusal. It was only when faced with the stark ultimatum that they do so or lose everything, that Mrs Simpson had relented, but it had not been a success. Rose had chosen the lodgers carefully, a Mrs Partridge and her unmarried daughter; they were quite respectable and Rose had hoped that her mother might find some things in common with the older woman which would make the sharing of her home more palatable. But Mrs Simpson had not liked strangers living in their house; the loss of privacy and the giving up of the use of rooms had jarred with her; in addition she complained to her daughter that Mrs Partridge was inclined to be rather loud and too talkative, whereas Miss Partridge was painfully shy, barely uttering a word and was inclined to start when spoken to. The situation had become tense and uncomfortable for all parties, and it was something of a relief to both Mrs Simpson and Rose when the Partridges had left to live with some distant relations.
The Simpsons had been forced to sell their house. Mrs Simpson had cried bitterly and Rose had moped around the place touching doors and walls one last time, trying to commit the rooms to memory, knowing as she did so that she was saying good bye to more than just her childhood home. She could not help but dwell on “what ifs”. What if her father had been killed in the war? What if he had returned the man that he had left, laughing and smiling and not felt compelled to turn to drink and gambling? Although she tried not to, Rose could not help resenting her father’s behaviour, which had ruined both hers and her mother’s future.
They had bought a much smaller house in a poorer part of town and had let go of Doris, who had sobbed uncontrollably at their reduced circumstances. Dobson had been the next casualty, although Rose’s mother had fought to keep her and Dobson herself had seemed just as reluctant to leave.
‘I’m that sad to go, Miss Rose,’ she had said taking the girl aside. ‘I’ve seen you grow up from a little babe to a fine young woman and I’ve been with your mother since the day she left her
parents’ home to marry your father. It breaks my heart it does, to think of you and your mother as you are now. If I could afford to, I’d stay on with you both and take no wages. Whatever are you going to do? You’ve absolutely no money as far as I can tell. Why, I don’t think you’ve even got a brass farthing between you.’
‘You’re right, Mrs Dobson, things are looking awfully grim right now. Neither my mother nor I want to let you go, but we’ve simply got no other choice. Of course we’ll provide you with a very good reference and if our circumstances ever change, I’ll be sure to write to you. I’m going to leave it a day or two and then I’ll break it to Mother that I’ll have to get a job.’
In the end Mrs Simpson had been the first to get work. For the sake of her daughter, she had reluctantly pulled herself together, finally facing their situation. The thought of Rose financially supporting her, while she sat home alone in their mean little house doing nothing but dwelling on what had been, was abhorrent to her. Dressmaking had seemed the obvious answer for it was something she was both very fond of and good at; she could also do it in the privacy of her own home. At first she had approached some of her more affluent friends for work, or former friends as they had now become as their paths now seldom crossed. As time went on, word of mouth brought her more business although the work was often irregular and could not be relied upon to provide a living wage for them both. Almost as soon as her mother had embarked on her dressmaking business, Rose had gone out and sought work herself to supplement their income. Madame Renard’s was the second shop she had approached. Five and a half years later, Lady Lavinia Sedgwick had entered the same establishment to satisfy an adolescent bet.
Chapter Five
I must remember this weekend, Rose thought, every tiny detail of it because there will never be another one like it, not for me. With that she sighed contentedly and settled back into the luxurious leather seats of the yellow Rolls Royce that Lady Withers had sent to collect them from the railway station. How strange it felt to be seated next to Lady Lavinia Sedgwick in a chauffeur driven car about to enjoy the weekend at a country house, the guest of the local landed gentry. She really must try and savour this moment, this wonderful feeling of excitement and anticipation and just a little apprehension.
Rose looked over at her friend and wondered if Lavinia had any idea how much this all meant to her. But she seemed totally oblivious, smiling and laughing at their recent exploits at Madame Renard’s, how they had managed to convince a particularly odious customer to spend far more money on clothes than she had intended and mimicking the way Madame Renard spoke when she introduced Lavinia to her more up market customers. She caught Lavinia’s eye and they both threw back their heads and giggled like a couple of school girls, each finding the other’s laughter so infectious that they did not know if they would ever be able to stop. Rose, who initially had been very aware of the presence of the chauffeur up in front, idly wondered what he must think of them laughing as if their sides would burst. But she could not help it, and she soon gave up caring what he thought.
Indeed, to Rose, Lavinia suddenly looked very young and carefree, the lack of worries or responsibilities showing in her face as she suddenly whisked the red straw hat from her head and let the wind tug at her hair until it had come tumbling down around her shoulders, becoming a mess as stray wisps of hair blew in the wind around her face. Rose thought Lavinia suited the windswept look, which gave a warmth to her cold aristocratic beauty; in contrast, Rose had never felt so plain.
‘We are going to have such a wonderful time, Rose,’ Lavinia had assured her earnestly, grabbing hold of her hand. ‘Of course, while I love Ashgrove absolutely to bits, I would have suggested that we go to Sedgwick Court, but it’s too far away to go just for a weekend and besides there’s my mother which is enough to put anyone off. She’d be quite impossible, you know. She wouldn’t leave me alone for a moment trying to make me change my mind about the shop and she’s such a snob. I’m afraid she’d be rather horrid to you. It’s much better that we go to Aunt Connie’s. You’ll adore her, I know you will, because she has that effect on everyone, everyone simply worships her, even the servants. I can’t think why really, because sometimes she comes out with the most outrageous things, you know says what everyone is really thinking but are too polite to actually say.’ She became aware of the look on Rose’s face which had been one of alarm. ‘Oh, I’ve made her sound a bit intimidating and I didn’t mean to at all. You’ll absolutely love her. Do you know, when Ceddie and I were little, we used to pretend that Father had married Aunt Connie instead of Mother because it would have been absolutely magical if he had done, and I think it could have happened because from what I’ve heard, Connie and Daddy used to be sweethearts when they were young. But Aunt Connie married Uncle William instead and I must say he’s an absolute sweetie too.’
Rose was suddenly aware that they had turned off the road. She looked up quickly at her surroundings and caught a first glimpse of Ashgrove House through the trees which lined the long drive along which she found they were driving, and which eventually led up to the house. Ashgrove House sat deep in its own land made up of gardens, including a croquet lawn, pasture land and woodland, the predominant trees in the latter being ash from where the house had derived its name. Level fields enclosed with fences or hedges gave way to steep banks down to the river and the house itself, made of red brick, dated from the late eighteenth century, although some later Victorian alterations had been made to it by a previous owner. It was three-storied and five-bayed, with a fine pillared entrance portico and roofs of slate from which protruded a number of ornate gothic chimney stacks. Rose caught her breath. Ashgrove House was more imposing and impressive than she had expected. When Lavinia had spoken of it, she had been almost dismissive. ‘It’s quite delightful, absolutely lovely,’ she had assured her, ‘but of course it’s not a patch on Sedgwick.’ To Rose, whose experience of such residences was admittedly limited, it looked very grand indeed. Its owners were clearly affluent as both the house and drive were in a good state of repair and the gardens, she was to discover later, were well-kept and tendered by gardeners.
‘The only bit of a downside,’ Lavinia was saying, ‘is that Edith will be here. She’s a distant relative of ours, or something, although I don’t think my mother likes her much as she’s never been invited to stay at Sedgwick even though she and mother and Aunt Connie were all at school together as girls. The odd time I’ve seen her at Ashgrove, I’ve always found her deadly dull and depressing, although to be charitable she does have reason to be upset. It must have been awful for her, but it’s all so long ago now and it isn’t as if she was the only one to have been affected by the war.
And then, of course, there was that awful episode a couple of years back when she made an absolute fool of herself over poor Ceddie. She just wouldn’t leave the poor boy alone. She threw herself at him and started shrieking that she’d never let him go again, that he was safe now. It was absolutely awful. Uncle William and old Stafford had to forcibly drag her away from Ceddie and all the time she was kicking and hitting out and wailing. Aunt Connie had to send for the doctor to give her a sedative. It was absolutely horrible, I’d never seen anyone behave like that before, you know, totally out of control … Brewster, why ever have you stopped the car?’ Lavinia looked about her suddenly aware that the Rolls Royce was stationary. ‘Surely you don’t mean us to walk the rest of the way up to the house carrying our own luggage!’
‘No, no Lady Lavinia, of course not,’ replied the chauffeur looking awkward. ‘I’m just following orders. Her ladyship asked me to stop here, before I drove you up to the house. I’m not sure why, but she was most particular about it, she was; I’m sure she had her reasons.’
They waited, Lavinia sitting upright in her seat gazing straight ahead of her and looking distinctly put out, Rose, slightly nervous and self-conscious, wondering what to expect. The chauffeur, Brewster, busied himself fiddling first with his steering wheel, then wit
h the wing mirror and then with his gloves until it seemed to Rose that they had sat there for some time. She was beginning to feel fidgety herself and, from out of the corner of her eye, she could tell that Lavinia was getting more and more irritated.
‘This is ridiculous, Brewster. Surely you don’t expect us to wait here forever. Just…’
‘Psst!’
‘Good gracious whatever is that noise, and where’s it coming from?’ Lavinia demanded, looking all about her wildly, before climbing out of the car quickly to have a better look around. Brewster, taken unawares by the quickness of Lavinia’s actions, scrambled out of the car after her to open the door for Rose. Following Lavinia’s example, Rose looked about her but both girls had trouble locating from where exactly the sound had come.
‘Psst! Over here.’ From out of the trees that lined the drive up to Ashgrove House emerged a woman of over fifty, her hair pulled back in a bun that looked as if it was coming slightly undone and which was squashed under a wide brimmed straw hat decorated with artificial fruit, the red cherries of which were gleaming in the mid-morning sun. She wore a calf length beige skirt and white cotton blouse over which at her throat was tied haphazardly a flower-patterned silk scarf. The overall effect was one of dishevelment and that, coupled with the fact that the woman was wearing gardening gloves and carrying a pair of secateurs in her right hand, led Rose to believe that she must be some kind of gardener.
‘Connie!’ Lavinia rushed over to her and embraced her warmly. ‘Whatever are you doing, Aunt, lurking in the shadows and making poor Brewster stop the car for secret assignations? And what on earth are you dressed up in this get up for, is it your gardener’s day off?’
‘My dear, I wanted to catch you before you arrived at the house and pretending to have to prune the roses gave me the excuse I needed. I slipped out of the rose garden, and came around the house and have been hiding behind this tree for the last twenty minutes or so. If only I’d known that the train was going to be late. Either that or Brewster was driving far too slowly. If only William would allow me to take the wheel, I’m sure you’d have got here much quicker.’
01 - Murder at Ashgrove House Page 4
