by Mary Nichols
She came to the head of the lake at last and asked her way to the Ambleside Road. Ten minutes later she was standing outside a large villa built of the local grey stone. A path led from the gate on the road to a central front door, flanked by evenly spaced windows. Her heart sank when she realised the curtains of these windows were drawn, just as those in Kendal had been. The difference, she realised when she had recovered from the shock, was that these windows were clean and the paintwork fresh. But there was a huge black crepe bow tied to the door knocker. It was a house in mourning.
She stood undecided, not wishing to intrude on anyone’s grief, not sure of her welcome at such a time. She was exhausted, her feet hurt and her arm ached with carrying her bag and there was no Viscount Malvers to come to her rescue this time. Reluctant to take that knocker in her hand and remembering her poor appearance, she took a deep breath and made her way round to the back of the house and knocked on the kitchen door.
Chapter Five
The woman who came to the door was wearing a black dress and a spotless white apron. Her hair was invisible beneath a starched white cap and her cheeks were rosy from the fire; the cook, Emma guessed. Her blue eyes looked Emma up and down. ‘Have you come to help with the funeral tea?’
Emma was about to say no, but changed her mind. ‘Yes. What needs to be done?’
The cook held the door open wider. ‘Come on in, then. You took your time about getting here.’
‘I’m sorry. I only just heard.’
‘Only just heard? Where have you been this past week? His lordship’s known to everyone hereabouts. Great loss to the community, he is. We’ll miss him. Goodness knows what we will do now he’s gone.’ She stopped talking because Emma had put her bag down and was standing looking about her in a kind of trance. The kitchen was large and old-fashioned. There was a dresser all along one wall full of pots and pans, dishes and plates. A huge fire burned in a wide chimney opposite the dresser, where chains and a spit, a huge kettle, a large iron pot and several trivets bore evidence to its use for cooking. On a table in the centre of the room were dishes of food being prepared by three servants for the funeral feast. And judging by the amount, a great many were expected to partake.
‘Well, girl, where’s your apron? They’ll be back from the funeral any minute now.’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Don’t have one! What was the agency thinking about sending you out without an apron? What have you got in that bag, then?’ And before Emma could stop her, she had picked it up, dumped it on a chair and opened it. ‘What’s this?’ Her delving hand produced a jaconet gown the blue of a hazy summer sky, a satin nightgown and a long blue pelisse.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not from the agency,’ Emma said, and then, suddenly overcome by everything that had happened in the last three days—the horror of her stepfather’s demands, the long worrying journey and her confused emotions over Lord Malvers—she sank into a chair near the fire and sobbed.
The cook stood and looked at her in bewilderment, but, realising something had to be done if this weeping girl was not to disrupt the whole business of sending the Admiral off in style, she patted her on the shoulder. ‘There, there, don’t take on so. We are all very sad today, but we have to bear up, don’t we?’
‘Yes,’ Emma sniffed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So if you’re not from the agency where are you from?’
‘London.’
‘Lunnon! Good heavens! More kin of his lordship, are you?’
‘No. I came to see Mrs Summers. I went to her house in Kendal and the neighbour said I should find her here. I had no idea…’
‘Wait here, I’ll go and find her.’ She disappeared through a door on the other side of the kitchen. Emma found a handkerchief in her pocket and mopped her eyes, then went to her bag and extracted her mother’s letter, which she hoped would explain everything, and sat down to wait.
After a few minutes Mrs Summers bustled into the kitchen ahead of her cook. She was a short dumpy woman, her ample frame encased in a stiff black taffeta gown, her grey hair pulled tightly back under a black lace cap. Her complexion was good and her eyes a warm brown. ‘Do I know you, young woman?’ she asked.
‘No, but you know my mother. She sent you this.’ Emma offered the letter.
Mrs Summers took it, put on a pair of spectacles that dangled from a ribbon round her neck, and began to read, while Emma watched with her heart in her mouth and the cook watched with open curiosity.
‘Oh, dear.’ The words were murmured. And then a little later, ‘Shocking. Unbelievable. Oh dear, oh dear.’ Coming to the end of it, she looked Emma up and down over the spectacles. ‘Well, there’s nothing to be done about anything now. As you see, this is a house in mourning for my brother, Lord Bourne. The ladies are in the drawing room and the gentlemen will be back from the funeral at any moment and I must look after them. I do not think now is a good time to introduce you to them, do you?’
‘No, ma’am, I do not.’
Mrs Summers turned to the cook. ‘Mrs Granger, can you find a little food for—’
‘Fanny Draper, ma’am,’ Emma put in before the lady could use her real name. She did not know why she did it except that she could not rid herself of the idea her stepfather would not give up and might even now be hot on her heels.
‘Fanny.’ Emma saw the smile that briefly lit the old lady’s face and was heartened by it. ‘Mrs Granger, Miss Draper will be staying with us for a little while. Please make up a tray for her while I take her up to her room.’
‘Yes, madam. The agency didn’t send that girl.’
‘No? I’m sorry, we shall just have to manage between us.’
‘Can I help?’ Emma asked, though she was still feeling a little tearful.
‘No, my dear,’ Mrs Summers said firmly. ‘You are done in and must rest. And after that, when all the mourners have gone and the will’s been read, we will have a good long coze and you can tell me all your adventures.’ She picked up Emma’s bag as she spoke. ‘Is this all the luggage you have?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I couldn’t carry any more.’
‘Never mind. Come along.’ She ushered Emma from the room and into a wide hall from which a cast-iron staircase rose to the next floor. In a room nearby Emma could hear the low murmur of ladies’ voices, but Mrs Summers ignored them and led the way up the stairs. ‘I wasn’t sure how many people would be coming to the funeral and who would need to stay over, so there are beds made up. Here we are.’ She opened a door and ushered Emma inside.
‘I do not want to take someone’s room,’ Emma said, looking round her. The bed was a sturdy four-poster and the rest of the furniture heavy and old fashioned, though an attempt had been made to lighten it with pretty curtains and a colourful bedside rug.
‘You aren’t. It is only my nephew staying after all. Everyone else has elected to go home or has booked into the Lakeside Hotel.’
‘I am more grateful than I know how to tell you.’
‘Tush, it’s the least I can do for an old friend. I am agog to hear the whole story from your own lips, but it will have to wait until you have rested and I have got over this dreadful day. I can hear carriages, so I must leave you. Sleep if you can.’
And with that, she kissed Emma’s cheek and left the room.
Emma collapsed on to the bed and wept forlornly, which was perfectly silly of her, considering what she had been through. To cry when it was all over was the height of absurdity.
When Mrs Granger came up with tray on which was a plate of cold chicken and ham, a few boiled potatoes, some bread and butter, beside a glass of cordial, taken from what had been prepared for the funeral guests, for there was no time to do anything else, she found Miss Fanny Draper fully clothed and fast asleep. She put the tray down and crept away.
Emma woke to see Mrs Summers sitting by the bed, her face lit by a lamp on a table beside her, which must surely mean it was dark outside. She sat up, noting her crumpled dress. She tried to
smooth it down. ‘I’m sorry, I must have dropped off.’
‘That is hardly surprising, my dear. Now, the funeral is over, the mourners, apart from my nephew, have departed and I am at your disposal at last. But tell me, child, why did your mother think of me? I have not corresponded with her since your dear papa died and I sent my condolences. I did not even know she had married again.’
‘That was one of her reasons. She said my stepfather knew nothing of you and would never think of looking for me here. She gave me your address in Kendal. When I found it unoccupied, I was at a loss to know what to do.’
‘I left there two years ago to keep house for my brother. It seemed silly to keep it on, so I sold it. I am surprised the new owners have not yet taken up residence. But enough of my affairs. I think you had better tell me the whole story from the beginning. Why are you alone? How did you get here? And why did your mother not come too?’
When the tale was finished, Mrs Summers remained silent and thoughtful. Emma was afraid she would not be able to stay. It was one thing to be sympathetic, another to provide a strange young lady with a home. It was a great deal to ask, especially as Mrs Summers had just lost a beloved brother, for whom she must be grieving, and having to arrange the funeral and everything else.
‘I’m sorry, I should not burden you with all this,’ Emma said. ‘If I could stay just a day or two, until I can think what to do.’ She fished in her pocket for the five guineas and offered it. ‘Mama gave me a pearl necklace, but when I tried to pawn it I found it was only worth five guineas. You can have it for my keep until I find a position: companion, teacher, or even housemaid if it comes to that. I will not return to London, not while that man—’
‘Of course you will not. It is not to be thought of.’ Mrs Summers reached out and closed Emma’s hand over the money. ‘I do not need that. I was just considering what could be done. I wish now I had not sold my house. I have the money carefully invested and my brother left me a small annuity, but where I am to live, I do not know.’
‘But this house…’
‘Gone to my nephew and I cannot see him wanting to keep it on. He has his own estate.’
‘Do you mean you are to be homeless too?’
‘Not immediately. My nephew is a darling boy and he will not turn me out or see me in want, but you see how I am placed?’
‘Oh, yes, indeed. I will look for employment first thing tomorrow. I may stay here tonight, mayn’t I?’
‘Of course. I am not thinking very clearly at the moment. Tomorrow, I am sure, we shall think of something between us. Are you hungry?’
She was ravenous. ‘A little.’
‘Then I will take this away and have something fresh sent up.’ She indicated the tray on the table. ‘You were asleep when Mrs Granger brought it up. Poor thing, you must have been exhausted.’
‘I did not realise how tired I was, ma’am. But don’t take it away. I’m sure it is still perfectly edible.’
‘If you are sure.’ She reached over to the table and lifted the tray on to Emma’s lap. ‘While you are eating it, I’ll have some hot water sent up so that you may refresh yourself. Then I suggest you undress and get into bed. Time enough for introductions tomorrow morning, when you will feel more the thing. We will have a conference and something will come of it, I am sure.’ She patted Emma’s hand. ‘Do not worry. You are safe here.’ She left Emma to her meal. A kitchen maid brought hot water just as she finished it and took away the tray.
Half an hour later, nightgowned and feeling properly clean for the first time since leaving London, Emma curled herself up in the bed; it was bliss after sleeping fully clothed in coaches and on settles. Was she really safe? Dare she believe it?
Her thoughts went to her mother. As soon as she could, she must send the message they had spoken of to tell her she had arrived safely, though what would become of her now she was here, she had no idea. But whatever it was, it could not be worse than marrying Lord Bentwater. If only her pearls had not been made of paste, it would have been so much easier. But she would not worry her mother with that. What had happened to Viscount Malvers? she wondered dreamily. How far away was he? Wouldn’t it be strange if, going about the village, she should come across him? If everyone in the vicinity knew Lord Bourne, he might even call to pay his respects. Oh, dear, in that case, she must remain Fanny Draper, companion. She must be sure to tell Mrs Summers that in the morning…
Alex, ensconced in a wing chair in his Uncle Henry’s drawing room, stretched out his long legs and sipped the glass of cognac that his Aunt Amelia had put at his elbow. It had been an extraordinary day, extraordinary week, really, and though he had known his uncle was ill and would not have sent for him if it had not been important, he had not been prepared for his death. ‘If only I had travelled post as soon as I heard, I would have been here at least a day sooner,’ he had told his aunt when he arrived. ‘I have become so accustomed to considering the expense of things and not being extravagant—’
‘It would not have made any difference,’ she said, perfectly aware that her brother-in-law had always kept his younger son on short commons, saying he had to learn to fend for himself, since he was not the heir. It had incensed Henry, who had loved the boy like a son. ‘He died over a week ago.’
‘At least I am here in time to attend the funeral.’
‘Yes, and right glad I am of it, otherwise the only support I would have in the family is that widgeon, Francis, his even more foolish mother, and Bertie who is only here because he expects to be the richer for it. A greedier man I have yet to meet.’
He had smiled at that. Francis Waldover was the son of Lord Bourne’s cousin, which made him Alex’s second cousin. They had known each other as boys, but were never close; Frankie was several years younger than Alex. He and his widowed mother lived in Lancaster. Sir Bertram Hudson was another distant cousin, but if he had met him before, he could not remember him.
The ladies, of course, had not attended the funeral, but had waited at the house until the men returned; then everyone stood about talking and drinking sherry or ratafia or tea and eating the refreshments Mrs Granger had prepared. The large drawing room had been crowded with friends of the deceased from the town and his time in the navy, together with the Reverend Andrew Griggs, Dr Hurley, who had looked after his lordship ever since he left the navy many years before, and Mr Dewhurst, the family lawyer. Some Alex already knew; his aunt had introduced him to others.
She was a marvel, the way she coped. She had told him Uncle Henry had been ailing for some time, but had gone downhill swiftly in the last three weeks of his life, and in the end, because of the pain he suffered, it had been a release.
One by one they had begun to drift away, until only the family and the lawyer were left to hear the reading of the will. Its contents had shocked Alex. After gifts to the servants, and an annuity to his sister, ‘for her devoted care’, the bulk of Lord Bourne’s estate, including the house, its lands and his small yacht moored at Waterhead, had been left to ‘my nephew, Major Alexander Malvers, knowing he will, among my various kin, make the best use of it’.
There had been a gasp among those present, particularly from Mrs Waldover and Sir Bertram Hudson. Mrs Waldover had, according to his aunt, been toadying to his lordship for months in the hope of seeing her son inherit Highhead Hall. Sir Bertram being thirty-five years old, and in the import and export business at Liverpool, had assumed that, because he was the elder, he would inherit. Neither had even thought about Alex, who had been away fighting Napoleon. Alex had been as dumbfounded as they were.
‘When did he make that will?’ Bertram demanded, while Alex sat silently trying to absorb the implications. Besides this solid granite house and the grounds that surrounded it, there were several hundred acres that were let out to a sheep farmer, interests in the woollen industry and a substantial sum in cash and stocks, as well as the Lady Jane, moored on Lake Windermere.
The lawyer consulted its date. ‘Five years ago.’
‘I thought so. He’d never have called Alex a major if he had known he was already a viscount.’
‘What is that to the purpose?’ Aunt Amelia had asked.
‘He would not have named Malvers if he had known he’d already got his inheritance. I’ll wager there’s a more recent will somewhere.’
‘There is not.’ The lawyer was adamant. ‘Do you think I would not have known if he had wanted it changed?’
‘You are not the only lawyer in the county.’ This from Mrs Waldover.
‘No. If it pleases you to do so, then I have no objection to your consulting any one or all of them.’
‘What have you got to say for yourself?’ Bertram demanded of Alex.
‘Me? Nothing. I am as astonished as you are.’ He turned to Mr Dewhurst. ‘Are you sure there is no more recent will?’
‘I am positive, my lord. This house is yours, the land attached to it is yours, and the business interests are yours. I will go over it in more detail at your convenience.’
‘What did my uncle mean by “make the best use of it”?’
‘I think, my lord, he was referring to something you conveyed to him in letters written from Spain, concerns you had for the men under your command.’
It was true that in his frequent letters to his uncle he had written of his strong feelings on the subject of gratitude, or lack of it, from a country towards the men who fought so bravely for so little reward. Why, even Wellington had called them the ‘scum of the earth’, though he had praised them too. But praise was not work, nor did it feed the bellies of starving children. Was that what his uncle had meant? Sad as he was at his uncle’s demise, he could not help feeling a quiver of anticipation at the prospect of being able to do something, even if it was only a little.
