Mrs Hardy gently explained she was aware of that, but had thought they’d like something warming after a long journey from London on a very chilly day. His only answer to that was a sniff.
He remarked unfavourably on many things – from the gravy, which was too salty, to the wine, which was too dry – but it seemed that he just liked to complain, even if something was perfect.
The undertakers had put Mrs Gladsworthy in an open coffin in the small sitting room, early in the evening of the day she died. They had lit candles all around the coffin, with two large arrangements of lilies either side.
Mabel hadn’t liked to ask how they had managed to straighten out the drooping side of her face – some sort of padding, she supposed – but she looked quite lovely, and not a bit frightening. The immediate neighbours began calling to pay their last respects the next morning. As Mrs Hardy had to show them in, it was left to Mabel to spring-clean both the seldom-used drawing and dining rooms, make up beds and generally ensure the house looked inviting to visitors.
As for Cook, she worked solidly, preparing food for both the Bedford family and for people coming back to the house after the funeral. Yet when Mr Bedford arrived, he looked around as if he had an unpleasant smell under his nose, and he couldn’t find it in himself to offer one word of thanks to Cook and Mrs Hardy for all their hard work.
Today, the day of the funeral, Mabel had a feeling there was more trouble looming. She’d noticed the way Mr Bedford and his wife had been appraising certain pieces of furniture last night, also the paintings and silver. She had no idea what their own home was like, but she was certain it wasn’t as refined as Harley Place, because she could almost taste their greed and glee.
Mabel told herself it was none of her business as she dressed and did her hair. Today was going to be an ordeal, but funerals always were. She just hoped that, on Saturday, the Bedfords would put everyone out of their misery by telling them what was going to happen, and then clear off back to London.
The funeral went as well as any funeral could. Christchurch was around half full – a triumph, considering there hadn’t been time for many old friends and family members living a long way away to get there. Also, Mrs Gladsworthy was only able to attend church when the weather was warm and dry, so she had lost touch with some of the congregation. But the vicar spoke of all she had done for the church before she became an invalid; he pointed out the altar cloth she had embroidered and the elegant silver candlesticks she had donated. He said what a kind-hearted woman she was, always interested in other people and ready to help them, and how sad it was that she had lost her beloved husband to a riding accident when he was still a young man.
Mabel’s eyes kept prickling with tears, and when she looked at Mrs Hardy, seated next to her, she saw she had tears streaming down her cheeks. Yet Mr Bedford was stony-faced; his own sister dead, and not even a quiver of his lips.
People didn’t stay long back at Harley Place. They drank the offered sherry, ate the vol-au-vents, the sausage rolls and the sandwiches. They chatted to one another in low voices, but Mr Bedford, his wife and children made no attempt to mingle with them and discover what they had been to Mrs Gladsworthy.
Mabel became aware, through pinning back her ears and paying attention, that many of the people gathered today were relatives or friends of Mrs Gladsworthy’s late husband, and they did appear to be genuinely sorrowful.
‘She wrote often,’ she heard one very elegant, slender middle-aged lady say to another equally elegant lady of the same age. ‘She didn’t say that she was virtually housebound; she was always asking about our family, remembering the children’s names and wanting to know what they were doing. I feel so bad I didn’t suspect she was poorly and rush over here to see her. She must have been very lonely.’
‘Sol was her world,’ the other woman said in response, leading Mabel to think she must be Mrs Gladsworthy’s sister-in-law. ‘It was like the light went out inside her after he died. I haven’t visited since last Christmas, and I feel guilty about that now too, but it’s a long way to come from Dorchester, and to be honest I found it very upsetting here, with all the memories of Sol.’
After everyone had gone, and the Bedfords were drinking tea in the drawing room, Mabel asked Mrs Hardy if Sol had been their mistress’s husband.
‘Yes, his name was Solomon. He was a lovely man, a real gentleman and very handsome. He was a surveyor and his services were very much in demand. I think Frank Bedford was green with envy that his sister had married so well. Their father was just a grocer, and I believe Frank has quite a lowly job in the Civil Service. I’m really hoping it will turn out that the estate goes back to Solomon’s family, as they are such good people.’
She didn’t need to add what might happen if the Bedfords inherited. But Mabel had watched Frank Bedford strutting about and felt sure he was already planning to move into Harley Place.
Two days after the funeral, Mrs Hardy told Mabel that she thought they ought to go through the mistress’s clothes, just to check that nothing had been put away still stained, or in need of mending.
‘I’ve no idea, of course, what Mr Bedford will decide to do with them, but I’d be mortified if his wife tried any of the garments and found something not quite right. Mrs Gladsworthy was always so particular.’
To Mabel it seemed a somewhat pointless exercise, but a pleasant one nonetheless, as some of the evening gowns were exceedingly beautiful. It gave her the chance to look at them and to hold them up against herself, imagining wearing something so grand.
Mrs Hardy went downstairs to see to something in the kitchen after a little while, leaving Mabel to carry on alone. They had brought a wheeled rail down from the attic, and after she’d checked each gown, she hung it on the rail.
She found a very lovely white voile dress with a ruffled skirt that she felt Mrs Gladsworthy had worn as a young woman. She wished she dared put it on, but she held it up against herself and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She could smell lily of the valley perfume, and she performed a few dance steps, imagining herself at a ball.
All at once a strange feeling came over her. It was like she was drifting off to sleep, and dreaming about a girl dancing, wearing the dress. The man she was dancing with was far taller than the girl, he had dark hair and wore tails and a bow tie.
‘What are you doing, Mabel?’ Mrs Hardy’s sharp question brought Mabel back to reality.
For a moment Mabel was so disorientated she could only gape at Mrs Hardy.
‘What is it?’ the older woman said. ‘You are very flushed. What are you doing with that dress?’
‘Nothing! I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I suddenly felt really funny and I saw a girl wearing this dress and dancing with a tall dark man wearing tails.’
The housekeeper snatched the dress away from Mabel, looking very suspicious. ‘That was Mrs Gladsworthy’s special dress. She was wearing it the night she met her husband. It was far too small and rather young for her, but she was sentimental and that’s why she kept it.’
‘But was he very tall, and was he wearing a tail coat that night?’ Mabel asked.
Mrs Hardy frowned. ‘Well, yes he was. But I think you probably just need to eat something. Girls your age sometimes faint and imagine things when their stomachs are empty.’
Mabel wasn’t hungry. And she really had seen the girl and a man dancing. But she knew it was better to agree she was hungry, and leave it at that.
Perhaps she looked very glum, because the housekeeper put her hand on Mabel’s shoulder. ‘You are just a little overwrought,’ she said gently. ‘First the mistress dying, and then Bedford marching in here and making us all feel unwanted. It’s enough for us all to start seeing things.’
It was mid-December, over two weeks since Mrs Gladsworthy’s funeral, when Frank Bedford arrived back at Harley Place. He had given Mrs Hardy no warning he was coming, and the way he just barged in without so much as a ‘good morning’ was an indication he might now own the house. W
ith him was another man – tall, slender, silver-haired and carrying a briefcase – and also Mr John Stevenson, who had been a close friend of Solomon Gladsworthy.
After ordering Mrs Hardy to bring him a large whisky – and tea for his two companions, who he didn’t introduce – Bedford opened the door to the drawing room, invited the other gentlemen to take a seat, and demanded to know of the housekeeper why no fire had been lit in there.
‘Sir, if you’d let me know you were coming, it would’ve been lit,’ she replied. ‘Since Mrs Gladsworthy stopped using this room, and the dining room, we only light a fire occasionally to air them.’
‘Well, get it lit now,’ he said sharply.
‘I don’t think that’s necessary now,’ the tall man spoke up. ‘My business here won’t take long. You said earlier you are booked on the three-thirty train back to London. Hardly worth lighting a fire.’
‘Then get the cook to come up with my whisky and the tea,’ Bedford snapped at Mrs Hardy. ‘And you come in with her.’
Mabel was standing on a stepladder, passing seldom-used pots and pans down from a high shelf to Mrs Tweed to wash, while she cleaned the shelf, when Mrs Hardy came in and told them about what had occurred upstairs. ‘One of the men is Mr Stevenson, that portly gentleman with the red face that used to be a close friend of the master. I think the other man is Mrs Gladsworthy’s solicitor, but I can’t be sure as I only saw him once, years ago.’
‘He’s come about the will, then?’ Mrs Tweed asked.
‘Possibly, but he wants to see you – and me, too. We’d better put on clean aprons.’
Mabel climbed down from the stepladder.
‘He didn’t ask you to come too,’ Mrs Hardy said. ‘You stay down here and put the kettle on low, in case they want more tea later.’
Mabel nodded in agreement. As the most junior person in the household, she hadn’t expected to be included.
‘Do you think he’s going to give us our marching orders?’ Cook whispered to the housekeeper as they went up the stairs. Cook was carrying the tea tray, Mrs Hardy the whisky.
‘We’ll soon find out,’ she whispered back.
Mr Bedford had taken an easy chair opposite his companions. But as the two women entered the room, one of the gentlemen jumped to his feet to introduce himself as Mr Fortesque, Mrs Gladsworthy’s solicitor. ‘I believe you’ve met Mr Stevenson before,’ he said, indicating the portly man. ‘He was a close friend of Mr Gladsworthy and is the executor of Mrs Gladsworthy’s will.’
After the two women had put down the drinks, Bedford pointed to two seats to one side of his own, but slightly back, as if to make clear they were less important. Then, without any preamble, Mr Fortesque took papers from his briefcase, cleared his throat and began to speak.
‘First, I must apologize for not coming to Mrs Gladsworthy’s funeral or speaking to you all immediately afterwards, but I was abroad on business and didn’t learn of her death until my return. So, I am here today to read the last will and testament of Mrs Elizabeth Gladsworthy. It is dated the eighteenth of July, 1915, and was witnessed by her friend Mrs Mildred Francis, and my secretary Miss Ruth Brown. As I have already stated, Mr Stevenson is the executor of the will.
‘I am not going to read every word of it to you, only the parts which are relevant to those here today. But after that, I will give you a general overview of the contents, so that you understand who has been bequeathed what.’
Clearing his throat, he began to read in solemn tones.
‘To my brother, Frank Bedford, I leave my home, number six Harley Place. This will include any contents left after the bequests I have made.’
Cook and housekeeper exchanged a quick glance. They had discussed a few days ago that Bedford would almost certainly be left the house, and they doubted he would want to keep either of them on. Neither of them relished working for him anyway.
‘To my niece Constance Anne Bedford, I leave my diamond and pearl bracelet,’ Fortesque went on. ‘To my niece Faith Evelyn Bedford, my gold and ruby flower brooch, and to my niece Emily Lily Bedford, I leave my garnet and diamond earrings.’
The housekeeper glanced at Bedford and saw he was frowning. Had he been expecting more for his daughters? She wondered why they hadn’t come today.
‘The remainder of my jewellery, furs, clothes and all my personal effects,’ Mr Fortesque went on, ‘I leave to my sister-in-law, Lavinia Jane Forester, sister of my late husband, Solomon Gladsworthy. I entrust her to share out my effects between herself and my late husband’s nieces, who we were both so fond of.’
The solicitor looked up from his papers at this point and paused, taking a moment to make sure everyone assembled was listening. ‘Ideally, Mrs Forester should have been here today, but she was unable to make the long journey. However, it is in Mr Bedford’s interests to hear about the bequest to her. Now I am not going to read out the next part as it is exceedingly long, and concerns no one in this room. In it Mrs Gladsworthy has listed many of what she refers to as her and her husband’s ‘treasures’ and explains that they either originated from the Gladsworthy family, or they were special items she and Solomon bought during their marriage. They are all to go to Lavinia Forester, on the understanding she either shares them or holds them in trust for her children and grandchildren.’
He looked up again and settled his glasses further back on his nose. ‘I have copies of this list of items, one of which I shall be sending to Mrs Forester, and one each for Mrs Hardy, Mr Bedford and Mr Stevenson, so that no mistakes are made about ownership before Mrs Forester can arrange to collect them all.’
Mrs Hardy noted that Bedford’s frown had deepened, and his colour had risen. Clearly, he was angry that all the treasures he and his wife had looked at during their time here for the funeral were not going to be his.
‘To Mrs Joan Hardy,’ he went on, looking straight at the housekeeper, ‘I leave the sum of five hundred pounds, and the mews house at the back of Harley Place, along with its entire contents, to secure your future. You have been so much more than a housekeeper to first my husband and myself, then since his death you have been friend, confidant and nurse to me. I cannot thank you enough and wish you every happiness in the future.’
Mrs Hardy couldn’t help but gasp; her eyes welled up and the tears spilled over. The most she had expected was perhaps a small item of jewellery as a token of her mistress’s esteem, but the pretty little mews house!
But Mr Fortesque was already moving on.
‘To Mrs Mary Tweed, my cook, I leave the sum of five hundred pounds and my thanks for all the years you have cooked for me. I wish you and your family happiness.’
The two older women looked at each other, and their excitement and joy were like a waft of warm air entering the chilly room.
Mr Fortesque smiled at the two women, clearly glad to be giving them some good news.
‘I will try to wind this up now,’ Mr Fortesque said, looking to each of them in turn. ‘Aside from this house, which has been left to Mr Bedford, and the bequests to his daughters, the sums to staff and the mews house, the remainder of Mrs Gladsworthy’s estate – money, stocks and shares, et cetera – will go to various charities. I have a list of them here.’
Mr Bedford looked at the two women. ‘You two can go now and get on with your duties,’ he barked at them. His face was red, and his eyes were flashing dangerously.
‘Before you go,’ Mr Fortesque said, ‘I shall be sending each of you letters to confirm what I have told you today. Probate has to be settled before any money is paid out; that is, of course, partly to check there is enough money in the estate to cover it. My advice to all three of you is to do nothing rash until probate has been settled, and if you should leave here do let me know your new address.’
Once back in the kitchen, the two older women stood like statues without speaking until Mabel begged them to tell her what had happened.
Mrs Hardy was so overcome and tearful, it was left to Cook to explain.
‘Mr Bedford isn’t best pleased,’ she added.
Mabel hugged the two older women. ‘I’m glad about that, but I’m so happy for you’, she said. ‘It’s lovely to think the mistress thought about you both some years ago when she made the will.’
‘What are you three conspiring about?’
Bedford’s voice, coming from the passage outside the kitchen, made them all start.
‘Conspiring?’ Mrs Hardy said. ‘Hardly that.’
He came right into the kitchen, his eyes blazing. ‘I shall contest the will,’ he said. ‘It should all have gone to me.’
‘I’m so sorry, sir, that you are disappointed,’ Mrs Hardy said, her tone silky. ‘Is there anything I can do for you now? Something to eat, a pot of tea? Will you be staying the night?’
Mabel sensed how insincere the housekeeper was and wanted to smile, but she didn’t dare.
‘You needn’t think you are all going to do nothing until the probate has gone through, and I move in here,’ he snapped at her. ‘I shall be checking on you.’
‘We will work as we always have done,’ Mrs Hardy said. ‘You mustn’t worry about anything, sir.’
He just stood there, his eyes darting around the kitchen, as if he was looking for something to find fault with.
His eyes fell on Mrs Tweed. ‘I’m giving you a week’s notice to quit,’ he said. ‘There is no point in keeping a cook on when there are only two other servants in the house.’ He then turned his eyes to Mabel. ‘I shall decide what to do about you shortly.’
He swept out then. After just a few minutes, they heard the front door slam behind him.
‘Oh, Cook, I’m so sorry,’ Mrs Hardy said. ‘That was very mean of him.’
Mrs Tweed shrugged. ‘I’m not a bit surprised. I’m only glad it wasn’t Mabel or you he ordered to go. I have at least got a home. Even if he’d asked me to stay on to cook for him, I’d have refused. He’s a horrible man.’
You'll Never See Me Again Page 6
