The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  Giles was frowning now. “One of the footmen. Hemp, is it? The younger of the two.”

  “That fellow!” The disparaging note was pronounced. “Oh, it was ever thus! The dratted girl can twist him any way she wills.”

  Ottilia caught Francis eyeing her again and dropped her voice to a mutter. “The time, Fan.”

  He nodded and turned instantly to his nephew. “It is imperative that you remember the precise time this fellow Hemp came to you, Giles.”

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know it precisely. I had not yet breakfasted.”

  “That’s no use, for neither have we.” Francis bent a direful frown upon his relative. “Do you tell me you waited upon breakfast after receiving an urgent request to come here?”

  “For God’s sake, Uncle Francis, she didn’t say it was urgent!”

  Giles threw up his hands as he spoke in a gesture abruptly similar to one Francis was apt to make and Ottilia stared at him. It had not before occurred to her that Lord Bennifield in any way resembled the menfolk on his father’s side, for to her eyes he bore an uncanny likeness to the portrait of his mother Emily. Since the poor woman had been murdered upon the very day Ottilia made acquaintance with the Polbrook family, she had no live image with which to make a comparison.

  Giles turned to Miss Ingleby. “Where is Tamasine? How has she taken it?”

  “How do you think?” the woman flashed. “Her guardian is dead, sir. Did you expect her to dance on his grave?”

  “Miss Ingleby, hush.” Ottilia moved to the woman and grasped her hands. “You are overwrought.”

  The companion burst into sobs, dragging her hands away and throwing them over her face. Ottilia put an arm about her, murmuring soothingly, and glanced quickly about the hall, seeking for doors. “Is there somewhere we may escape to?”

  She threw the question at Giles, who was looking both outraged and upset. As who could blame him? She heard Francis murmur to the boy.

  “Do you know the house? Where can they go?”

  Starting a little, Giles nodded and moved swiftly towards a door near the front of the house, throwing it open. “There’s a parlour in here, Aunt Ottilia.”

  She thanked him and made to hustle the weeping companion towards the entrance. She encountered no opposition, but just as they reached the door, a peal of silvery laughter floated towards them from above and Tamasine Roy came running down the stairs. Her voice expressed unequivocal delight with no vestige of grief.

  “Giles! You came! I knew you would.” She pirouetted across the hall towards young Lord Bennifield, her bright blue gaze shining. “Isn’t it wonderful? Joslin is dead and now we may be married!”

  Chapter 4

  For a moment no one moved or spoke. Francis was inordinately relieved to see his nephew looking as shocked as he felt. Despite forewarning of the girl’s dubious mental state, the callous nature of her remarks could not but strike the normal mind. Tillie, he noted, looking across, was wearing that faint frown he knew betokened furious thought.

  Before Francis could hazard a guess at the import of her cogitations, a roaring emanated from Miss Ingleby, shattering the silence. Breaking free of Tillie’s hold, the woman advanced like an avenging fury.

  “Ingrate! Is this how you repay his care of you? Foolish, idiot girl!”

  A ringing slap landed on the child’s cheek, and she instantly set up a screech.

  “Miss Ingleby!” Horror was in Giles’s voice.

  But the woman had no ears for any word of protest or sense, and the resulting cacophony gave Francis the impression that it was the companion rather than Miss Tamasine Roy, who was deficient in wits.

  “Upstairs! Upstairs with you this instant!”

  “I hate you! I hate you!”

  Tamasine flailed wildly as her duenna made to thrust her to the stairs. “Hate me if you will, but you will do as I say.”

  “I won’t, I won’t! Only wait until Simeon comes! He will avenge me!”

  At this, Miss Ingleby’s fury mounted. “As he did before? Simeon Roy will enter this house over my dead body!”

  “Yes, and you will join Joslin in his coffin,” shrieked Tamasine, clearly beside herself.

  “What a commotion!”

  Francis glanced round. His wife had not moved from the door to the parlour, where she stood watching the quick give and take of words. It was unlike her not to intervene and Francis wondered at it. The row was becoming incoherent and when he looked back, he found the companion appeared to be getting the better of it, having succeeded in manhandling the girl to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Up with you! Move. Now!” Of a sudden, Miss Ingleby raised her voice and yelled. “Mrs Whiting! Mrs Whiting!”

  “No, I won’t, I won’t!” screeched Tamasine, fighting desperately to prevent herself from being pushed up the stairs.

  Giles had stood like a stock, his mouth agape. But when Francis saw him recover himself sufficiently to make a motion towards the two women, he marched swiftly across to seize his nephew by the arm.

  “No, you don’t, you young fool! Leave well alone.”

  Giles turned anguished eyes upon him, and tried to pull away. “But that woman is hurting her!”

  “Stand! You will do no good by interfering.”

  A further hubbub behind them made him turn his head and he caught sight of both footmen, together with the butler Lomax, hurtling through the door from the servants’ quarters. Francis drew Giles out of the way, allowing the men to pass, and found Tillie at his elbow, her eyes glued to the mêlée.

  “Watch for attitudes, Fan. Who is with whom?”

  He noted the fellow Hemp was ahead of Cuffy, while Lomax hung back. The younger man’s deep tones were readily audible.

  “I will take her, madame. Miss Tam!”

  The girl’s head turned, and to Francis’s astonishment, she cried out and then threw herself headlong at Hemp, flinging her arms about his neck. He lifted her bodily off the stair and the girl’s legs entwined about his hips.

  Miss Ingleby, though still vocal, had ceased moving up the stairs, and it took a second or two for Francis to realise Cuffy had her by one wrist, impeding her progress. Above them all, at the head of the stairs, stood the dwarfish figure of Mrs Whiting, who called out.

  “Bring her up, Hemp.”

  The footman went swiftly up the stairs, apparently not in the least incommoded by his burden. He and Mrs Whiting headed off along the gallery and were lost to sight.

  Miss Ingleby’s hoarse cries became muted, and she leaned against the balustrade, her free hand thrown across her eyes. At last entering the lists, Lomax went up to her.

  “You should rest, Miss Ingleby. Let the others handle Miss Tamasine. I’ll have Cook make tea and bring it up to you.”

  The companion was weeping quietly and allowed herself to be ushered up the stairs, the fellow Lomax talking soothingly the while as he accompanied her. The footman Cuffy lingered until the two had reached the gallery. Then he turned and came back down the stairs. Francis moved forward to accost him.

  “We are awaiting the doctor, Cuffy. May we make use of the parlour, do you think, where my wife may sit down for a while?”

  The fellow lifted his gaze and Francis met the dark eyes. They were shadowed with grief. “The doctor is for Master Jos? Why? Master Jos is gone. It is too late for the doctor.”

  Sympathy stirred in Francis at the hint of despair in the fellow’s tones. “True, Cuffy. But in this country, there are formalities to be met. The coroner will expect to hear from the doctor before he can decide how to proceed.”

  Cuffy’s gaze did not waver and a frown entered his features. “How is Master dying, sir?”

  “That is for the doctor to say.”

  The footman continued to regard him for a moment and Francis found the back of his neck stiffening with the effort to keep his own gaze steady. At last Cuffy swung his eyes away and found Tillie. He made a slight bow and gestured towards the parlour door.

  “Y
ou can sit there, madame. You would like a drink?”

  Tillie’s warm smile appeared and Cuffy visibly relaxed a trifle. “You are very kind. Coffee would be welcome, if it is not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble, madame.”

  The fellow went to the door and held it open while Tillie went through. Francis looked at his nephew. “Come, Giles.”

  The boy hesitated. “Should I stay, do you think?”

  “I want a word with you.”

  Francis ignored the apprehensive gleam that appeared in his nephew’s eyes.

  Beset by anxiety, Giles watched his uncle close the parlour door. The last thing he needed was to answer tricky questions. He had no doubt they would prove awkward after Tamasine’s outburst. He could wish she’d had the forethought to keep from speaking of the future in front of everyone, but then her eager innocence formed a great part of her charm. The dreadful event this morning must have overset her badly, and Giles half suspected Tamasine had not fully taken in the fact of her guardian’s death. What else might explain that unfortunate slip of the tongue?

  Yet he was the more exercised by Miss Ingleby’s rough treatment of the poor girl. He was all too aware, for Tamasine had explained as much, how so many in the household were apt to surround her with shibboleths and restrictions. He must find a way to speak with her before he left the house, although he must first shake off his unwelcome relatives.

  His uncle Francis was looking around the parlour, frowning question in his face. It was not new to Giles, but he recalled his own reaction at first sight of the place. It had an air of the exotic, although its furnishings were meagre, with none of the elegance that characterised the typical English gentleman’s country home. There was a sofa and a couple of armchairs made up in some form of plaited reed, with flowered cushions of a bright hue and colourful fringed clothes thrown across their backs. A cane table was set to one side and a patterned rug decorated the floor instead of a carpet. The effect was incongruous against the striped wall-paper and the ornate fireplace and mantel with a fixed mirror above.

  Giles saw his uncle glance across at his wife, who was standing near the sofa, angled to catch the heat from the fire, her gaze also wandering around the room.

  “Well, Tillie?”

  Their eyes met, and a little smile quivered on his aunt Ottilia’s lips. “I suspect the effort is to make it as much like ‘home’ as possible.”

  “Barbados, you mean?”

  “Just so. I dare say it was done for Tamasine’s sake.”

  “To keep her in a calm frame of mind?”

  Giles could not forbear interrupting. “Calm? How could she be calm in such circumstances?”

  “My dear Giles,” responded his aunt, “I am not referring to today’s events.”

  A flash of annoyance raced through Giles and he did not trust himself to answer. He knew his uncle would take it in snuff if he addressed himself with acerbity towards Lady Francis. But his silence made his uncle testy.

  “It is of no use to look mulish, Giles. Surely you must see what is obvious to the rest of us?”

  Giles bit down on a sharp retort, affecting ignorance as the best defence. “I fail to understand you, Uncle Francis.”

  “I am talking of Tamasine’s condition.”

  As if he had not known it! Why must the world and his wife presume to judge the poor girl amiss, merely because she was different? “What condition? She is a delightful girl.” Recollecting the recent scene, Giles amended this. “At least, she is in the normal way.”

  To his consternation, his aunt Ottilia moved to him and set a hand upon his arm. With difficulty Giles refrained from throwing it rudely off.

  “Dear Giles, it is very hard for you. She is a beautiful creature, is she not?”

  At this, he could not forbear emitting a sigh, as ever haunted by the image of Tamasine as he had first seen her that day in the forest. “She is exquisite.”

  “And she has borne much this day.” His aunt left him, and passed on to her husband. “I will leave you to explain everything to your nephew, my dearest.”

  Faintly relieved, for he would deal better with his uncle alone, Giles was a little surprised to hear a note of suspicion enter Francis’s voice.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see how matters stand now things have quietened down.”

  “I thought you were going to rest,” his uncle protested. “And Cuffy is bringing coffee.”

  “I will not be gone long.” She set a hand to his chest in a gesture that struck Giles as peculiarly intimate. “Besides, I am persuaded you and Giles will do better without me.”

  Francis covered the hand with his. “Be careful, my love. I don’t want you running afoul of Miss Ingleby. She is in dangerous mood.”

  “She is grieving, Francis. Have you not realised that?”

  Giles’s mind leapt to the suspicion that had more than once attacked him, and he was not surprised to hear his uncle’s question.

  “You mean she was attached to the dead man?”

  His aunt’s eyes glinted mischief. “Very good, Fan. Much more and I shall find myself utterly redundant.”

  His uncle laughed and let her go, moving to open the door for her. As she went through, she paused to speak in a murmur. Straining, Giles yet could not hear what was said. The conviction his aunt was speaking about him threw him at once onto the defensive, and he hardly waited for Francis to close the door before bursting out.

  “What was all that about? Had Aunt Ottilia something to say to my discredit?” He did not wait for a reply to this, but sped on, spurred by the rising emotions churning in his breast. “I need not ask why you are both against my interest in Tamasine. You are thinking of Phoebe, I’ll be bound. But it is ridiculous to say I am promised.”

  “I don’t say so,” said his uncle unexpectedly as he moved back into the room. “Indeed I must be the last person to advocate an arranged marriage after the disaster…”

  He petered out, and the familiar rise of anger and grief that burdened him yet gripped Giles. What peace of mind he had acquired in the year since his mother’s tragic end had been shattered on his father’s remarriage to that wretch of a Frenchwoman, saddling him with unwanted half-siblings and recalling last year’s events to his mind with startling force. It had taken the advent of Tamasine to rouse him.

  “You are talking of Mama and my father. But times have changed. And if I am to take my father’s example for my model, I may consider myself free to do what the devil I wish.”

  Aware of the savagery in his tone, Giles turned swiftly away and crossed to the fireplace, drumming his unquiet fingers on the mantel. He did not look at his uncle, beset by the unpalatable remembrance that his own absence upon the continent had thrown the whole burden of the business onto Francis’s shoulders.

  His uncle’s voice came quietly, but Giles, acutely sensitive in this connection, noted the suppressed irritation. “If you are able to perceive the unwisdom of your father’s conduct, Giles, it makes even less sense for you to be following in his footsteps.”

  It was too much. Giles turned on him. “How am I doing so? Do you suggest I have used Tamasine as my father used Violette?”

  “I am suggesting nothing of the kind.”

  “As if I would do so,” he persisted, riding over the response. “She is the most innocent creature I have ever encountered. Only a monster would take advantage of her.”

  To his consternation, his uncle pounced on this, shifting to confront him. “That is precisely the point, Giles. She is as innocent as a child, for her mentality is not much above that state.”

  Giles stared at him, all his just resentment emptying from his chest and leaving it hollow. He thrust down on the snaking suspicions that had more than once attacked him. He would not doubt Tamasine. He trusted her, as he trusted his own judgement.

  “You must have noticed the oddity of her behaviour, Giles. I don’t say she is wholly deranged, but it cannot be gainsaid she is abnor
mal.”

  “Deranged? You have been listening to rumour, Uncle. Do you suggest Sir Joslin foisted a lunatic onto the county? If it were true, why is not Tamasine confined?”

  “She may be at times, for all I know.”

  Agitation rode Giles and he broke away, shifting aimlessly about the parlour without seeing where he trod. Images chased one another through his head, and he tried in vain to thrust them away. Only half aware he spoke aloud, he sought blindly for those explanations that had previously occurred to him.

  “She can be distracted, I know. Yes, she speaks often in a fashion you may regard as non sequitur, but what does that betoken? It is nothing more than a manifestation of the freedom of manners obtaining in that island. Tamasine cannot help it. They don’t breed girls to be pattern-cards of virtue as they do here. They are not as strictly tutored in the West Indies, for Miss Ingleby told me so.”

  Giles was half-startled to hear his uncle respond, not having fully realised to whom his persuasions were addressed.

  “No doubt she told you so in an effort to explain away those deficiencies of which you are fully aware.”

  “They are not deficiencies,” Giles retorted, hot against his uncle for the word. “If she demonstrates a freedom we are unused to see here, why should that redound upon the state of her mind? I find it refreshing.” To his consternation, his uncle Francis looked less annoyed than compassionate. “Why do you look at me like that? As if you pitied me!”

  One of Francis’s eyebrows went up in an expression Giles knew of old. “I pity any young man besotted enough to disregard what is right in front of his face.”

  “Besotted?” Giles gave a short laugh. “Useless, I suppose, to tell you how much in love with her I am.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Giles sighed. “You didn’t, Uncle. You think I’m infatuated with a beautiful face.” He crossed to the window and looked out across the wide lawns to the shadow of the forest beyond, and spoke again without turning round. “You might be forgiven for thinking so, I suppose. I admit I was dazzled by her loveliness at first. I took her for a village wench.”