The Lacemaker (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 2)

by Mary Kingswood

  “Mrs Narfield was quite grand, wasn’t she, Caro?” Lin said. “Those drops in her ears were emeralds, I’m sure. But their gowns… do you know, I think ours were as pretty as any of them, and prettier than Miss Beacher’s, for she wore a very plain muslin, with no interesting ornament at all. And Mrs Leatham’s lace was nothing like as fine as Caro’s.”

  “No one makes lace as fine as Caro’s,” Poppy said, her huge eyes softening. “Except Mama, of course. But what of the gentlemen? Were they like that man we saw going into the assembly once? The one with the shirt points nearly above his ears and his breeches so tight I could not see how he would ever contrive to sit down.”

  The sisters giggled at the memory. “Nothing like that,” Lin said. “They all dressed like gentlemen, but nothing to draw the eye.”

  “Papa always said that is one of the distinguishing characteristics of the true gentleman, that he doesn’t draw attention to himself,” Caroline said. “Although behaviour is more important. I liked Mr Will Leatham, didn’t you?”

  “Oh yes, very polite,” Lin said, “ although he didn’t say very much when he sat beside me at dinner. I had to make all the conversation.”

  “Which you managed perfectly well,” Caroline said. “Whereas I was stuck with the taciturn Mr Charles Leatham, and a man with whom I have less in common would be hard to find. Conversation with him was like drawing water with a leaky bucket — a lot of effort for very little reward.”

  “You seemed to be getting along quite well at one point, “ Lin said. “You must have found something to talk about.”

  “Soup,” Caroline said. “We talked about soup.”

  The others laughed rather uncertainly, as if not sure whether she was serious or not.

  “But still, he is such a handsome man, isn’t he?” Poppy sighed. “Quite stern looking, but very handsomely featured, and so tall and broad in the chest. So many gentlemen are not well-built in that way, because they never do any real work, do they? They never build up their muscles by digging or sawing or chopping, like John Christopher has. But Mr Leatham is well-built. I suppose that comes from his days in the army.”

  Caroline didn’t think Mr Leatham was at all handsome, but that was because she’d never seen him when he wasn’t scowling at her. No, that wasn’t quite true. When they’d talked of soup over dinner, he had joined in the joke good-humouredly, and at the whist table… he had been handsome enough then, she conceded, his eyes blazing with excitement and his whole countenance lit up with smiles of glee. Yes, he was very handsome when he smiled, but that was an occurrence as rare as hen’s teeth.

  After writing a short note to Mrs Leatham to thank her for her hospitality, Caroline had presumed that would be the end of their acquaintance with the Starlingford family. She had no intention of prolonging it by reciprocating with a dinner at Bursham Cottage, or by further morning calls, and hoped they would now be allowed to return to their usual activities. Lin and Poppy were busy in the garden with their plants and chickens, and they had been promised a goat and kid. Caroline herself returned with relief to her lace. A trip to Salisbury saw the sale of her first three lace fans, and orders for a dozen more, so she worked steadily each day for two hours before breakfast, and then for another two hours. After that, she kept her accounts up to date, or walked to one or other of the shops in the three neighbouring villages, or discussed the management of the house with Susie.

  It was irritating, therefore, when the very next Friday saw Mrs Leatham and her surly son calling again. Not that she minded Mrs Leatham very much, for although it was a disruption, she merely chattered away in a rattle of genial inanities for half an hour and went away again. She never seemed to mind that Lin and Poppy were nowhere to be seen. The surly son paced about restlessly, spoke not ten words to Caroline and then meekly followed his mother back to the carriage. He seemed docile, and yet there was some barely-contained anger in the way he slapped his gloves against his leg as he strode about the room. Why was he so angry? Not at Caroline, surely, for she scarcely knew him. But she refused to let him unsettle her, and merely made polite noises until they went away again.

  What was worse was that the sisters seemed to have been accepted into society more widely. Each Friday saw a steady stream of sedate carriages, disgorging all the matrons and dowagers that the three villages could muster. Sometimes they brought their sons or nephews or grandsons with them, and if Lin was nowhere to be seen, the young gentlemen would feel the need for a stroll about the garden, not returning until their female kin sent Susie in search of them.

  Their persistence made her smile, for she was beginning to realise that their efforts were in vain, since their other regular visitor was Mr Lester Stratton. Every Saturday he rode out from Romsey to stay for two nights at the inn, and somehow he always managed to inveigle himself an invitation to dinner at Bursham Cottage. Lin would smile and blush just a little and lower her eyes demurely, and Mr Stratton would smile and contrive to sit next to her, and it was not at all difficult to see what was happening. Caroline could not object to it. She had once thought that Lin, with her looks, might aim for something better than a country town attorney, a proper gentleman, perhaps, but if her affections were engaged, then she would not stand in their way.

  It was pleasant, she found, to have a man about the house to whom they could talk openly. Any difficulty or uncertainty could be put to him, and he would beam his warm smile and answer clearly, without evasion or being patronising. He was the only person beyond the family and John Christopher who had been admitted to the secret of the hidden boxes of money. Three had now been found, and with half the beds still undug, there was every expectation of more turning up.

  “Mr Wishaw had a reputation as a careful man with his money,” Mr Stratton said thoughtfully. “Perhaps he mistrusted banks, and preferred to keep some portion of his wealth hidden away where no thief or disaster could steal it away.”

  “But the net purses?” Caroline said. “A lady’s hand made those, and they are very distinctive, are they not?” They had laid out all the purses for Mr Stratton to see, and they were indeed very unusual, with intricate patterns.

  He shrugged. “I cannot see that the purses are significant. One has to keep money in something, after all, and net purses may be obtained anywhere. Are you comfortable keeping so much money in the safe here? Two thousand pounds is a considerable sum. Should you like me to take it to the bank for you?”

  Gratefully, Caroline agreed, keeping only a little for their own expenses. Almost eight thousand pounds now invested, plus Mama’s little annuity, and the rent from the fields… more than four hundred pounds a year, even if she sold nothing at all. It was very satisfactory.

  There was only one worry to trouble Caroline at this time. John Christopher came diffidently to the kitchen door one morning asking for Caroline.

  “Something to show you, miss.”

  He led her round to the outside of the house, where he had been engaged in trimming back the ivy that grew there. Without a word, he pointed to the study window.

  “What am I looking at? Oh!”

  The locksmith had fixed bars across the windows to protect the study from thieves, and the bars themselves were still intact. Some enterprising person, however, had been carefully chipping away at the fixings and gradually loosening them. Eventually, it would be possible to remove the bars altogether.

  Mr Stratton was not concerned. “These external fittings are merely a deterrent. Even if a thief could remove the bars completely, there would still be the reinforced shutters to get past, and in any event, there is nothing of value in the study outside the safe and I do not believe a common thief will succeed in breaking in to that! Mr Wishaw must have paid a great deal of money for such a secure receptacle. You may be easy in your mind, Miss Milburn.”

  “I shall never be easy in my mind,” she said with a laugh. “Not until I am beyond the mortal sphere.”

  “Have you thought of a dog?” Mr Stratton said. “No intr
uder could enter secretly with a dog about the house.”

  Caroline groaned. “Do not suggest it in Poppy’s hearing, for there would be no peace until she obtained one. Naturally it would be a puppy, and not in the least house-trained. Then I should have the servants rebelling at the extra work, it would dig up Lin’s vegetables and chase the chickens and we should be all in chaos.”

  He laughed, but said, “Very well, no dog, but in truth I do not think you need any additional security. We will check all the windows regularly, but I doubt the thief will effect an entry this way.”

  And with that she had to be satisfied.

  One morning, Caroline was busy with her lace, using a black thread this time, when a carriage crunched up the gravel drive. She sighed. It was not a Friday, when they were expected to be at home to receive callers, and Lin’s lovelorn swains would not arrive in a carriage. Nor was it to be a short, formal visit, since the carriage, after depositing the caller, had rattled away towards the stable. So it was a great surprise when Mr Charles Leatham was shown in, alone.

  “Is Mrs Leatham not with you?” Caroline said.

  He gave a slight lift of one shoulder. “Oh… not today. She is… busy.”

  “Oh. She is well, I take it? And your father?”

  “They are quite well, thank you.”

  “And Mr William Leatham? Is he still at Starlingford?”

  “He left yesterday.” A long pause. “He was quite well then.”

  “Good, although I am sorry he has left. You will all miss him, I think. He is very entertaining company.” He said nothing, so she laboured on. “And Miss Beacher? Is she well?”

  “Mildred is always well. Nothing ever ails her.” Was that bitterness in his tone? Yet he was to marry her, wasn’t he? How odd.

  Caroline cast about wildly for some other topic of conversation, but her mind was blank. “Will you sit down, Mr Leatham? May I send for some tea? Or a glass of Madeira?”

  “Nothing, thank you.” He stood by the window, gazing moodily into the garden.

  Caroline gave it up, determined to make no more effort with him. If he wanted to talk, let him open the subject. And if he should be determined to stay silent, she might at least make productive use of the time. She seated herself once more on her lacemaking chair and took up the pillow. Perhaps the clack of the bobbins attracted his notice, for he drew near to look over her shoulder as she worked. It was unnerving to have him standing just behind her, but she would not be intimidated! She worked on, her fingers deftly moving the bobbins in their rhythm, adding a pin, weaving the bobbins, another pin, another spell of weaving.

  “That is very clever,” he said. “Is it for one of your gowns?”

  “No, as a spinster, I can’t wear this much lace. It’s a fan, do you see?” She spread out the completed section, so that he could see the curve.

  “Do you need a black fan? You are not in mourning, are you?”

  “It’s not for me. I’ll sell it to a shop in Salisbury. Ebony-framed fans are much in demand just now, seemingly, so I’ll get a good price for it.”

  He made a sound that might have been annoyance. “Why do you want to do that? You are not any longer a poor orphan needing to make a living. You had best leave off this sort of thing.”

  She spun round in her chair to glare at him. “Not a poor orphan, no, but only a slightly better off one. We still have to watch the pennies, Mr Leatham, and any extra income is useful.”

  “Nonsense!” he said, and for a moment he sounded so like his step-mother that she was tempted to laugh.

  “It may be nonsense to you, sir, but I assure you it is a very serious matter to me. I prefer to be beforehand with the world rather than in debt.”

  “Well, of course,” he said testily. “Did I ever suggest otherwise? But you must have a good income by now, and your expenses must be low.”

  Carefully she set her lacemaking pillow back on its stand and stood to face him. Trying very hard to keep the anger from her voice, she said, “Mr Leatham, neither our income nor our expenditure is any concern of yours.”

  “Pfft,” he said, slapping his gloves against his thigh. He walked across to the window again, then turned to face her. “Miss Milburn, my step-mother has tried her best to lift you into a higher level of society, but you seem determined to sink back to your former plane. It is not good enough. You had much better save your lace for your own adornment.”

  “What business is it of yours what I do?” she said hotly, no longer bothering to hide her contempt. “I will do as I please, without reference to you or your step-mother. I am perfectly content in my own level of society and have no wish to ape those above me.”

  “That is foolish beyond reason, to refuse to rise when you have the means to do so,” he said. “You must stop this selling of fans nonsense at once. You may not be a lady, but you have the means to appear to be one.”

  “Well, of all the horrid insults!” she cried.

  “It is no insult to speak the truth,” he said angrily. “Those who know better must instruct the ignorant. I want your assurance that you will not sell any more fans, or anything else of that nature.”

  “I shall do no such thing! Whatever makes you imagine you have the right to lecture me on such matters?”

  “Oh, this is ridiculous!” he said, tossing the gloves onto a table with some force. “Let us just get this over with, shall we? Miss Milburn, will you marry me?”

  Caroline’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. For a long moment she gaped at him, hardly able to comprehend his words. Then she burst out laughing.

  “Don’t be absurd!” she said, between gasps of laughter.

  “What is so absurd about it?” he said stiffly.

  “You must be insane,” she said. “You don’t even like me, and I certainly don’t like you.”

  “What has that to do with anything?” he snapped. “We should learn to get along, I daresay, and if not, we will not need to have much to do with each other, apart from… you know, the begetting of heirs and so forth.”

  “For heaven’s sake, what are you saying?” Caroline said. “I can’t imagine what is going on in your mind. Aren’t you supposed to marry Miss Beacher?”

  His rage dissolved at once into an expression of absolute horror. “No, no, no! Never! Mildred would have done admirably for Ben, for he was ordained and as prosily pious as she is, but I would probably murder her within a month. I could not bear it. Any wife would be better than Mildred, even—” He stopped, and at least had the grace to look embarrassed.

  “Even me? Well, you are full of compliments today, Mr Leatham. I cannot understand why you have evaded matrimony for so many years when you display such irresistible charm.”

  “I do not see the point in wrapping it up in fancy words,” he said, but his anger had died down a little. “Not that I have ever had much of a facility with fancy words, so plain words will have to do. I must marry to ensure the line continues, and Mama has selected you as the best candidate.”

  “And you always do what your step-mother wants?”

  “She is usually right,” he said with a shrug. “In her view you are a sensible, practical person, which is better than some highly-strung society lady, and infinitely better than Mildred, so… Will you?”

  “Will I what?”

  “Marry me, of course. Lord, you are slow-witted today.”

  “No, sir, I will not marry you. I don’t want to marry at all, but especially not you. Even if you had… what did you call it? Wrapped it up in fancy words, I wouldn’t wish to marry a man who despises me so thoroughly. During the course of your proposal, you’ve managed to call me ignorant, stupid and not a lady. And to think I could avail myself of a lifetime of such insults. What an enticing prospect! How can I bear to refuse?”

  “There is no need to take an offensive tone, madam.”

  “Oh, are you offended? Excellent. Perhaps you might now have some inkling of how I feel.”

  “You are rash to throw away s
uch an offer, however bluntly expressed,” he said. “You may not like me very much, but you would have my name and wealth and a position in society. The daughter of a linen draper is unlikely to do better. A little gratitude would not go amiss, yet you toss it back in my face.”

  “I cannot be grateful for an offer made with such obvious reluctance. You said I am not a lady. Well, you are right about that, I own it. But you, sir, are hardly gentleman, and I will never marry a man who holds me in such contempt. Go away and find some other poor, ignorant, stupid female to importune. I hope I never set eyes on you again.”

  12: Of Purpose And Wisdom

  Charles left the house without waiting for the maid to let him out, pulling the door shut behind him. He should have been cast down by his rejection, but instead he found it liberating. His mother would be disappointed and his father would be sympathetic, but for himself, he could see the funny side of the business. Whatever sort of man was he that even lowly Miss Milburn, an impoverished spinster and a lacemaker by trade, should reject him? He was not a gentleman, that was what, and those dark eyes had flashed at him contemptuously as she said it. He laughed as he remembered her, her back straight, her chin defiantly raised, her voice level and unafraid. She might not be a lady but she was magnificent in her disdain as she upbraided him.

  But if he was not a gentleman, what then was he? He had been a child and a scholar and a cornet and latterly he had been a captain, but now? He was nobody. He was the heir to his father’s estate, but he knew nothing of the management of land, and all attempts to instruct him had been in vain. One day, in the fullness of time, he would be the Mr Leatham of Starlingford, but would he be a gentleman then? In all honesty, he could not say. What was a gentleman anyway? Was it merely the owning of land, of living on income not earned by labour, or was there more to it? Miss Milburn obviously thought the epithet encompassed more than mere idleness.