Unfortunately they soon lost sight of the man in the bottle-green coat. Coxe, clearly angry at himself, was swallowing oaths when he probably should have been swallowing his dinner. Giles flagged down a fly, and drove him to his door before asking the driver to take him to Rooke Court. The silence of the Minster Precincts seemed like another world entirely.
Chapter Twelve
The Rector of Hawksby, Mr Lacey, had not been installed for many months.
The living was a good one, and the Blanchfort family had long had the patronage of it. When the previous clergyman had given up the living (he had been promoted to a distant deanery) it had fallen to Eleanor to choose the new incumbent. Lord Rothborough had advised Felix to play the master of the house in this respect and find someone who would be an agreeable neighbour for them both: perhaps an energetic young man, married or on the verge of it – someone who one might ask to dinner at least twice a week and not think anything of it.
Felix had turned to Lambert Fforde for his suggestions. He too fell in generally with Lord Rothborough’s advice, and told him he had a few candidates in mind – sensible sorts of men who were not subject to enthusiasm. He even introduced Felix to one of them in passing – he had seemed perfect for the position.
That had been the plan. Mr Holland was to be offered the living in due course. But then Canon Fforde had been to visit a clergyman living in a distant parish. They had been in correspondence – Canon Fforde said he had gone out of curiosity as much as anything, for there had been something about his letters that had piqued his interest. He had discovered an arthritic, elderly clergyman and his two spinster daughters living on only what the living brought them. It was a scanty living indeed, in a bleak moorland district. Mr Lacey had been a village schoolmaster before taking Holy Orders. His origins were extremely humble, but on meeting him, Canon Fforde considered him to be entirely a gentleman, with a fine mind. “But I really fear for his health and for that of his daughters if they stay there. It is no life for them.”
Mr Holland, on the other hand, had money of his own and a fiancée who was also well provided for. They were young and healthy, and could put the house right and make themselves comfortable there. They had a large circle of friends and family. The future Mrs Holland even had a godmother living in a nearby country house. Mr Holland was a sportsman – the moorland shooting was excellent and his fiancée liked to paint in watercolour. The challenge of such a remote and beautiful parish was not lost on them. They were eager to test themselves and attempt to do good.
It was decided then that Mr Lacey and his daughters should be brought to Hawksby to enjoy his remaining years with the luxury of a large income, few duties – there was a curate to do most of the work – and a beautiful house with an excellent garden. The Rectory was the smaller relation of Hawksby House itself. It had been built by Eleanor’s grandfather, and the same architect employed. It had been heavily planted about, sheltering it from prevailing winds, and although it was a bitter night, Felix felt the benefit of them as he turned into the grounds of the Rectory.
However, it was still not enough to diminish his desire to get inside and near to a fire, as he stood on the step waiting for the door to be opened to him. He seemed to wait an inordinately long time before he heard the latch drawn and the door pulled open. An old woman looked out at him suspiciously.
“It’s Mr Carswell,” he said. “From the Hall. Is Mr Lacey at home?”
“Nay, sir, not at present. He’s gone to see old Mrs Carter. She hasn’t long, they say.”
“Who is it, Tabby?” a woman’s voice said behind her.
“It’s that Mr Carswell, Miss Martha,” said Tabby, opening the door an inch more. Felix could just see Miss Martha.
“Have you come about Mrs Carter?” she said.
“No, I came to see your father,” Felix said. He knew he would have to go down to the Carters’ cottage now, even though it was starting to snow again. “I came only to –”
He broke off because Miss Martha had begun to cough. It was no ordinary fit of coughing, but a deeply alarming, rasping rattle.
“Let me in,” he said, and pushed past the servant.
“No, it’s –” she began, but she could not speak further.
“You are not well,” Felix said. “Will you let me look at you?”
She nodded and, still coughing, allowed him to help her through a room lit only by a couple of candles and the light of the fire. There was a sofa by the wall, occupied by an enormous, coarse-haired dog who did not stir when Miss Martha perched upon it. Instead he only looked with hostile eyes at Felix as he tried to shoo him away. In the meantime, Miss Martha was almost doubled up, and from the extreme violence of the spasms and the fact she had pressed her apron to her mouth, he began to suspect she was coughing blood.
“More light, if you please?” said Felix to Tabby. “And if this fellow could be –” He got hold of the dog by the collar and manoeuvred him onto the floor, so at least he could get Miss Martha a little more comfortable.
“I’m sorry –” she gasped.
“Hush now,” said Felix.
As Tabby brought more candles into the room, he was able to get a better look at his patient. He realised he had never seen her without her face being obscured by a large, old-fashioned bonnet. He judged her to be in her early forties, dangerously thin, with a narrow face and sunken eyes, and it was obvious she was very ill, that her body was wasting. But at the same time her large eyes retained a bright intensity, and despite her distress and difficulty, he felt himself carefully observed by her as he examined her.
She had indeed been coughing blood. Her apron was soaked through and from the composition of the blood, and the faint stench, it was clear she was consumptive.
“Has this happened before?” She nodded. “Recently?”
“This morning a little. And before that.”
“You need to go to bed and rest.”
She shook her head.
“Then they will know.”
“You mean your father and sister? I’m afraid they must know, if they do not already. I think that they must do. You have not seen a doctor about this before?” She shook her head again. “You need to be looked after – you must allow that.”
There was a long silence, then she said, “May I not carry on as I am?”
“If you rest, and allow treatment, you may improve.”
“But it is still irrevocable. I know what this is, Mr Carswell.” She laid her hand on his arm and gazed at him. In full health he imagined she would have been beautiful. “Yes?”
He had to think for a moment before he spoke.
“It is possible that it is what you fear,” he said.
“I do not fear it,” she said, her hand gripping his arm a little firmer. “Nor do I fear death. No one should fear death. This life is only an illusion, after all.”
“No, I do not think so,” he said. “It is something to be cherished. God did not make beauty for us to despise it, surely?” She smiled slightly at that. “You must take care of yourself. That is your duty, Miss Lacey. For the sake of those who love you.”
“Very well, I will try. But please, Mr Carswell, you will not tell my father or sister. Please, may this just be our secret?”
“I would rather not –” Felix said.
“Only for a while,” she said. “I cannot bear that they should be burdened with this – at least not yet.”
“As you wish,” he said.
“And should you not go to Mrs Carter now?” she said. He nodded. “Why did you call, by the bye?”
“I wanted to ask if you would all care to join us for dinner on Friday night. It will be quite a large party, if that concerns you?”
“You do not advise me against it?”
“No, if you are careful and rest beforehand. And I will keep watch on you.”
“If my father agrees, then I will be glad to come, as will my sister. She did mention that there was to be a party but that we were not
invited. Will the famous Mr Truro be coming?” she added.
“Yes. Do you like his books?”
She considered for a moment and said, “They serve a certain purpose, but there is something lacking in them. His first novel showed a great deal of promise, but he has not fulfilled it.”
“You are right,” he said. “The first one was very good. The poor lady – Anne, was it not? How she suffered for her faith and for her lover!”
“Agnes,” she said.
“Agnes, of course. My mother, who is a good judge of these things, thought that she was extremely well drawn considering the author was a man.”
Miss Martha smiled and nodded, and said, “What a perceptive person your mother must be, Mr Carswell.”
This judgement he could not disagree with.
He left her covered by a quilt and drinking brandy in warm milk, while the large dog settled on the floor beside her, evidently her constant guardian and companion. The blood-stained apron was given to the servant with the injunction not to mention it to anyone.
As he made his way down a now treacherous lane to Mrs Carter’s cottage, he wondered at her curious insistence on secrecy.
He arrived too late to do any good. The old woman had gone, and a window upstairs had been opened to release her soul, an old superstition that he always liked. The Rector and his elder daughter were leading prayers. There was no great atmosphere of sadness, rather relief amongst her family. Everyone seemed quite assured of her place in Heaven, and it was even said that her old cat who had died a few weeks earlier would be there waiting for her, along with her late husband.
Having paid his respects and promised to look to the formalities required on his part, Felix made his way back to his own house, a long, most unpleasant walk now that the snow had set in. As he walked, he found himself hoping devoutly that Eleanor had seen reason and sent the fox to the kennels.
He could not face going straight up to bed, so he went into his study and poured himself a large glass of whisky, which he drank rather quickly. He had intended to look over his notes and do a little book-work, but when it came to it he felt too tired and cold. He went upstairs and found his dressing room pleasantly comfortable and warm. Jacob was always reliable in his duties. The fire was made up well, and his nightshirt was airing in front of it. He got ready for bed and went into their bedroom.
Opening the door into the dark and holding up his candle, he saw a pair of wild, animal eyes glinting at him through the bars of a cage. A few steps into the room showed that the fox was lying in a large, fancy bird cage on a stand. The smell of the animal was evident and to Felix’s mind not remotely pleasant.
Eleanor was fast asleep. Felix stood for a long moment, astonished that she had done this. He was extremely tempted to rouse her and berate her for it. The fox – he would not think of it with that absurd heroic name – continued to gaze at him warily as if he had no right to be there. By what means she had engaged this animal’s trust he could not imagine, and he could not believe that it could end in anything but disaster. He wondered if he might remove the fox without disturbing her. After all, she was a heavy sleeper.
He went out onto the landing, thinking he might rouse Jacob and get him to help him move the cage, but decided instead he would let the boy sleep and spend the night in his own dressing room. He was just about to go in when he saw Lady Blanchfort come upstairs. She was dressed for bed and carrying a candle.
“She has that wretched animal in there,” he said. She frowned.
“After you went out, I told her that it should go to the kennels,” she said. “But she never listens to me. I’m sorry, I did try.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I feel that all her wilfulness is my fault.”
“That is not the case,” said Felix. “It is simply how she is.”
“She’s lucky to have found you,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Felix. “Sometimes it seems that she has a poor bargain with me. I cannot be –”
“Perhaps this is not the place for this conversation?” said Lady Blanchfort. Gently she pushed open the door to her own room. “Come and sit by my fire.”
He followed her in. She crouched at the hearth and stirred up the fire, the low flames making her hair and the damask of her dressing-gown gleam.
“You were a long time at the Rectory. Did he ask you to play chess?”
“No, I had to go down to Carters’ cottage. His mother just died.”
“Oh,” said Lady Blanchfort. “That is sad to hear. Such a wonderful old woman. She did not suffer, I hope?”
“No, she died in her sleep,” said Felix.
“Is that not what we would all wish?” said Lady Blanchfort.
She again gestured that he should join her by the fire. Sitting on a low chair, in the ease of her night-clothes, she seemed to him to grow younger. He sensed that he had not been asked there lightly and that he must take her putting aside her armour, the carapace of an older, more experienced person, as a great compliment to himself. He also wondered if she were even conscious at that moment how differently she must appear to him. Did she realise, for example, how this moment of naturalness enhanced her beauty?
He sat down but with some diffidence. He wondered if he should even be there.
“This business with the fox,” he said. “It is all my fault. She would not be so foolish I think if –” he felt his throat dry and wished he might have another glass of whisky. “I did not neglect her.”
“Neglect?”
“We touched on this before – how she is too young and how I am too young and that she will not agree to any rational means.”
There was silence, and Lady Blanchfort studied the fire.
“And I said it would not be easy for you,” she said.
Felix pushed his hand through his hair.
“Am I being a fool? It is certainly doing me no good. I am –”
“It’s a difficult decision.”
“She will not be persuaded.”
“No. But I think you are right – she is not ready to be a mother. Today only proves it.”
“I’m seriously tempted to wring that animal’s neck,” Felix said. “I might have done it just now if I hadn’t been certain that it would have mauled me. And Eleanor would have not –”
“It would not have helped matters, certainly,” she said.
“Lord Rothborough tells me that if I were to give her a child, it would settle her. Whatever that means.”
“He did? He’s usually more acute than that,” she said. “But he’s worried about you both, of course. That can cloud the judgement of the best of us.”
“I do not know what it even means. Settled? I’m sorry that I understand so little of women. How is such an upheaval as motherhood settling? Yes, I think he is talking nonsense.”
“Some women do become calm and loving and perfect Madonnas.”
“Some women. Not Eleanor, I should imagine.”
“It’s not a matter to be generalised about. It’s different for everyone.”
“Perhaps she is ready. Perhaps I’m the one who is afraid.”
“I stand by my feeling,” Lady Blanchfort. “I do not think she is ready. I must confess that was one of the reasons that I decided I could not leave her when you married. I imagined there would be a child immediately, and that I should be there for that. You might say I was overcautious and interfering.” She sighed. “And perhaps my opinion is really worth nothing. I do not know her as you do.”
“I think you must know her best of all.”
She shook her head.
“One of the cruel facts of being a parent is that you learn how little you do know. Or perhaps that has been my failing. I could not read her. Perhaps I wilfully misread her because of the circumstances of her birth.” She got up and walked across the room. “There is something I should tell you. You may have wondered about the cause of my estrangement from my husband.”
“
I supposed you were simply not well suited.”
“Lord Rothborough has not said anything to you?”
“No.”
“He knows that Eleanor is not my husband’s child.”
She sat down again and gazed into the fire. Felix was glad that he did not have to meet her eyes in that moment.
“Has Lord Rothborough ever mentioned Sir Richard’s younger brother, Henry? Hal Blanchfort?”
“No.”
“I suppose it still pains him to think of him. At one time, they were inseparable. They were at Cambridge together and they were both second sons, with no prospect of inheriting. A second son is always free in a way that an heir is not. There is no weight of expectation. William and Hal were kindred spirits.”
“He has never mentioned him.”
“Hal’s death was a great grief to him. And Hal told him when he was dying the great secret – that he and I –” She gave a great sigh. “Perhaps you can guess?”
Felix sank back in his chair, putting together the pieces of this strange story.
“When I say they were kindred spirits,” she said, “I mean that they shared the same wild, reckless streak, especially when it came to women. Hal Blanchfort had many lovers. There was a quality about him that was quite irresistible to women. I thought myself entirely beneath his notice, but when he did notice me I lost all reason. Oh, how easily I fell from grace! Perhaps if I had been a little older and wiser and my husband a little less careless...”
“Did your husband know?”
“I don’t think so. If he did, he never spoke of it.”
“So what was the cause of your estrangement?”
“He was a difficult man and I was a difficult woman. I make no excuses for my own conduct. I had no wish to be a loving wife. Hal’s death broke me. I was left with his child, this strange, changeling baby that I scarcely knew what to do with. And then the fact that there were no more children, no boys to carry on the name, did not please my husband. We were wretched together.” She covered her face with her hands for a moment. “I could not love him. I had broken my heart and it would not mend. I loved my child, but I so often fell short. I was so confused, so lost.”
The Fatal Engine Page 11
