Fairfield Hall (9 page)

Jane Moffatt’s family were farmers and their lands adjoined Edward Armstrong’s farm, which lay to the north of the market town of Thorpe St Michael. Now Annabel had learned that the
village of Fairfield and its estate lay to the south of that same town. She would be living only six or seven miles from Granny and Gramps; the thought comforted her as she nervously readied
herself for bed on her wedding night.

She need not have worried; James was gentle and tender with her, but it was obvious – even to the innocent and naïve girl – that he was experienced in the art of lovemaking.
Annabel wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or sorry that her new husband had obviously had previous lovers.

The following morning was bright, but already there was a nip of autumn in the air and a cool breeze blew in from the sea. Solicitously, James wrapped a rug round her knees as
she settled into the brougham. Annabel was eager to see her new home. Although it was not many miles from Meadow View Farm, strangely, she had never seen Fairfield Hall, had not even heard of it,
although her grandfather had found time to say to her at the wedding reception, ‘Their bailiff, Ben Jackson, is a good man. If you are to be left in charge of the estate, he will help you.
And I’m not far away,’ he’d reminded her yet again as she’d kissed him goodbye.

They stopped for an early luncheon at an inn on the way. After a brief rest, they set off again. As they travelled, James was quiet, breaking the silence at last to say, ‘This is where my
estate starts. These outlying farms are tenanted. Home Farm and the village of Fairfield are near the Hall.’

Annabel leaned forward, looking about her. Then she frowned. She was surprised to see that there was no livestock in the fields; no cows or sheep or even horses and, worse still, there was no
sign of harvesting. The fields looked neglected and choked with weeds. Only one field seemed to have a crop of wheat, but it had not been cut. It lay in sorry ruins, flattened by wind and rain. She
couldn’t stop herself asking, ‘Is this farm tenanted?’

‘No – no.’ His reply was hesitant. ‘It was – but he – they – left.’

‘And you haven’t found a new tenant yet?’

‘No.’ His reply was clipped, as if cutting off any more questions.

They travelled on in silence, yet the mystery for Annabel deepened. The next farm they passed was clearly occupied and yet there still seemed a strange lack of activity. Again, there were no
animals in sight and a pall of silence hung over the farmyard, though smoke drifted idly from one of the chimneys.

And then they were dipping down the gentle slope towards a village.

‘This is Fairfield village,’ James said.

They passed by a thatched cottage on the right-hand side of the road, standing a little apart from the rest of the houses that clustered side by side along the one village street. Then came the
school, but there were no children playing in the schoolyard. Perhaps they were all at their lessons; the windows were too high up in the wall for Annabel to catch a glimpse of the inside. More
likely, Annabel reminded herself, it was still the summer holidays. But there were no children playing in the street or the fields either. No sign of any youngsters anywhere. Next to the school was
the church, beside which stood a substantial house; obviously, Annabel thought, the vicarage. They moved on, the brougham’s wheels rattling loudly in the strangely silent street. They passed
a line of small shops, but not one seemed to be open. The windows of two of the premises were boarded up. Annabel glanced about her. There was no one about; there were no women hanging out washing
in the gardens behind the cottages or scrubbing their doorsteps.

‘Does anyone live here?’

‘Oh yes, though some of the houses are uninhabited just now.’

Even the village pub was obviously unoccupied, its windows boarded up and a sign – The Lyndon Arms – swinging forlornly in the light breeze.

The brougham turned and began to climb the gentle slope of the hill. The ground levelled out on to the curving driveway leading to the house. How lovely it would be, Annabel thought, if this
could be lined with trees, and then she looked up and saw Fairfield Hall overlooking the vale. It was a lovely house, she thought, the excitement rising in her, with roses climbing the walls and
framing some of the windows. And yet, she felt the building somehow had a forlorn look.

As they drew near, James ignored the archway leading into a courtyard at the side of the house and brought the vehicle to a halt at the front steps. He helped Annabel to alight and led her in
through the door, which had been opened as they’d drawn up.

‘This is Searby, the butler.’ The man, in his early fifties, Annabel guessed, was tall and thin with a sallow face. His short, fair hair was smoothed back and he wore a black morning
coat, trousers and waistcoat with a white shirt and black tie. He looked very smart, but Annabel couldn’t help noticing that his clothes, though clean and cared for, were nevertheless shabby
and showing signs of wear.

‘Welcome home, m’lord. M’lady.’

Annabel held out her hand. ‘How do you do, Mr Searby? I’m pleased to meet you.’

The man seemed startled and glanced towards James, who shrugged and turned away. The manservant took her proffered hand and shook it briefly, giving a little bow as he did so and murmuring
again, ‘M’lady.’

‘Where are my mother and sister, Searby?’ James asked.

‘In the morning room, m’lord.’ John Searby hurried ahead to open doors for them and James marched into the room. Annabel smiled up at the butler and murmured, ‘Thank
you.’

As she stepped into the room, Annabel blinked, trying to accustom her eyes to the gloom. Heavy curtains blocked out much of the natural light. What a shame, she thought instantly. It was a
lovely room, facing east to catch the morning light, and yet much of it was shut out. Her glance came to rest on the woman who was standing on the hearth in front of an empty grate; a tall, spare
woman in her late twenties, Annabel guessed. She was dressed completely in black, her thick light brown hair swept up onto the top of her head. Her features were sharp, her eyes beady and her lips
thin and pursed. Beside her was a young boy of about five years old. He, too, was thin, his face pale and pinched, his brown hair dull. Sitting in a chair at the side of the fireplace, was an older
woman with a shawl around her shoulders and a blanket over her knees. A lace cap covered her white hair. Her face was wrinkled and her eyes, as she looked up, were watery. She looked, Annabel
thought, as if at any moment she might start to weep.

‘This is my mother,’ James said, ‘my sister, Lady Dorothea, and her son, Theodore Crowstone.’

Annabel stepped forward, her hand outstretched towards the older woman huddled in the chair. ‘How do you do, Lady Fairfield? I’m so pleased to meet you.’

Elizabeth Lyndon, now the Dowager Countess of Fairfield, looked up and held out her winkled hand. ‘We’re so very grateful—’

‘Mama,’ Dorothea said warningly. Elizabeth glanced at her with frightened eyes and then seemed to shrink even further into her chair.

Annabel turned to greet the younger woman, who attempted to smile in return, but it was obviously forced. Then Lady Dorothea looked at her brother and now there was obvious eagerness in her
tone. ‘It is done?’

‘I’ll talk to you later,’ he replied brusquely.

‘But have you got it?’

‘Later, Dorothea,’ he snapped.

Annabel could feel the tension in the room so she turned to the solemn-faced little boy standing beside his mother. ‘And how old are you, Theodore?’

He gazed at her with huge brown eyes, but before he could answer, Dorothea interrupted curtly, ‘Your room has been prepared.’

‘On the top floor as I instructed?’ James asked.

‘No, the rooms there are not suitable at present.’ Annabel saw the glance that passed between the brother and sister. ‘For the time being you’ll have to make do with your
usual room.’

Though James glared at her, he offered no argument. He put out his hand towards Annabel in a gesture that they should leave. As Annabel turned away, Dorothea said, ‘I understand you are
bringing your own maid with you?’

‘Yes, she’ll be arriving tomorrow with more of my belongings.’

‘She’ll have to share a bedroom with Taylor. She’s our housemaid. There are other servants’ bedrooms, but they’re not – ready.’

Annabel – for once lost for words – merely nodded her agreement, though she doubted her acquiescence was being sought. She was not being asked; she was being instructed.

Turning left out of the morning room, James led her up the staircase and along a landing. He opened a door into a bedroom that was obviously a man’s – and a soldier’s –
room. It was sparsely furnished with a threadbare carpet on the floor and worn curtains at the window. Even the bed, which looked comfortable enough, was covered with a well-worn counterpane.

‘I’m sorry this is not what I’m sure you’re used to, but no doubt when you’ve been here a while, you can furnish a room to your own taste. There are plenty to
choose from.’ The last few words were spoken cynically, as if there was something he was not telling her.

‘You mentioned the top floor. Is that where we’re to have our rooms?’

‘We’ll have to see.’ Again, she felt that he was prevaricating, but for the moment she let the matter drop.

‘There’s a bathroom across the landing. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up before dinner. We usually dine at seven. And now, I must see Jackson.’

‘May I meet him?’

‘Not just now. Time enough another day for that. I’m sure you’re tired after the last few days.’

Annabel was not in the least tired; she was excited to see her new home and to learn about the estate, but for the moment she inclined her head in agreement. As her husband said, there was time
enough for that.

Annabel took trouble over dressing for her first dinner with James’s family. She was wearing her favourite gown – dark blue satin with a low neckline, adorned only
by the delicate necklace her grandparents had given her as a wedding gift. Just before seven, she found her way downstairs to the dining room. To her surprise, no fire burned in the grate in this
room either, even though the evening was now cool. Lady Fairfield sat at one end of the table, the black shawl still around her shoulders.

‘Good evening, Lady Fairfield,’ Annabel greeted her. The woman, who must only be in her mid-fifties, Annabel calculated, but looked much older, glanced up and murmured an indistinct
reply. Annabel opened her mouth to begin a conversation, but at that moment James and Dorothea entered the room. They seemed startled to see her already there, but courteously, James held out a
chair for her to sit down at the table. He sat at the opposite end of the table to his mother and Dorothea seated herself opposite Annabel.

Annabel wished she could ask about Dorothea’s husband, but since he had not appeared and neither had he even been mentioned, she presumed he had died and such a question would be
insensitive. Instead she said, ‘I take it your little boy doesn’t dine with us? Is he in bed?’

‘Yes,’ was the curt reply, with no further explanation, and Dorothea glanced swiftly at her brother.

‘Has he a nanny?’

Again Dorothea glanced at her brother before she answered, ‘Not at the moment.’

They ate in silence. Any attempt Annabel made at conversation was met with an abrupt reply. Annabel wondered if she was breaking some unwritten code of etiquette. Perhaps it was not customary
for conversation to take place over dinner when the household was in mourning. That was something she had not encountered during her instruction with Lady Cynthia.

The meal consisted of watery soup, followed by a joint of very tough beef, which Annabel found difficult to chew. She was obliged to swallow big lumps of it. The mashed potato lacked the
addition of butter and the cauliflower was so black that Annabel had to force herself to swallow it out of politeness. She couldn’t ever remember having had to eat such a disastrous meal and
she questioned the culinary skills of the cook employed at Fairfield Hall, who had not even bothered to produce a pudding.

When the meal ended, the maid, Annie, was reaching across Annabel to remove her plate. Her hand shook and she dropped the plate splashing lumpy gravy onto Annabel’s dress.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, m’lady.’

Annabel looked up swiftly to reassure the girl that it was an accident, but the words never left her lips for the maid was looking across the table at her mistress, Dorothea. When Annabel
swivelled her gaze, Dorothea’s eyes were downcast, but there was no mistaking the smirk on her face. At last, she raised her head and stared straight into Annabel’s puzzled eyes.
‘I do hope your lovely gown isn’t ruined,’ the woman said, but the tone was sarcastic, the words insincere.

‘A girl shouldn’t be serving in the dining room,’ James said tersely and glared at John Searby as if it were his fault entirely. The butler, red faced, pursed his lips,
looking, Annabel thought, as if he would dearly like to reply, but dared not do so. Instead, he inclined his head, acknowledging his lordship’s comment.

‘No harm done,’ Annabel said, determined not to let them see that she was annoyed by the girl’s clumsiness – or, as she suspected, deliberate act – and that she was
also puzzled.

What kind of a household had she come to and, more importantly, what kind of a family had she married into?

Lady Fairfield stood up and bade everyone goodnight. James rose and accompanied his mother to the foot of the stairs. Left alone at the table for a brief moment with Dorothea, Annabel smiled and
opened her mouth to start a conversation, but Dorothea got up at once and with a brief nod and a brusque ‘Goodnight’, she, too, left the room. With a small sigh, Annabel left the table
and went up to the bedroom she was to share with her husband. She was sitting up in bed by the time James came into the room. Without a word he went to the bathroom and came back several minutes
later dressed in his nightshirt. He blew out the candle on his bedside table and climbed into bed.