Summerset Abbey (9 page)

Rowena couldn’t keep still any longer. “But that’s just it, Aunt Charlotte. Though Victoria and I are grateful to you and Uncle Conrad, I would say that we’re brought up already.”

“I won’t rest until both of you are safely and properly married. Only then will I feel I have done my duty. Isn’t that right, Conrad?”

Uncle Conrad nodded. “I would have to agree.”

Victoria looked from one to the other, bewildered. Rowena gave her a fierce frown, but Victoria ignored it.

“I’m sorry. I don’t see what any of that has to do with Prudence staying with me,” Victoria said.

Aunt Charlotte gave a stiff smile. “That’s just it, my dear. As a young girl, you are naturally idealistic. As your elders, your uncle and I have a responsibility to protect you from those who might take advantage of your kind nature. Now let’s speak no more about it.”

Victoria threw down her napkin, exasperated. “Protect me from Prudence? What are you talking about?”

“That is enough!” their uncle thundered.

Everyone froze in various states of surprise. Even Cairns, their butler of twenty years, fumbled as he served the roast hare. Rowena had never heard her uncle raise his voice. He didn’t have to—he got exactly what he wanted without doing so.

She lowered her head but observed him out of the corner of her eye. His chest rose and fell quickly and two splashes of red marked his cheekbones, but instead of looking angry he just seemed . . . pained.

From across the table, Victoria’s eyes pleaded with her, but it wouldn’t do any good. Rowena dropped her gaze and remained silent.

And hated herself for it.

T
his is all wrong.

The family crypt lay about a mile from the main house, right behind the old chapel. The chapel itself had been allowed to fall into disrepair after Victoria’s great-grandfather had built a new one adjacent to the house. The crypt, built into the side of a small berm, had not been relocated. On top of the berm sat a large marble wall that proclaimed the names of the fallen male Buxtons. The female Buxtons had burial plots surrounding the berm.

The entire family stood on the berm where the name Philip Alexander Buxton had been freshly carved at the bottom of the list.

Well, not the entire family,
Victoria thought. Prudence wasn’t here.

Victoria had whispered that fact to Rowena before they left the house, but had received a black look in return. Rowena hadn’t wanted to rock the boat; she was scared of falling over and drowning.

But Victoria was
not
afraid.

Restlessly, she twitched her shoulders and stamped her feet quietly to warm them. She, Elaine, and Rowena had walked to the crypt, spurning a ride in the trap. They had dressed for the
chilly weather in tweeds, knitted scarves, and walking shoes, but the cold seemed all-pervasive and she wished the vicar would stop pontificating and get on with it. But he kept talking, talking, talking and not saying a bloody thing. And as she had learned last night at supper, talking did no good at all.

It wouldn’t bring her father back.

Someone had set up a spray of white stargazer lilies against the wall and Victoria leaned close to Rowena. “You know, he far preferred
Scilla nutans
over
Lilium orientalis
.” She’d meant to whisper it, but evidently wasn’t discreet enough because Aunt Charlotte shushed her and the vicar paused for a moment before continuing. “Well, he did,” she muttered stubbornly.

To distract herself, she stared at the old stone chapel, almost completely overrun now with English ivy, or
Hedera helix,
she told herself. The overgrown chestnut trees in the back completely shaded the old garden, and she could see that many of the diamond-pane windows had been broken. The church looked like she felt: lonely, empty, and devoid of warmth.

With a sigh, she turned back to the vicar. As she turned her head, she thought she saw something move in one of the windows of the chapel. Turning back, she stared hard but saw nothing. Was it a face? An animal? A chill went down her spine. Could it have been a ghost?

She chided herself for her imagination and turned back to the service. The vicar had finally stopped speaking and a flurry of activity commenced as the pallbearers picked up the coffin. They carried it, slow and dignified, down the little path leading from the memorial on top of the berm to the entrance to the crypt on the other side.

Victoria’s heart sped up as the finality of it all hit her.

Papa!

Suddenly she couldn’t bear to hear the sound of the iron door shutting her father away from the light. She turned toward the woods on the other side of the chapel.

“I’ll meet you back at the house,” she said over her shoulder.

“Victoria, wait!” Rowena called, but Victoria ignored her as she hurried down the hill.

She wanted to run, but knew that if she did she wouldn’t get very far before her lungs closed up, so she made herself keep it to a brisk walk and prayed that no one would follow her.

Once she stepped into the woods, she felt safe. Automatically she began ticking off the genus and species of the autumn-colored trees she walked past. Silver birch,
Betula pendula,
downy birch,
Betula pubescens,
crab apple,
Malus sylvestris,
wych elm,
Ulmus glabra
.

The names were familiar to her from years of walking through similar forests with her father, listening to him practice his lectures. His passion as he talked botany had been infectious and she loved nothing better than studying plants, growing them, and cataloging them. Watching seeds burst into a plant that would flower and reseed was to watch a never-ending cycle that both reassured and delighted her. She wondered whether there were any woman botanists. She should have asked her father.

Her dream seemed very far away today.

She found a large moss-covered rock near a small creek and sat, wishing Prudence were with her. Prudence’s comforting presence always made her feel better, more so than having Rowena by her side, especially now. Since they’d arrived at Summerset, her sister had barely spoken to her. She just looked at her, sadness buried in the depth of her great green eyes. Why wasn’t she fighting for Prudence? The whole situation was appalling.

She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she had
thought to wear more than a tweed jacket. Suddenly, she heard a crackle of movement to her left. Her head jerked around and she stared into the dim forest, looking for an animal. Nothing. The sound came again and she thought she saw movement behind an old elm tree. “Who’s there?” she called, wishing she didn’t sound so young and unsure.

An old woman stepped around the side of the tree. She wore a long, old-fashioned black dress and had a shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders. Her face was wrinkled like a crone’s, straight from fairy tales.

“Are you a witch?” Victoria asked. “Because I warn you, I don’t think I would taste very good.”

The woman laughed. “I’ve been called a witch and worse by my young charges, but I have yet to eat any of them.”

Her voice was strangely girlish for one so old, which didn’t comfort Victoria at all.

“Then who are you?”

“Who are you?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

The woman smiled, her face breaking into wrinkles. “Do you always avoid telling people who you are?”

Victoria laughed at that and settled herself more comfortably on the rock. “I could have you charged with trespassing, you know. This is my uncle’s land.”

“You don’t say? Then you must be one of Philip’s girls. I’m so sorry for your loss, child.”

Victoria nodded, unable to speak for the lump that had suddenly risen in her throat.

The woman stepped closer and held out a burlap bag. “I’m gathering some mallow. My niece has a bit of a cough and I’m making her some tea.”

“So you are a witch, but a nice one.” Victoria scooted off the rock. “
Althaea officinalis
from the Malvaceae family. I saw some on my way here. Come, I’ll show you.”

“Oh, you are your father’s daughter,” chortled the old woman.

They walked back the way Victoria had come. “How do you know my father?”

“I changed his nappy, paddled his bottom, and taught him his letters.”

Victoria stopped. “You’re Nanny Iris!”

The old woman nodded solemnly. “I am.”

“But you can’t be Nanny Iris! Nanny Iris was beaut—” She clapped her hand over her mouth, but the woman just laughed.

“Beautiful? Your dad always did have a silver tongue. But believe it or not, I was quite lovely in my day.”

They continued walking while Victoria’s mind whirled. “But what are you doing here? Father said you disappeared after his parents hired their tutor.”

“I hardly disappeared. I took my pension and traveled. I’d always wanted to see the pyramids and the Greek islands and so for twenty years I lived the life of a nomad. I married a number of times and had a great many adventures.”

“That must have been some pension.”

Nanny Iris snorted. “I was frugal and when the money ran low I taught English to all who could pay. Whenever I felt the urge, I moved on.”

It was a most fascinating tale. “So how did you end up back here?”

“I decided I needed to finish out my years in a place where loved ones could take care of me.”

Victoria looked ahead and pointed. “I give you
Althaea officinalis
.”

“Perfect. Could you gather the seed pods so I can put some in my garden?”

Victoria nodded and dropped to her knees next to the old woman, in spite of her new tweed walking suit. “How do you know that mallow is good for colds? What does it do?”

“It helps coat the throat and clear the nostrils. And I learned from my mother, just like she learned from her mother. Plus, I learned a great deal more about herbs during my travels. I’d like to believe that I’m the reason your father fell in love with plants. I taught him to garden long before I taught him his letters and numbers.”

Victoria was fascinated. “And did you teach my uncle, too?”

Nanny Iris scoffed. “I couldn’t teach that one anything. He was born too posh for the likes of me. Didn’t think I could teach him anything and his mother just indulged him. But your father was a veritable sponge.”

Victoria’s throat tightened and the old woman patted her hand. She didn’t say a word, though, which made Victoria like her even more.

They picked in silence for some time before the old woman stretched her back. “That’ll be enough now. We don’t want to clean out the patch.”

Victoria stood up and helped Nanny Iris to her feet. “Would you like me to walk you home?”

“Lord, no, child. I know the way. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ll have the whole house worried if you don’t get back soon.”

Victoria sighed, knowing it was true. “Rowena will be worried. Prudence, too.”

“Are they the girls you were standing with?”

“Rowena is my sister. She was the pretty dark-haired girl in the bucket hat. The other girl is my cousin, Elaine.”

“And where was Prudence?”

Victoria frowned, resentment running through her all over again. “Prudence wasn’t allowed to come.”

“Ah.” Nanny Iris didn’t ask and Victoria didn’t elaborate.

“Well, you’re a nice girl and I would love to have you come visit me some time. I was very fond of your father.”

“I would love that. Where do you live?”

“A little cottage just this side of Buxton. You can ask anyone and they will tell you where I live.”

On impulse, Victoria gave the old woman a hug. “Thank you. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

“That would be grand, and Victoria?”

Victoria looked up at the serious note in her voice. “Yes?”

“Don’t wander around these woods by yourself. They’re not very friendly for young girls such as yourself.”

Before she could ask why, the old woman turned and nimbly trotted away.

*   *   *

“Everyone works here.” The cook tossed Prudence a rag. “Go help Susie scour the copper pots.”

Prudence blinked at the rag in her hand. All she had wanted was a cup of tea. The morning had been a nightmare. Mrs. Harper had awakened her at the crack of dawn even though Prudence knew full well it would be hours before Rowena or Victoria would need her for anything. She’d been ordered to help Susie peel carrots and onions for the soup stock that would sit on the back of the stove all day for this evening’s consommé. She’d barely had time for a cup of tea before the housekeeper had sent her upstairs to start the fires in Victoria’s and Rowena’s rooms. Then she ran back downstairs to snatch something to eat in the servants’ hall.

The servants’ hall was nothing like the fancy Great Hall upstairs. In fact, it must have been someone’s idea of a joke that they had the same name at all. The floor of the servants’ hall was covered in old brown linoleum, with old rickety chairs sitting at an equally rickety table. It looked small and tacky, an afterthought in a home where the kitchen, on the other hand, was thoroughly modern and well planned. The Indian flagstones on the floor were scrubbed clean and huge earthenware sinks and an enormous cooker took up one entire wall. On top of the cooker sat a huge copper vat with a tap that supplied constant hot water.