The Dead Queen's Garden (19 page)

‘Good God,’ Charlotte jumped up out of her chair. ‘What a bitch!’ At Sibella’s shocked gasp, Charlotte clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Sibella, but that’s what she was. Now….’ she looked at the little clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Heavens, I must dress for the tea party. You will excuse me, won’t you? Carry on telling me about your sister while I change. You can help me, if you please.’

The last command was slightly muffled as she wriggled out of her dress, but after a startled glance, Sibella went on with her story.

‘There isn’t very much more to tell,’ she whispered. ‘Verena 
insisted that the – the family secret would remain just that, a secret and that she had no intention of telling anyone. What good would it do her, she demanded. It could only damage her own reputation, but she kept chuckling whenever she recalled it.’

‘Was she like that with other people, do you imagine?’ Charlotte was intrigued as a sudden notion had occurred to her. If Verena Chant had a liking for mysteries, had she chuckled over other people’s dark secrets? Chuckled, perhaps, once too loudly?

‘Oh no,’ Sibella dispelled the unspoken suggestion. ‘In public she was always circumspect, even in her flirtations.’ She looked up to see Charlotte’s speculative gaze. ‘Yes, she was a flirt, I’m afraid, but it meant nothing to her. She was cold, you see, but no, she wasn’t a gossip and I’m quite certain she would never have spoken so to anyone else. It was because of the family, you see, that was what amused her so much. I remember her saying once, “brought up in the odour of sanctity, as we were, and now look at the honour of the Armstrongs”. She had no such fond memories of our parents as I had, as I have still.’

Charlotte emerged, slightly dishevelled, from the depths of the large walnut wardrobe and, with Sibella’s assistance, arrayed herself in yesterday’s elegant silk evening dress in her favourite dark emerald green. She and Lily had conferred together regarding the correct garments for a tea party to celebrate the birthday of an eleven year old boy, and had come to the conclusion that it would be far better to be over-dressed than otherwise. ‘For,’ had said Lily, her eyes wide with horror, ‘It would never do to annoy Lady Granville by being too informal. I’m sure she would regard it as an insult.’

Charlotte could only agree, her brief acquaintance with the lady indicated that she would stand on ceremony and expect no less of her guests. Feeling foolish at dressing so sumptuously for a child’s birthday tea, she added a creamy lace fichu to her modestly cut bodice, and pinned it with the emerald brooch that was Elaine’s Christmas present. She slipped on her other present, the emerald bracelets and frowned at her reflection in the looking-glass. Lady Granville could not find cause to be slighted by this finery, she decided. After all, it had the double skirt and tiny puffed sleeves
that Lily informed her were the very latest thing. And much I care for that, she added with a scornful shrug.

It struck her that the lofty stone pillars of Brambrook Abbey would prove chilly and she had little faith that the
sortie de bal
in cream cashmere, that Lily had insisted all the Richmond ladies must have, would keep her warm. Certainly it was an elegant evening cloak and at least it had a hood, but she put out her new shawl too, ready for when Lily should call her family to attention.

As she brushed her hair and rapidly re-plaited it, Charlotte was frowning. Did Sibella’s disclosures about her sister have some bearing on the whole matter, she asked herself, but she felt quite certain she should tread warily. A false step would alarm Sibella and make her retreat, and that wouldn’t do, Charlotte reflected. If I am to lay aside my wild conjectures and feel comfortable again, I need to know the whole story.

‘You said your sister was cold? Did that apply to her relations with her husband?’ The doctor’s words, abruptly broken off, came back to Charlotte, ‘we were not hap….’ As she pinned a demure froth of lace on her hair, she waited intently for the reply.

‘I’m afraid so,’ agreed Sibella. ‘I had very little opportunity, you must understand, to observe them together as husband and wife, but it seemed to me that she felt nothing for him. Or,’ she added, ‘that he felt a shred of affection for her either, though I think he was very jealous of her. He was certainly furious when he discovered she and I were in Winchester. He followed her down here and obtained an invitation to the christening too. Verena laughed and told me he liked to glare at her in disapproval.’

She rose and smoothed down her skirt. ‘Thank you, Charlotte, for allowing me to talk to you so intimately. It is a lonely life, that of a governess, and I have had little opportunity for friendship.’

‘I have felt something very similar,’ admitted Charlotte, also rising. ‘But before you go to your room, might I ask you one more question? Thank you. It is this: your sister implied at the
christening
that she was with child, and it has generally been accepted that this was somehow the cause of her untimely death. Do you have anything further to say about that situation?’

‘How did you…’ Sibella’s colour rose and she looked startled
but as Charlotte simply gave a noncommittal shrug, she frowned and chose her words carefully. ‘She did give that impression, I know, but I’m afraid it was purely a mischievous impulse to torment Dr Chant. She – it was determined not long after her marriage, I am afraid, that she would not be able to – to bear a child; some physical malformation, I believe. She professed to be relieved, and I truly believe that she was not distressed by the intelligence, but her husband clearly felt cheated.’

‘You mean he had married a beautiful young woman with a view to embellishing his status by the addition of a clutch of equally beautiful children?’ Charlotte raised an eyebrow. ‘I can well believe such a man as the doctor might feel he had made a poor bargain, particularly if there was no affection to bind them together, but what did he think, do you suppose, when she made that extraordinary statement at the party? Could he have wondered if, perhaps, that original diagnosis might have been wrong?’

‘I understood that there could be no question of that, but if he did indeed entertain any such unlikely suspicion,’ was Sibella’s dry answer, ‘he would be under no illusion that the child was his; my sister was quite frank with me on that subject. I don’t believe, however,’ she hesitated then shook her head, looking doubtful,‘I would not have thought she would actually betray him. Her
flirtations
were usually conducted with older men, retired rakes, that kind of gentleman, but I’m sure she allowed no liberties beyond a dinner here, or a theatre box there, with perhaps a discreet kiss. Oh yes,’ she turned back at the door of Charlotte’s room. ‘She had no scruples about accepting the occasional diamond bracelet, but I doubt there were any intimate moments. My sister was a cold woman.’

She smiled faintly as she left the room. ‘Forgive me, Charlotte, I must take up no more of your time. I believe there is another hour until we leave for Brambrook Abbey, so I think I must go to my own room, to compose myself.’

Once the door was safely closed Charlotte gave a soft whistle. Heavens above, I had previously seen no resemblance to her sister or anyone else, but that was surely the smile that young Oz is wont
to give. What in the world can it mean? Is there some connection between the Armstrongs and the Granvilles?

She sat down again in her easy chair and tried to assemble the facts and make sense of them. There had been that moment at the christening when she spotted an astonishing likeness between Oz Granville and Verena Chant; what am I to make of that, she wondered. But later I was told that Mrs Chant closely resembled her brother Edward Armstrong. Now Sibella also has a fleeting likeness to the boy. Can there be any significance in this, or is it nothing more than a singular coincidence?

She shook her head, frowning as she considered the question. What am I to think she asked herself, two vertical lines forming on her brow. The idea had, she knew, been lying just under the surface of her thoughts, kept there by her refusal to give credence to the notion that would not go away. She sighed deeply and held up her hand in order to count off the troubling questions: Edward Armstrong had been summarily dispatched to Australia upon the discovery of his deceit and wrongdoing, actions which had deeply distressed his employer, Lord Granville. This had occurred some eleven or twelve years earlier according to Sibella Armstrong.

Again Charlotte frowned, remembering with some trepidation, that today was Oz Granville’s eleventh birthday. I really
am
romancing now she scolded herself, only to wonder anew. Can it be possible that there is some connection that links Edward Armstrong’s disappearance from these shores with Lady Granville’s treasured only child? She tested the theory and
far-fetched
as it seemed found herself believing that there could be a glimmer of possibility. So what am I saying, she murmured aloud. Am I – she found herself faltering – am I thinking then that Lady Granville, suffering years in a barren marriage, was minded to take herself a handsome young lover?

Charlotte was shocked because the whole idea seemed suddenly so plausible. A woman who had spent 20 years in a heart-breaking quest for a child might well have resorted to desperate measures. And what then? If this could possibly be true, she wondered, might not the story of Edward Armstrong’s disgrace, be merely that: a story? What would Lord Granville’s feelings have been? Delight
and disbelief at the promise of the longed-for heir to his title and fortune? No doubt, but suppose the whole was revealed to him: the young lover, the success after so many empty years? Would his pride take over so that an heir by any means would be preferable to a devastating scandal?

It made sense, of a sort, Charlotte felt. At that time Lord Granville had been a member of the government, albeit in a minor position. In such a public role it would have been mortifying to say the least, to deny the child and send his wife abroad to a shameful exile. How much simpler to banish instead the handsome young man who had cuckolded him, and to put it about that the young man had committed some nameless treachery. If that were indeed the case, his lordship would certainly have required some promise, probably in writing, of continued silence together with continued absence from England, in exchange for some handsome form of payment. She had encountered plenty of remittance men in Australia, after all, some of them living hand to mouth between their quarterly allowances.

Charlotte jumped up and paced about the room, dashing a hand across her eyes. It looked possible, it could have happened that way; but even if that were the truth what possible bearing could it have had upon the sudden and untimely death of young Mrs Chant?

P
UZZLED
AND
DISTURBED
, Charlotte paced the room again and finally sat down in her comfortable armchair, setting her mind to the question. But what is it to do with me, she asked herself with an anxious frown. A young woman dies too young, and too suddenly, a sad occurrence indeed, but young women die only too frequently, always too young, and often too suddenly. Why do I find this particular young woman’s death so distressing?

Her fingers laced themselves together as her thoughts tumbled around in her head. Can it be simply because I had met her, however briefly? Charlotte shook her head; no, it was not only that, she was not one to leap to hasty conclusions. She was suddenly pierced by a memory of Elaine Knightley saying, with an affectionate smile:

‘If I did not know you to be an exceedingly sensible young woman, Char, and thus not in the least given to flights of fancy, I should think you to be planning to write a Gothick romance!’

A sob rose in Charlotte’s throat and she dashed a hand across her eyes where tears were welling. How was Elaine this afternoon? The memory of Kit’s haggard face haunted her. For the first time in their acquaintance there had been no trace of humour, no twinkle, in his very blue eyes. Kit Knightley was breaking his heart and there was no comfort that she could offer him. She could only send up a constant stream of prayer that Elaine might soon fall gently into a pain-free sleep from which she would not wake.

Her thoughts were too painful to bear, so Charlotte rose and made her way across the room, her steps dragging. A difference in the quality of the light made her pause and look out of the window. There had been a fresh fall of snow but all was quiet outside, and
the pale winter sun was breaking through the clouds, adding a sparkle to the landscape. There was a tap at the door and the maid thrust her head into the room to announce that the carriages were at the door and the master and mistress were attempting to assemble their party ready for departure.

Charlotte settled the hood of her evening cloak over her hair and picking up her shawl as insurance against the lordly chill of her hosts’ home, caught up her reticule and the tissue-wrapped parcel, and hastened downstairs.

Earlier, Lily had been exercised on how to keep her warring guests at arms’ length on the short journey to and from Brambrook Abbey. Between them, she and Charlotte came to the conclusion that, as the stable cat had now removed her family, it would be politic to bring out the brougham once more. Accordingly, Charlotte, Sibella, and Lady Frampton were tucked in to it, while the groom solicitously spread fur rugs across their knees against the biting cold. As with yesterday’s expedition to church, Lily and Barnard took pride of place in the landau, which Lily hated as having been her mother-in-law’s choice and too new and expensive to replace, though she had to admit that it permitted her to spread her crinoline skirts in comfort. She and Barnard sat facing the horses while Captain and Mrs Penbury, with the doctor squeezed between them, sat less comfortably opposite.

Within a very few minutes, Lady Frampton resumed her afternoon doze, while Sibella lapsed into abstracted silence, leaving Charlotte at the mercy of her jangled thoughts. Increasingly at the back of her mind was the untimely death of the younger sister, but now the idea that had occurred to her – namely that Edward Armstrong’s disgrace might be somehow allied to the opportune arrival of the longed-for heir to the Granvilles – refused to go away, no matter how often she told herself that it was surely nonsense. The horrible death of Dunster the maid was still unresolved and now there was the mysterious and utterly unexpected departure of Lady Granville’s hitherto devoted slave. Charlotte pictured Miss Cole, with her looped plaits and fiddly little side-curls, her plump pink cheeks and her permanently aggrieved pout, as well as her irritating habit of flapping a handkerchief as though beating time
when she spoke. Had she been fond of her mistress Charlotte wondered, or had she merely suffered that lady’s indifference – which at times had amounted to rudeness in public – for the sake of what appeared to be a comfortable position of many years’ duration? If that were the case, no wonder she had jumped ship at the chance of a change of employment, though the timing and manner of her departure might almost be construed as a slap in the face for Lady Granville. Then again, what woman of straitened means would leave a comfortable situation on Christmas evening? Surely she would have waited until the festivities were over? Or had Miss Cole, so conveniently placed to startle the pony, also had a hand in old Maria Dunster’s death? Certainly, by Oz Granville’s account, the companion’s behaviour had been peculiar on that occasion.

At this point in her deliberations Charlotte realized that Lady Frampton was awake and watching her, intelligence sparkling in her shrewd, protuberant, brown eyes.

‘It’s to be ’oped we don’t get served with anything like that punch we ’ad at young Algy’s christening,’ she remarked. ‘
I
certainly came to no ’arm,’ she continued, ‘but I doubt ’er ladyship will risk it, tasty though it was. What did you think of the wassail brew, Char?’

‘I, er, it was a trifle too spicy for me,’ Charlotte replied, feeling a little bewildered. Was there something on Gran’s mind?

‘I didn’t drink it.’ Sibella had clearly roused herself from her introspection. ‘I don’t care for the taste of cinnamon,’ she explained. ‘I had no wish to offend Mr Richmond as he was so pleased with his mixture, so I was happy to relinquish it to my sister.’

Could this be important? Charlotte struggled to place this snippet of information into the jumbled story that occupied her anxious thoughts. ‘Do you mean, I beg your pardon, Sibella, but are you saying that Barnard himself served you with a glass of punch?’

‘Oh no,’ Sibella’s expression was mildly puzzled as she turned to Charlotte. ‘I merely mentioned Mr Richmond because of his
kindness
. I really have no idea who it was who handed me a drink. Why do you ask?’

Charlotte managed a laugh. ‘No reason at all,’ she shrugged, ‘I
was just picturing the scene at the christening party and realized that I have no idea exactly who was grouped around the wassail bowl as we drank a toast to dear little Algy.’ She shrugged, and took care to wander away from the point that interested her so greatly, realising that such intensity might strike others as slightly odd. ‘Lily was wondering.’

To her relief, Sibella lost interest and stared out of the window at the snow-covered hedge they were passing. Charlotte, however, was lost in thought; what made me say that, she wondered. And why did Gran suddenly think of that?

The horses’ hooves clattered as the carriage left the lane and turned into the clean-swept drive to Brambrook Abbey. All speculation must, Charlotte realized, await a more suitable occasion. For now, her duty was to make sure that Gran enjoyed herself, which meant the old lady must be well supplied with delicacies for her tea. She must also look after Sibella Armstrong who was, after all, a stranger in their midst.

There was a flurry of greeting as Charlotte and her party entered the Great Hall. The lord and lady of the great gothic pile surged towards the Richmonds and their guests, his Lordship beaming all over his hospitable ruddy face, his hands held out in greeting.

‘Well, well, well,’ he cried. ‘This is a delight upon my word. Welcome, welcome one and all upon this auspicious day. We are glad to have so many friends joining us, are we not, Hélène, my dear, as we celebrate the birthday of our dear young lad.’ He shook hands, manfully surviving the sadly clammy fingers offered by Melicent Penbury and won Charlotte’s approval by maintaining an air of apparent interest in the face of the captain’s booming
monologue
upon the weather.

This was the first opportunity Charlotte had been given of observing the Granvilles’ manner with their former young friend. Sibella’s tale of her brother’s disgrace and exile had wrung sympathy from Charlotte’s soft heart and a glance at the other girl showed that she too was apprehensive about her reception. It was with relief, therefore, that Charlotte could see nothing more than a slight hesitation, natural enough in the circumstances, as Sibella managed a polite murmur and dropped a curtsy.

Charlotte, observing the meeting carefully, thought Lord Granville certainly displayed a shock of recognition on meeting his erstwhile acquaintance, but beyond a slight paling of his usual high colour, he took his cue from her and his wife, and made no comment, apart from a general mumble of greeting.

Lady Granville struck Charlotte as somewhat distracted, which was unusual in one so habitually composed, but no doubt her companion’s desertion had upset her. The lady’s dark eyes burned with an intensity that illuminated her haggard, dark, beauty and once again Charlotte was reminded of Lady Macbeth. It was impossible to discern whether her ladyship felt any greater emotion upon nodding to Sibella Armstrong, than for any other of her guests. However, her eyes lit up and her mouth ceased to droop when her son rushed to greet his friends.

‘Mrs Richmond! This is capital, I’m so glad to see you.’ He stammered a little in excitement and, reminded by a nudge from his mother, he turned to greet the rest of the party from Finchbourne Manor. ‘Sir,’ he whispered to Barnard. ‘My father wants to talk to you privately,
very
privately,’ he glanced apprehensively in his mother’s direction. ‘He has fixed upon the day after tomorrow for our own rat hunt and I do hope you can come?’

He bowed a little awkwardly to the other ladies, reserving a particular smile for Lady Frampton who greeted him in high good humour and Charlotte was amused to see the boy’s eyes widen as they shook hands. Knowing Gran, it was not difficult to deduce that a sovereign had passed from one to the other, a suspicion that was confirmed by a wink from Lady Frampton.

A servant led them to a side room where the ladies could shed their outer wrappings, but Charlotte was grateful for the impulse that had made her pick up her new cashmere shawl. Good manners demanded that she lay aside her evening cloak when indoors but as she had anticipated, she was thankful for Lily’s Christmas present as the stone walls did not improve the overall cold. Even on so short a journey her lace cap had become slightly flattened under her hood so she fluffed it up in the looking glass thoughtfully placed for such titivation and ventured out into the party. It was a relief to see several friends and acquaintances clustering around
the huge fireplaces at either end of the Great Hall. Charlotte had harboured an apprehension that the party from the manor might be the only people invited to the birthday tea and, considering the mourning state of two of the guests, she worried that conversation might be difficult.

She shook hands with Dr and Mrs Perry who were good friends and anxious to know how she was enjoying her first taste of an English winter.

‘I’m enchanted by the snow,’ she assured the doctor, adding, ‘particularly so when I’m looking at it through the window of a warm, comfortable room!’

‘You’re looking very smart, my dear,’ said Mrs Perry, admiring the green silk gown. ‘It must have been quite a feat for Lily to pull off a visit of this nature when she has two guests in such very immediate mourning, but I gather nobody has seen fit to put on their blacks?’

‘It did give Lily some moments of mental struggle,’ admitted Charlotte. ‘She was torn, but as neither the poor young lady’s husband or sister appears transported with grief and, in the husband’s case, actually expressed an interest in attending the party, Lily concluded that the rest of us could turn up with a clear conscience.’ She grinned and gestured towards her sister-in-law, ‘At least Lily’s chosen a decently sober gown for once and not her latest cerise satin.’

Lily was wearing a sumptuous purple dress, flounced and frilled and arranged over what was by far the widest hoop in the room. She had reluctantly agreed with Charlotte’s suggestion that her new diamond necklace, a present from Barnard to celebrate the birth of little Algy, would not be suitable for a tea party. Instead she wore a more discreet
parure
of amethysts: necklace, earrings, brooch, and an amethyst star in her hair.

Sibella Armstrong had borrowed a half-veil from Lily and was demure in dark blue over a modest hoop, and with a high neck and long sleeves, topped by a soft grey shawl, while Lady Frampton was monumental in black brocade, hung about with strings of jet beads. As she wondered whether she should act as sheepdog to the bereaved governess, Charlotte was relieved to see
her other sister-in-law Agnes, the vicar’s wife, surge forward to greet Sibella, ready tears of sympathy falling freely as she did so.

Dear Agnes, Charlotte smiled and turned away, disinclined for conversation at present. She went back to looking at the fashions on display. Most of the neighbours were elderly, the ladies in black, or grey, or sometimes a daring dark red, rarely with any regard to fashion. Agnes, at five months pregnant, was swathed in shawls but looked so happy, and was so much loved, that everyone
overlooked
her usual dowdiness anyway.

Strolling round the hall, nodding and smiling as she was hailed by neighbours, Charlotte gratefully seized a glass of wine from a silver tray offered by an obliging footman. Perhaps it would
alleviate
the chill. She was about to return to circling the room when she was waylaid by her host, looking conspiratorial.

‘My dear Charlotte,’ he said, glancing round to make sure his lady was not in earshot, ‘I believe you did say I might call you that?’ She nodded cordially and he continued, ‘I merely wished to say that, as I believe Oz has already told you, our own Brambrook rat hunt is arranged for the day after tomorrow. It would give him great pleasure, and me too, my dear young lady, if you would attend the event?’ When she exclaimed in surprise, he hushed her, looking even more furtive. ‘I realize it’s an unusual invitation for a lady, but Oz is so sure that you would enjoy it. He’s been telling me that you once shot a crocodile, so ratting will not faze you in anyway. But I have to keep it a little under wraps as my dear wife would not approve. And in any case,’ his eye lit upon Melicent Penbury, at that moment languishing unattended in a draughty corner,‘I doubt that the older ladies would enjoy it, so it is to be a secret.’