The Lost Ancestor (16 page)

Wednesday
5
^th
April 1911

After
two months of Frederick Mansfield’s presence at Blackfriars, Mary Mercer knew
why the domestic staff had groaned when told of his impending visit.  When
sober, he was a delightful, intelligent man who treated the staff with respect
and kindness; these moments, however, were seldom witnessed by Mary.  For
the most part, he was an unpredictable drunk who ate, drank and slept when his
erratic mood dedicated and, at those times, he expected the domestic staff to
implicitly intuit his desires and react to them accordingly.  Ever since
Mary’s dawn encounter with him, she had feared that, when in one of his drunken
stupors, he would let on about her secret, but he had said nothing.  After
seeing him on several occasions, both inebriated and sober, Mary decided that
he was probably so intoxicated that morning that he actually didn’t have any
recollection of it at all.  Still, she would be mightily relieved when he
left for Scotland today with the rest of the family on their annual deer-hunting
trip.  According to the gossip among the other servants, Frederick had
been told that he was to stay on with Mr Risler at Boughton House, the family’s
Scottish home, until he had sorted himself out.  As far as Mary was
concerned, getting rid of Mr Mansfield
and
Mr Risler was no bad
thing.  She felt mean to think it, but she hoped that it would take a long
time to get him back on the straight and narrow.

Mary and Clara were preparing the female
servants’ bedrooms, waiting for the breakfast bell to toll.  Like so many
of their mealtimes during Frederick Mansfield’s stay, it was already very late.

‘I’m desperate for a sit-down and a
drink,’ Mary complained.  ‘I don’t feel too well.’

‘Well, it’s all down to the whim of Mr
Mansfield,’ Clara retorted.  There was no attempt to conceal the anger in
her voice.

Mary stopped sweeping and rested her arm
on the broom.  ‘I don’t understand why Lord Rothborne puts up with
it.  Why would he allow his drunk cousin to just turn up here and dictate
what goes on?  What right does he have?’

Clara shrugged.  ‘Haven’t the
foggiest.  If he were my cousin, I’d have told him to shove off a long
time ago.  Family or no family, this is just ridiculous.  Maybe Lord
Rothborne feels sorry for him.  Apparently, and this is only the gospel
according to dear Saint Joan, he’s squandered all of his father’s money on
gambling and
London liaisons
with
amateurs.
’

‘Well, if it came from Joan, then it
must
be true!’ Mary said with a laugh.

‘Exactly.’

When the breakfast bell did finally sound,
the domestic staff all hurried to the servants’ hall and sat down, grateful for
the rest and eager to eat and drink.  With everyone hushed, Mr Risler,
looking flushed in the face and slightly short of breath, stood to talk.

‘Uh-oh,’ Joan whispered.  ‘This
doesn’t look good.’

Mr Risler took in a deep breath before
beginning.  ‘I’m afraid that we’re going to have to postpone breakfast
this morning,’ he began, being quickly cut off by the low murmur of discontent
among the staff.  ‘Quiet, thank you.’  He waited until he had total
silence.  ‘His Lordship has explicitly asked that, whilst his cousin, Mr
Mansfield is otherwise engaged, we take the opportunity to finalise
preparations for the family to leave on the hunting trip today.  He has
said that you will be granted extra break time when Mr Mansfield retires to his
room later.’  Mr Risler turned to the male staff.  ‘Maslow, Daniels,
Mercer, Phillips, Readfern, Wiseman—you all need to come with me so we can
fetch the cases from the attic and transport them to the correct rooms. 
Ladies, Mrs Cuff will inform you of your duties.’

‘That dreadful man!’ Clara said when she
and Mary were out of earshot. ‘Cancelling our breakfast like that, I’ve never
heard of any such thing.’

Mary took a deep breath, feeling suddenly
nauseous.  ‘I need to sit down, Clara, I really do.’

Clara turned to face Mary.  ‘You have
gone a bit pasty-looking.  Let’s just get up the stairs and you can have a
quick lie down.’

Mary nodded her agreement but feared that
she couldn’t make it all the way up to the room without being ill.  With
Clara’s assistance and several breaks along the way, she made it
upstairs.  She just managed to close the door before rushing over to her
chamber pot to be sick.  Clara stood behind her and stroked her
hair.  ‘Do you feel better now?’

Mary shook her head; she felt like she’d
been jabbed in the stomach with a blunt stick.

‘You probably just need some food inside
you.  You’ll be right as rain after you’ve eaten.’

Mary wasn’t so sure.  She slumped
down onto her bed with a sigh and shut her eyes.

Lady
Rothborne was strutting up and down the length of her bedroom, clutching her
black leather Bible.  Just like every day of the week, she was dressed
immaculately.  Today, she was wearing a lavender-coloured skirt with a
sweeping train, recently purchased from her favourite London boutique. 
Despite her advancing years, her boned bodice gave her the desired impression
of a firm mono-bosom.  She paced the room, struggling to shut out the
dreadful rumpus coming from the gramophone downstairs.

She would not be beaten.  Not by
him. 
She had suffered her late husband, Richard’s younger brother for too many
years to count.  He had made Richard’s life hell, forcing and bribing him
to pay out more-than-generous annuities and endowments over the years—all of it
squandered on gambling and foolhardy, reckless investments.  And now, here
was history repeating itself in the form of her nephew, Frederick.  He was
here, turned up in a dreadful automobile that desecrated countryside that had
been serene and undisturbed for centuries.  He was a mirror-image of his
frightful father, plaguing Blackfriars with his vile habits.  From
indiscreet lips, Lady Rothborne had heard about his licentious ways, dragging
the Mansfield name down into the sewers.  No, he was
worse
than his
father had ever been with his distinct lack of morals and indiscretions.

As Lady Rothborne reached the windows, a
flicker of colour in the rose garden caught her eye.  She ceased pacing
and surveyed the estate.  It was Philadelphia, her delightful
daughter-in-law, ambling through the ancient beds.  The sight of her, the
future of Blackfriars, instantly abated the rage that she was feeling. 
She watched as Philadelphia elegantly stooped to smell an early-flowering
rose. 
Such a sweet, beautiful girl,
she thought. 
I will
not allow this despicable man to jeopardise what we have.
 She held
Philadelphia in high regard, knowing that in her and her precious son, Cecil,
the future of the Mansfield family at Blackfriars was assured.
This
branch of the Mansfield family.  Frederick Mansfield
would not
fritter overnight what centuries of prudence, labour and wisdom had
created.  She had previously failed with poor Florence but she would not
fail again.  She would not. Thinking of Florence again after all these
years made her shudder; she needed to change her train of thought back to the
present problem of Frederick.

Her coffee would be as cold as the inside
of the ice-house by now, having been neglected in the library for more than
half an hour.  But
that
was the source of the music: where
Frederick was.  Her lady’s maid had informed her that he was in there,
dancing alone and shamelessly drinking from a wine bottle.  Despite his
father’s selfish and foolish ways, Frederick had enjoyed a respectable
upbringing where such degrading behaviour, as was currently being demonstrated
in the library, was not tolerated.  He flaunted his dishonourable, coarse
behaviour and his vile opinions as to the future of Blackfriars, hoping to
provoke a reaction.  Eventually, he would up and leave, returning to the
shadows like a rapacious vulture, waiting for Cecil and Philadelphia to fail to
produce an heir.  Lady Rothborne had sagely advised Cecil and Philadelphia
to do what her dear Richard had always done: do not give him the reaction he
craves and he will go away.  Sometimes it took days for Frederick to get
bored and leave, other times it took much longer.

The music finally stopped.  Lady
Rothborne closed her eyes and enjoyed the sudden stillness.  Standing in
the warmth of the sunlight, she held the Bible tightly in her both hands and
uttered a short prayer.  She thanked God for her family, then repeated her
request not to impart to this man what he so badly craved.

Lady Rothborne took deep, long breaths,
wilfully absorbing the house’s stillness before setting down her Bible and
making her way out of her bedroom.

‘Miss Herriot, kindly ascertain if the
library has been vacated.  If so, have a fresh pot of coffee taken in,’
Lady Rothborne called to her lady’s maid.

‘Certainly, my lady.’

Mary
was woken by a hand gently stroking the back of her hair. 

‘Mary!’ Clara whispered.  ‘It’s time
for breakfast.  The music’s finished and Mr Mansfield’s finally gone to
bed.’

Mary opened her eyes.  It took a
moment to remember where she was.  She felt a little groggy, but the
nausea had thankfully abated.

‘I’ve made a bit of a hash of it, but I’ve
managed to do all the girls’ rooms by myself.’

Mary slowly sat up and swung her feet to
the floor.  ‘Thanks.’

‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Better,’ Mary answered slowly.  ‘I
think.’

‘I’m sure you’ll feel right as rain with
some breakfast inside you.  You need to be well, it’s your afternoon off.’

Mary smiled and stood up.  Maybe
Clara was right, a bit of food and she’d be back to normal for her afternoon
off.  The thought of going home brought on a sudden surge of nausea. 
Maybe it’s the thought of going home that’s making me ill,
Mary
thought.  She was dreading it but knew she had to go.  Caroline would
be expecting her wages.  Mary hoped that she could manage to find a few
precious minutes with Edward today, but it was doubtful.  Ever since that
magical night in the old folly when he had asked her to be his wife, Mary had
seen very little of him other than at the dinner table in the servants’
hall.  Frederick Mansfield was mainly to blame for their lack of time
together.  All household routines, including time off, were erratic and
unpredictable.  She desperately missed Edward.
 
Only a handful
of the other servants knew the secret of their engagement.  She had told
Clara and Eliza last week during an afternoon of needlework, having first sworn
them to secrecy. 

‘Come on, let’s get downstairs,’ Clara
said, linking her arm through Mary’s.  ‘Your fiancé will be worried!’

‘Sshh! I don’t want people to hear,’ Mary
murmured.  ‘I still haven’t told my family yet.  You’d better not
have written anything in that diary of yours!’

‘Course not!  When are you going to
do it?’

Mary shrugged.  ‘Maybe
after
the wedding!’

The girls giggled as they walked down the
corridor to the stairs.  Clara failed to spot that one of the bedroom
doors, which she had left closed, was now slightly ajar.  Through the
small gap, listening intently, was the scullery maid, Joan Leigh.

Mary
was still feeling unwell, despite having picked at a piece of ham and sipped at
a cup of tea.  Yet something else was now troubling her.  Joan was
being unusually quiet, sitting opposite her with some kind of a knowing look on
her face.  With one eyebrow raised, Joan flicked her head between Mary and
Edward.

‘Is something the matter with your neck,
Joan?’ Mary hissed across the table.  It was quiet enough for only her to
hear.

‘Me?’ she asked with mock
incredulity.  ‘Me?’  Joan held out her left hand and studied her
fingers.  ‘No, I’ve got nothing to say.’  Her eyes glanced up to meet
Mary’s critical gaze.  ‘You got anything you want to share with everyone,
Mary?’  She spoke loudly enough for several servants on the lower half of
the table to turn and stare.

Mary’s mouth and throat dried up and the
nausea returned. 
She couldn’t know…could she?
  Mary glared at
Clara, then Eliza, who had turned their attention to the altercation taking
place.  One of them must have told her. 
Why did I ever trust them
again?
Mary chastised herself. 

‘Anything the matter down there?’ Mrs Cuff
called from the top of the table.

‘No, Mrs Cuff,’ Eliza replied.

Clara raised her eyebrows at Mary.

‘Grow up, Joan,’ Mary retorted quietly.

Mr Risler stood from the table. 
‘Lord Rothborne has been gracious enough to extend your breakfast time this
morning and offers his sincere apologies for the delay.  As soon as Mr
Mansfield has woken, preparations for the hunting trip will resume.’  Mr
Risler returned to his seat and tolerated the inevitable low level of chatter
to rise from his statement.’

‘Flippin’ right we get a longer
breakfast,’ Joan remarked to nobody in particular.  ‘Gracious—I ask you.’

Mary deliberately turned her head,
pretending not to have heard her.  Mary’s eyes met with Edward’s and he
smiled.  Part of her couldn’t wait for the household to go to Scotland
just for some peace and quiet to descend on Blackfriars.  The downside,
and it was a
major
downside for Mary, was that Edward had been chosen to
accompany the family there.  She saw him so seldom now, despite working in
the same place, but now she faced almost ten days without even a glimpse of him
across the breakfast table.