Toblethorpe Manor (8 page)

“Ah, Mrs. Geoffrey taught me, Mr. Richard’s grandmother, that is. She was a proper lady, Miss Fell. She was a Lucy, too, Miss Lucy Arnden. That’s where young Mr. Geoffrey’s property came into the family.”

“You have been with the Carstairs a long time, then.”

“Oh yes, Miss Fell, and many’s the tale I could tell--Oh, there’s a rhyme, something lucky’s on the way.”

“Tell me a tale, Mrs. Bedford,” coaxed Miss Fell. “I find I am not well enough to read much.”

Some time later, Mrs. Bedford descended to the kitchen to announce to all and sundry that Miss Fell was a proper lady, and she’d have something to say to anyone as said she wasn’t.

“And she wants to see you right away, Gladys,” she added ominously.

Gladys scurried out, and after a brief interview returned full of confidence to prepare luncheon. The transformation set the seal on the approval of the servants’ hall, except for one aged gardener who prophesied disaster in a gloomy voice.

 “Oh, get on wi’ yer,” snorted Gladys in disgust. “How an owd curmudgeon like you can grow food as won’t curdle the stomach is beyond me!”

Miss Fell, meanwhile, was far more exhausted than if she had spent the morning reading. She lay back on her bed, sadly crushing the grey merino, and closed her eyes. Her head was aching slightly and she hoped fervently that she would not have to deal with any more servants’ squabbles for a while. When Mary brought her lunch tray she was fast asleep.

“Poor soul,” she reported back to the kitchen, “she’m pale as t’moon an’ I’ll thank ‘ee, auntie, not to go upsettin’ my young lady no more.”

“Watch thy tongue, young woman,” said Mrs. Bedford indignantly. “Don’t tha come the high and mighty wi’ me. Poor soul!”

When Miss Fell woke her headache was gone, and she rang the bell. She ate luncheon and gave Mary a language lesson. The girl was very quick except in the use of “you” for “thee.”

“It don’t—doesn’t—seem right, somehow. ‘You’ is a cold sort of word to call a body.”

Miss Carstairs’ abigail came to convey a request for the pleasure of Miss Fell’s company in the drawing room, if she were well enough. She trod her way slowly to the head of the stairs, then Thomas was called to carry her down. Outside the drawing-room door, she made him put her down. She could not feel it dignified to arrive in the arms of a footman. She thought she could manage without his arm, then decided that discretion was the better part of valor. She was glad of it before she was halfway across the room.

“You are still a little shaky on your feet, my dear,” remarked Miss Carstairs kindly.

“A little, ma’am. I feel very well, however.”

“Should you object to helping me sort my silks? I find they become thoroughly tangled for no apparent reason, and if they are not sorted daily they are very soon inextricable.”

The afternoon was passed in sorting silks, discussing embroidery patterns and remarking upon the weather, which had abruptly turned unseasonably warm for February.

“There will be sickness in the village,” declared Miss Carstairs. “I shall see what simples Mrs. Bedford has on hand and consult the vicar as to who is in need.”

Miss Fell was relieved to find that her companion displayed no curiosity whatever about her own history. It was a very soothing afternoon.

At five o’clock Miss Carstairs put away her embroidery.

“I shall dress for dinner now, Miss Fell. You had better dine in your room today. I shall hope you may be well enough to join me tomorrow. You will not, I trust, think me impertinent if I say that you are a very pretty-behaved young woman. I am happy that dear Annabel should have found such a companion. She has been too much alone, I fear, since my brother’s death.”

Miss Fell blushed and murmured a disclaimer. A word of approval from such a formidable old lady was flattering, and the confidence she showed in discussing her sister-in-law, when she had such a distaste for personal remarks, was an even greater sign of approbation.

“Do not get up, my dear,” said Miss Carstairs. “I shall send Thomas for you. Until tomorrow, then.”

Sitting snugly wrapped before the fire in her chamber, Miss Fell attacked her dinner with a hearty appetite. Though it could not compare with the French chef’s masterpieces, Gladys had done her best. The best sauce, however, was the realization that she had won over two such stern critics as Miss Carstairs and Mrs. Bedford. She wondered wistfully whether anything she could do would make Richard wholeheartedly approve of her. If she turned out to be a duke’s daughter, or at least an earl’s, perhaps, she thought; but she did not feel like a great lady, and, besides, she might never know who she was.

Her appetite had faded, and she struggled manfully with a huge slice of apple pie. Giving up after a few bites, she rang for Mary.

“My compliments to the cook,” she instructed, “and, Mary dear, explain that the pie was delicious but I am growing fat. I am sure Gladys would not wish to make you alter my gowns again.”

Mary giggled.

“Oh no, Miss Fell, I’ll tell her. Tha was…you was so thin when Master Richard found ‘ee. Now tha’s…you are just right and I’ll not let Gladys spoil my young lady’s looks.”

“I shall go to bed now, Mary. Leave me a pair of candles and I shall read for a while.”

Lying propped up on the pillows with a book of poetry open in front of her, she found herself unable to concentrate on her reading. The question of her origins seemed to loom larger now that the house was so quiet, the family gone.

They all treat me as a lady, she thought. Surely so many people could not be mistaken. Yet, Richard does not believe it. Is there something about me that only he has seen, something that proves I am not of gentle birth? Would he not have pointed it out to his mother? Oh, I do not understand him. One minute so stiff and disapproving, the next so kind and thoughtful and gay.

She shivered as she remembered the feel of his arms around her, then sternly put such thoughts away and turned to her book.

The next few days passed uneventfully. Miss Carstairs spent a good deal of time in the village, where sickness had broken out as she had predicted. The weather continued unseasonably warm, and by the fourth day, Monday, Miss Fell was able to take a brief stroll in the shrubbery, well wrapped up by Mary, and with Thomas hovering near at hand. Here she won over her last critic. She stepped around a beech hedge, crinkly brown leaves still clinging to the twigs, and found herself facing a stone wall against which flowered a fountain of forsythia.

“Oh, how beautiful!” she exclaimed aloud, startling old John, who was leaning on his spade with his back to her, contemplating the sight. He turned slowly to face her.

“Ar,” he said.

“Is it not early for forsythia?” she asked. “And oh, look! Scilla and crocuses already!”

“‘Tis a sheltered spot,” the gardener muttered unwillingly. “Gets all t’sun. T’warm weather do bring ‘em on. We calls ‘em squills,” he added belligerently.

“Yes, of course,” soothed Miss Fell. “I have heard that name. You must be Mr. Carstairs’ head gardener?”

“Oh, aye. Bin here fifty year, man an’ boy. ‘Ud ‘ee like a bunch o’ that there yaller stuff?” he inquired grudgingly. “Some outlandish foreign name, but it do last well in a vase.”

“How kind of you. Would you cut me some?” The conquest was complete.

Miss Fell’s next trial was the vicar, Mr. Crane. She had been ten days in the neighborhood without attending church, and Miss Carstairs’ habit of going every morning to early service pointed up her absence. Mr. Crane felt she must be in need of spiritual sustenance, and, besides, his curiosity had been sharpened by Miss Carstairs’ total, though tactful, refusal to satisfy it. In spite of her devotion to the Church, Miss Carstairs could not bring herself to approve of clergymen—after all, they did belong to the despised male sex.

On Tuesday morning the wind turned chill and clouds started to gather, but Mr. Crane was undeterred. It was his duty to visit the mysterious Miss Fell, and he was not to be put off by the threat of rain. He understood that Miss Carstairs would be visiting old friends at some little distance, so he would be free of a presence he found rather overwhelming.

Mr. Crane called for his horse and set off up the hill. He regarded without pleasure the prospect of the village below and the towering moors beyond it, revealed now and then by a twist in the road. Lincolnshire bred, he had never been able to reconcile himself to having to go up or down to get anywhere, and the treeless slopes and rocky outcrops made him shiver. He was, in fact, even now negotiating for a living in his home county. It would be worth slightly less, but he felt oppressed by the gloomy hills and the cold courtesy of his patron, Mr. Carstairs. The hills grew gloomier as his horse plodded upward, and large drops of icy rain began falling.

By the time the vicar reached the manor, his coat was soaked and he was in a very bad humour. The servants greeted him without enthusiasm. (“Nasty, nosy creature, even if he be a man of God.”) Thomas took his coat and Bedford showed him into the back parlour, a chilly, formal room used by the family to entertain visitors they did not wish to encourage.

“I shall inform Miss Fell of your arrival,” said the butler, and left him to kick his heels.

It was at least twenty minutes before Miss Fell hurried in.

“I beg your pardon, sir, for keeping you waiting. I was not dressed to receive visitors.” Her apology in no way effected a thaw in Mr. Crane’s demeanor. While waiting, he had been reflecting on this nobody who had been taken into the bosom of the family that barely tolerated him. He proceeded to preach a sermon on the danger to the soul of avoiding regular churchgoing, brushing aside her explanations about the state of her health.

He was just embarking upon a detailed interrogation, nearer to inquisition than to catechism, when the door opened and a slight young man entered. He took in the situation at a glance. The vicar towered like an avenging Fury over the young woman, who sat, composed but pale, with her hands folded in her lap. They both looked at him.

“Good morning, Vicar,” he said quietly. “The rain has momentarily ceased. I think you should seize the opportunity to ride home without getting wet. There is so much grippe about.”

Mr. Crane glowered at him. “Oh, good morning, Denison. I have not…well, I daresay you are right. I shall see you again, Miss Fell.”

With that threat, he stalked out, muttering.

Miss Fell rose to greet her deliverer. “You must be Mr. Carstairs’ agent,” she said. “How do you do? I am Miss Fell. I cannot guess how you disposed of that dreadful man so quickly, but I am most grateful.”

“Do not thank me, Miss Fell,” Jeremy Denison demurred with a grin. “I believe Mr. Crane can hardly have had time to open his mouth before the housekeeper sent Davy, the groom, after me. The message I received was, ‘That there Reverend be a-bullyin’ of the young lady an’ Miss Carstairs from home an’ please to come help!’ How could I resist such an appeal?”

“Indeed it was good of you. He was asking me such questions! I…I daresay you may wonder…”

“Not at all, Miss Fell. Richard has told me the whole,” he explained gently. “I should tell you that Mr. Crane was most unpleasant to my wife when first we came to Toblethorpe. Then he discovered that her uncle has an excellent living in his gift, so now he crawls to us in a most objectionable way, though as you see it can prove useful. Incidentally, my wife is as much inclined to see you a heroine as is Miss Lucy. Might I tell her she may visit you one day?”

“Of course, Mr. Denison, I should be very happy to receive her. Pray tell her to come at any time, only Miss Carstairs generally sleeps after lunch, so perhaps…”

“After lunch it shall be,” promised Jeremy.

Mrs. Denison came to call on the following afternoon, and Miss Fell found her delightful. She was a quiet, gentle little woman who adored her husband and her children and was quite happy talking about them for half an hour at a time. Miss Fell encouraged her, envious of her placid, comfortable life, where a scraped knee was an event and a loaf that failed to rise a crisis. Mrs. Denison—they were soon Clara and Susan—was flattered by her interest and sympathy and thought her no less a heroine after meeting her than she had before.

“I shall never again be satisfied with a heroine who is blond or dark,” she declared later to her husband. “There is something very romantic about Titian hair.”

“I prefer blonds,” he said, kissing her yellow curls.

After Mrs. Denison left her, Miss Fell was restless. Miss Carstairs had risen from her nap in time to greet the agent’s wife as she departed, and then went out visiting. Many of the friends of her girlhood still lived in the neighboring villages and she thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to renew old acquaintances. She would have been happy to take Miss Fell with her (“A most presentable young female,” was her description to Lady Venables); however, Dr. Grimsdale, when consulted, advised caution.

“Stroll around the shrubbery,” he grunted, “if the weather permits. Otherwise, no outings till next Monday at the earliest.”

Rumours of Mr. Crane’s attack on Miss Fell had reached him, and he was delighted thus to stymie his adversary. He made sure his prescription was known to all and sundry. It was not difficult. He had only to mention the matter to his housekeeper, an inveterate gossip who, in taking up cudgels on her master’s behalf, had developed a running feud with the vicar’s wife.

So Miss Fell was alone that Wednesday afternoon. It is true that her footsteps were dogged, as she wandered round the house, by Mary and Thomas, the former pleading with her to rest herself, the latter ready to lend his arm, or catch her if she swooned, or run for the doctor. Irritated, she snapped at them and was stricken with guilt at the sight of their disconsolate faces.

“Indeed, Mary, I am quite well,” she said apologetically. “I know, I shall go to the music room and sit at the pianoforte. Then you and Thomas may go about your duties with easy minds. I thank you for your concern for me.”

The anxious pair escorted her to the music room, opened the piano, built up the fire, drew the curtains at a drafty window, and at last left her in peace. For a few minutes she sat with her fingers resting lightly on the ivory keys, gazing dreamily out of the French windows at the sodden lawn and the bare trees beyond. Then she began to play, almost without volition. It seemed to her that her fingers chose the piece, that they performed it without any effort on her part. It was a quiet, rippling prelude by Bach, though she could not have put a name to it. The intricate harmonies wound together into a delicate tapestry that had a wholeness and rightness. which in some obscure way completed her being. She still had no memory beyond the past two weeks, but she no longer felt the aching void that had been a part of her for that fortnight.