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‘Ah, you are a schoolteacher.’
She opened her mouth to correct him, then changed her mind. Today she was a schoolteacher and perhaps, if Cecil proved not to be amenable, that was all she ever would be. She would try out the role on a stranger.
She loved teaching the little ones of the village; they were so receptive and eager to learn. Their parents had been against the idea at first, demanding to know why they needed an education; they themselves had managed without one and so would their sons and daughters. Charlotte and the Reverend Fuller had persuaded them to agree to send the children to school, so long as they were not needed to help on the farms with which the countryside around was dotted. Picking stones off the fields, scaring crows, watching the sheep, and helping with the harvest would always take precedence, and some were expected to look after younger siblings, but as they were allowed to bring the little ones to the classes, they gathered each afternoon in an unused coach house at the Rectory, which had been converted into a classroom, and here they learned to read and count. The bright ones among them were learning to write and to compose little stories, with particular attention being paid to their spelling and grammar.
Nor was that all; she taught them a little history and geography and took them out in the lanes and on to the beach to study nature. Being country children, they knew as much of country lore on a practical level as she did, but they all enjoyed the outings. And that included Lizzie and Fanny, whom she took with her. Lord Hobart, before he became too ill to know what was going on around him, had remonstrated with her for allowing her daughters to associate with the lower orders, but she had persuaded him there was no harm in it and it might do the girls some good.
The other children had been wary of them to begin with; Lizzie and Fanny, clad in their warm clothes and stout shoes, were inclined to be a little haughty, aware of their superior status, but they had soon learned to unbend. It was surprising, or perhaps it was not, just how much they were able to teach the other children and how much they learned themselves. Not all of it desirable!
Today, with her mind full of the loss of her father-in-law and uncertainty about the future, she had been unable to concentrate on lessons and had decided to bring the children to the beach to study the life in the pools left behind by the tide. It was the first really mild day of the year; the turbulent winds and heavy rain that had drenched the countryside from the beginning of the year right up until the day of Lord Hobart’s funeral had gone and now the air was clear. Down on the beach, the sea rippled gently over the sand, leaving behind little rock pools, teaming with microscopic life. It was so pleasant there and the children so excited, they had ended up playing a game of tag. She had been as energetic as the children, behaving like a child herself. Her hat had come off and the pins had come out of her hair, which could not be described as fair, but was not dark enough to be called auburn. To her it was a nothing colour, but to the observer on the cliff top it was delightfully unusual.
To have her behaviour witnessed by this rather superior horseman, who obviously found her conduct amusing, was disconcerting, but it was too late to revert to being the lady of the manor. She smiled. ‘Yes, sir. Today we are having a little break from formal lessons to learn about the sea and the tides and the creatures who live in the rock pools.’
‘So, I see.’ Again that smile. ‘I would that my school days had been as instructive.’ He was bamming her, she knew.
‘You did not like school?’ The children had grouped themselves around her, staring up at the man in curiosity, almost as if protecting her. She turned to them. ‘Put your shoes on, children.’
He watched idly as they obeyed, the older ones helping the smaller ones. One or two, he noticed, had no footwear at all. They were village children, being taught at a dame school, he supposed, but an unusual one. Dame schools usually confined themselves to teaching children their letters, and not even that sometimes. The teachers were often nearly as ignorant as their pupils, but this one was not like that. She was neat and well spoken and elegant, even in her plain black gown. ‘I liked it well enough,’ he answered her. ‘A necessary evil.’
‘How can you call it an evil? You undoubtedly had a privileged education, which is more than these little ones will have.’ She did not know why she was being so defensive towards a stranger, but he had put her hackles up, sitting there on that very superior horse with his very superior air, criticising her. ‘I can teach them little enough, but I do not think they see it as an evil.’
‘No, I am sure they do not, considering they are allowed to disport themselves running about in bare feet and shouting at the top of their lungs. What is that teaching them?’
‘It is teaching them to be happy, that there is more to life than hard work. It is teaching them to deal well with each other…’
‘And you think such lessons are necessary?’
‘Indeed, I do.’
‘And what else do you teach them? When you are in the classroom, that is?’
Why was he quizzing her, why did he not simply ride away? she asked herself. What did he know of poverty? His clothes were plain, but they were made of good cloth and were well tailored. His riding cloak was warm and the horse he rode was a magnificent beast with powerful muscles and a proud head. Its glossy coat was almost pure white, except for a grey blaze on its nose. ‘I teach them to read, write and count and a little of the world beyond their narrow horizon.’
‘And polite behaviour?’ He really did not need to ask; the children were lined up in pairs, holding each other’s hands, waiting patiently to be told to move.
‘Of course. But if you are referring to the affectations which go by the name of politeness in society, I am afraid that passes them by. Now, if you will excuse me, the wind is becoming a little chill and, unlike you, they do not have warm cloaks. Come, children.’
She picked up the smallest, a child of no more than two, and, taking another by the hand, led them away. The two girls she had claimed as her own were well clothed, but not extravagantly so. Did she have a husband? Or was the black dress a sign of widowhood? A gentlewoman come upon hard times, perhaps. She intrigued him.
He started his horse forward, moving slowly along the top of the cliff, thinking about schools and Julia and a handsome and intelligent woman who had managed to put him in his place. Out on the sea a few fishing boats rocked on the swell and ahead of him was a lighthouse, which reminded him of Gerry Topham. He supposed it was the kind of area he patrolled as an excise officer. He envied his friend his independence; not for him worries about a reprobate daughter and a father who insisted he ought to marry again. His experience of marriage did not incline him to repeat the experiment; as for children, they appeared to be more a bane than a blessing. But was that necessarily true? The schoolteacher seemed perfectly at ease with them and they had been quiet and obedient when she had brought an end to their game and led them up the path towards him. If only he could find someone like her to tame Julia. His aimless thoughts were brought to an abrupt end when his horse stumbled. He dismounted to see what the trouble was and realised Ivor had cast a shoe.
‘Damnation!’ he exclaimed and looked about him for signs of habitation where a blacksmith might be found. There was nothing ahead of him, but, looking back, he could see a stand of pine trees and a curl of smoke that could only be the village to which the woman and the children were returning. Smiling a little, he turned the stallion and led him back to the spot where he had met them and from there followed a well-defined path that cut through the pines. He wondered if he might catch them up, but he did not do so before he found himself in the middle of the main street of the village.
There was a huddle of cottages, a church, an inn, some farm buildings and a smithy, to which he directed his steps. There were a few women on the street, who watched his progress with curiosity, but no sign of the schoolteacher and her charges. He surprised himself by feeling a little disappointed.
He found the blacksmith in his heavy leather apron hard at work beating a horseshoe into shape on his anvil, the ringing tones of his hammer and the flying sparks filling the air with a kind of eternal rhythm, at one with the days of the week and the recurring seasons. Beside him stood a sturdy Suffolk Punch, patiently waiting to receive the new shoe. Stacey stood and watched, knowing it would not do to interrupt in the middle of the task, but when it was done, the old blacksmith looked up. ‘Yer need my services, stranger?’
‘I do indeed. My horse has cast a shoe. Can you fix it for me?’
The old man followed him outside to where he had left the stallion with its reins thrown loosely over the hitching rail. After a cursory inspection all round the animal, he said, ‘’ Tis a mighty fine animal yer have here.’
‘Yes. His name’s Ivor. I bought him off a Russian Count in Austria. He’s seen me through many a battle.’
‘Ridden him all the way from Austria, have yer?’ It was said with a chuckle.
Stacey laughed. ‘No, just from the other side of Norwich. Why do you ask?’
‘All his shoes are worn. It i’n’t no good replacing the one.’
‘No, I realise that.’
‘I’ve to take the horse back to the farm.’ He nodded his head in the direction of the Suffolk Punch. ‘It’ll take me an hour or so.’
‘It’ll be growing dusk by then, too late to carry on tonight. Is there an inn where I can rack up?’
‘There’s the Dog and Fox. They’ll give yer a bed. I’ll have the horse ready by the time yer’ve had yar breakfast.’
‘I’m in no hurry,’ he said, and wondered why he said it. He turned to take his bag from the saddle. ‘By the way, what is this village?’
‘Parson’s End, sir.’
Parson’s End. What a strange name for a village. He had heard it before, he realised. And then he remembered Lord Hobart. Wasn’t that his destination? What quirk of fate had brought him here? He could, he supposed, go the Manor and remind Hobart of his invitation, but then he remembered how unlikeable the man was and decided the Dog and Fox would suit him very well.
Charlotte was in the garden the following morning when a footman came to tell her she had visitors. Gardening was one of her special pleasures and she would spend hours tending her flowers and consulting Harman, the head gardener, on which plants to place where and how to propagate and care for them. Clad in an old fustian coat, a floppy felt hat tied under her chin with a piece of ribbon and a pair of stout canvas gloves, she would dig and weed and clip to her heart’s content. She had certainly not expected visitors today.
‘Who is it, Foster?’
‘Not one of your usual callers, my lady. Pushed past me and strode into the drawing room as if he owned the place…’
‘Perhaps he does,’ she murmured under her breath.
He looked startled, but went on as if he had not heard. ‘And him with two companions that I never would have admitted if I could have stopped them. I am sorry, my lady.’
‘Do not worry, Foster. I think I know who one of them is. Ask Cook to provide refreshment and tell them I will join them shortly.’
He left on his errand and she went in by a side door, along a narrow passage and up the back stairs to her room where she washed and changed hastily into a black silk mourning dress, a little more elegant than the one she had been wearing the day before, which had become stained with salt water, much to Joan Quinn’s disgust. She brushed her hair, coiling it back and fastening it with combs before topping it with a black lace cap, then she took a deep breath and went down the front stairs to the drawing room.
There were three men there, two of whom were already lounging on the green brocade sofas, looking about them as if assessing the worth of everything in the room, the furniture, pictures and the small figurines which her mother-in-law had loved to collect. The third man stood by the hearth with his foot on the fender. His attitude was proprietorial and she had no difficulty in recognising her brother-in-law, though the scar on his face had not been there when she last saw him, and the slimness of youth had been replaced by fat that strained at his coat and pantaloons.
‘Cecil?’ she said.
He made her a mock bow. ‘At your service, sister. May I present my good friends, Sir Roland Bentwater and Mr Augustus Spike?’
The two men, one tall and thin as a pole, the other thickset and swarthy, rose and sketched her a bow to which she replied with a slight movement of her head. ‘Gentlemen.’ Then, addressing Cecil, ‘I did not know you would be coming today. If you had let me know, I would have been better prepared to receive you…’
‘We don’t need receiving. This is my house, I come and go as I please.’
‘Of course. I am sorry you were not here in time to speak to your father before he died—’
‘Sorry? Was he sorry he banished me, was he anxious to make amends?’
‘I believe he was.’
‘That’s as may be, but I have not forgiven him, nor would I have, so perhaps it is as well we did not meet again.’
She decided to ignore that. ‘I have ordered refreshment. While you are having that, I will have your room prepared.’
‘My father’s room, I hope. The master bedroom.’
‘Why, no, I did not think you would want to use that until it had been refurbished. But, of course, you may have things ordered as you wish.’
‘I wish to sleep in my father’s bed and I wish rooms prepared for my friends and our valets who will be arriving with our luggage before the day is out.’
‘Very well. If you excuse me, I will see to it. Foster will serve you while I am gone.’
‘Foster, who is he?’
‘The footman. He admitted you.’
‘Oh, him.’ His tone was disparaging. ‘What happened to Jenkins?’
‘He grew old and decided to retire. He lives in a cottage on the cliff top now.’
‘I think I had better interview all the staff, let them know who is master. I’d be obliged if you would gather them all together in the hall in an hour.’
She inclined her head to acknowledge the instruction and left the room in as dignified a manner as she could manage, but she was seething. The new Lord Hobart was treating her like a housekeeper, not a word of condolence or sorrow at the loss of his father, not a word of gratitude for what she had done to keep the place going, not a word of reassurance that she would be given a home. And if he did offer it, she was not at all sure she would accept—she had taken an instant aversion to him. She passed Foster bearing the tea tray, followed by one of the maids with cakes and sweetmeats, and instructed them to serve the refreshments before carrying on her way up the stairs to warn Miss Quinn to keep the girls to their own suite of rooms until she said they could come down.
Then she went back downstairs to the kitchen where the servants were gossiping and speculating about the new master. She brought them to order and gave instructions for her belongings to be moved out of the bedchamber she had used on the first floor. She had chosen it when the late Lord Hobart became ill so that she would be close at hand if he needed her, but if the new Lord Hobart meant to occupy his father’s room it was not appropriate nor desirable. ‘I’ll use the guest room on the top floor near the girls,’ she told the chambermaids. ‘One of his lordship’s guests can have my room and prepare another along the same corridor for the other. And rooms for the valets who are on their way, I believe.’
‘And his lordship?’ Betsy asked, longing to make some comment about her ladyship having to give up her room for those dreadful men, but not daring to.
‘The old lord’s room. I’ll come and help you directly. When you have done, all the servants are to assemble in the hall to meet the new master.’
‘All of us?’ Cook asked.
‘Yes, all. Tom, go and tell the outside staff to come too. In…’ she consulted the clock that stood on the mantle ‘…three-quarters of an hour. Leave whatever you are doing and line up in the hall.’
There were not many servants for so large a house and Cecil, pacing up and down the row, a full wine glass in his hand, was obviously surprised. ‘Is this everyone?’ he demanded of Charlotte.
‘It is. When Lord Hobart became too ill to receive visitors, we shut up half the house and did not need a large staff.’
‘I want the rooms opened up again. I mean to entertain. As for staff, we shall see how these do before deciding on others.’ He waved his hand to dismiss them all. ‘Go back to your work. We will dine at five.’
They scuttled off and he turned to Charlotte ‘Are you sure I have seen everyone? I recollect you have two daughters…’
‘They are not servants, my lord, to be paraded before you.’
‘But they do live here? They are not away at school?’
‘They are too young to go away. I look after them myself with the help of Miss Quinn, their governess.’
‘Who pays her wages?’
‘Lord Hobart did.’
‘Hmm. I am not sure that I wish to continue that arrangement. After all, your offspring have no claim on the estate, have they? I would rather employ a decent butler.’
‘But they are your nieces, my lord, all the kin you have now.’
‘I intend to marry, then I shall have kin of my own.’
‘I see.’
‘I am sure you do,’ he said, smiling silkily.
She did not answer. Her head was whirling with the knowledge that her brother-in-law was not going to be bountiful, that if she stayed, she would stay under sufferance and be an unpaid housekeeper, that Miss Quinn would probably be dismissed and her girls would be faced with a life very different from the one they had known. And when the horrible man married, what would happen to them then?
‘Food for thought, eh?’ he queried.
‘It is your business,’ she said. ‘May I ask when you are to be married?’
He laughed. ‘When I have found a suitable bride, one who will acknowledge who is master in his own house and will do as she is told.’ He looked up as his two companions sauntered down the stairs from an inspection of their rooms. ‘You need say nothing of this conversation to my friends,’ he murmured, then, turning to them, said jovially, ‘Have you been made comfortable? Is everything to your satisfaction?’
‘It’ll do for now,’ Sir Roland said, wafting his quizzing glass around. ‘But it’s devilish dull here, ain’t it?’
‘I warned you it would be, didn’t I? You can always return to the Smoke.’
‘Oh, I don’t think we want to do that just yet, do we, Gus?’
‘No, not yet,’ the other answered. ‘But I think you should put on some entertainment for us. Send for some company.’
Charlotte knew by the way they spoke that Cecil did not really want them there, that they had invited themselves and there must be a reason why he had not been able to refuse. It was a reason not difficult to guess. And did they also know the contents of Lord Hobart’s will? They were in for a shock if they did not.
‘All in good time, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Shall I show you over the house? You will find much to interest you, I am sure.’ Then, to Charlotte, ‘I shall expect you to dine with us. And bring your daughters.’
‘My lord, they do not usually dine with company.’
‘I am not company. As you so succinctly reminded me, I am their uncle and I wish to meet them.’
‘Very well. I will ask Miss Quinn to bring them down when the pudding is served.’
She turned and left him, passing the two gentlemen as she made for the stairs. She was aware that they were watching her go and she held her head high, but inside her heart felt as heavy as lead. The home she had known for the last twelve years was hers no longer; she was not even welcome in it. She made her way up the second flight of stairs to the schoolroom where her daughters worked under the tutelage of Miss Quinn.
All three turned towards her as she entered. ‘Mama, what has happened?’ Lizzie asked. ‘Who are those men?’
Charlotte looked at Miss Quinn, her eyebrow raised in a query.
‘They heard the door knocker, my lady,’ the governess said. ‘Such a noise it made, as if someone was determined to frighten us all out of our wits. The girls ran to look over the banister and saw them admitted.’
