THE APOTHECARY

Silver Linings Mysteries Book 3

A Regency Romance

by Mary Kingswood

Published by Sutors Publishing

Copyright © 2019 Mary Kingswood

Cover design by: Shayne Rutherford of Darkmoon Graphics

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction.

Author’s note:

this book is written using historic British terminology, so saloon instead of salon, chaperon instead of chaperone and so on. I follow Jane Austen’s example and refer to a group of sisters as the Miss Wintertons.

About this book: The sinking of the Brig Minerva results in many deaths, while for others, the future is suddenly brighter. But it’s not always easy to leave the past behind…

Annie Dresden is twenty-six years old, with no fortune, and nothing but a quick, practical mind to recommend her. Taken in by her apothecary uncle after her father’s death, she’s happy to be his assistant but there’s no future for her as an apothecary. The only proper career for a woman is as a wife and mother, but for Annie the possibility is dwindling.

When a long-forgotten suitor returns, it seems fate has given her another chance. A man turned away by her father years ago for lack of fortune is unexpectedly wealthy after his brother drowned aboard the Brig Minerva. For eight years he’s dreamed of marrying Annie, and she’s not about to throw away her last opportunity for a family of her own. He loves her, and he’s a respectable man - that’s a strong enough foundation for marriage, isn’t it?

But Annie soon finds that her husband has his own ideas about marriage, making her new life unexpectedly difficult. And when disaster strikes, all her hopes of a happy future are thrown into turmoil and she is left wondering whom she can trust.

This is a complete story with a HEA. Book 3 of a 6 book series. A traditional Regency romance, drawing room rather than bedroom.

Isn’t that what’s-his-name? Regular readers of my books will know that occasionally characters from previous books pop up again. There are a few in this book. Lady Charlotte Litherholm was at Valmont when Caroline Milburn visited in The Lacemaker. Mr and Mrs Elkington made a brief appearance at a dinner party in The Lacemaker. Lawyer Mr Willerton-Forbes and his flamboyant sidekick Captain Edgerton have been helping my characters solve murders and other puzzles ever since Lord Augustus. Long-standing characters the Marquess and Marchioness of Carrbridge and their home at Drummoor in Yorkshire get a passing mention.

About the Silver Linings Mysteries series: John Milton coined the phrase 'silver lining' in Comus: A Mask Presented at Ludlow Castle, 1634

Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud

Turn forth her silver lining on the night?

I did not err; there does a sable cloud

Turn forth her silver lining on the night,

And casts a gleam over this tufted grove.

Ever since then, the term ‘silver lining’ has become synonymous with the unexpected benefits arising from disaster. The sinking of the Brig Minerva results in many deaths, but for others, the future is suddenly brighter. But it’s not always easy to leave the past behind…

Book 0: The Clerk: the sinking of the Minerva offers a young man a new life (a novella, free to mailing list subscribers).

Book 1: The Widow: the wife of the Minerva’s captain is free from his cruelty, but can she learn to trust again?

Book 2: The Lacemaker: three sisters inherit a country cottage, but the locals are surprisingly interested in them.

Book 3: The Apothecary: a long-forgotten suitor returns, now a rich man, but is he all he seems?

Book 4: The Painter: two children are left to the care of a reclusive man.

Book 5: The Orphan: a wilful heiress is determined to choose a notorious rake as her guardian.

Book 6: The Duke: the heir to the dukedom is reluctant to step into his dead brother’s shoes and accept his arranged marriage.

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Table of Contents

The Huntly family

1: A Visitor (May)

2: An Offer Of Marriage

3: Willow Place (June)

4: Compliance

5: Adjustments

6: Gooseberries (July)

7: The Lady's Maid (August)

8: A Death In The Family

9: Questions

10: Suspicions

11: The Funeral

12: On Being Alone

13: A Matter Of Servants

14: A Proper Family Dinner

15: Of Love And Marriage

16: Outrage And Argument

17: A Letter From Dublin (September)

18: The Lawyer And The Captain

19: Reassurance And Guilt

20: Betrayal

21: An Afternoon Walk

22: A Seat Beside The River

23: A Crisis And A Hypothesis

24: The Path To Wickstead

25: Cutting Reeds

26: A Boat On The River

27: Saturday Night And Sunday Morning

28: Considering Pistols

29: Missing

30: Many Visitors

Epilogue

Thanks for reading!

About the author

Acknowledgements

Sneak preview of The Painter Prologue: Miss Latimer's Academy

The Huntly family

Hi-res version available here.

1: A Visitor (May)

Annie was on her hands and knees in the cellar, counting bottles, when her life changed. Such a mundane chore, to precede so momentous an event. How could she have guessed?

She loved the feel of the bottles in her hand, heavy and solid. So many bottles… green ones, brown ones, blue ones, clear ones. Tall and thin, or short and squat, or lozenge shaped. Each one would hold a different type of medicine — tonics and sleeping draughts and healing receipts of one sort or another. A thousand different ways to heal, and already she knew several hundreds of them. Her uncle never tired of explaining his methods to her, and she never tired of listening. Ever since she and her mother had come to live with him, she had been her uncle’s avid apprentice. His little apothecary, he liked to call her, in his jesting way.

Three boxes had already been counted, sorted and the bottles replaced, and she was just beginning on the fourth, when the door at the top of the cellar stairs creaked.

“Are you down there, miss?” came Betty’s voice. Annie smiled. Betty hated the cellar, and would never venture down into the darkness unless compelled.

She sat back on her heels. “I am here, Betty. Am I wanted in the kitchen?”

“Mistress said to tell you you’re to go upstairs and put on your blue muslin right away. Oh, and wash your hands and tidy your hair.”

“Oh. Visitors?”

“Don’t know, miss, but they’s all a-twitter, mistress and your ma.”

“Very well. Tell them I shall be there in a little while. I only have one more box to see to.”

“No, miss! Right away!”

“An important visitor, then.” That was interesting. The banker, perhaps? Or the landlord, although he usually only came at Lady Day.

Annie brushed herself down, raising a cloud of dust. No matter how often she swept out the cellar, there was always a great volume of dust. With a last, regretful look at the final box of bottles, she picked up her lantern and climbed the stairs to the kitchen passage.

Her aunt was waiting for her. “Well, now,” she said, pinching Annie’s cheek. “Yes, you need a little bit of colour. You’ve always been so pale. But never mind that now! Hurry upstairs and change, my dear, as quick as you can. He’ll be back in an hour… less than an hour, now, and we must be ready. Gracious, I must send Wally round to Mrs Quaife for some cake or biscuits, for we have nothing… nothing suitable. What are you standing here for? Run, run!”

Annie flew up the stairs. The blue muslin was already laid out on the bed. Betty was rummaging in drawers, pulling out ribbons and gloves and handkerchiefs in a haberdashery whirlwind. Her mother had her jewellery box open, her thin fingers rifling through the contents, muttering, “No, no… not that, no… possible… no…”

“Whatever is going on?” Annie said, turning round to allow Betty to unfasten the back of her apron and gown. “Is it the landlord?”

Her mother looked up with amusement all over her face. “The landlord? Whatever gave you that idea? It is Mr Huntly.”

“Mr Huntly?” Annie said blankly.

“Oh, Annie! You must remember him. He was so sweet on you but not a penny piece to his name. He could not afford a wife, and so your papa told him. He went away after that, but he was so sad, poor fellow.”

“That was years ago! Seven… no, eight years ago, Mama. How should I remember him after all this time?”

But she did remember him. Not his face, perhaps, for his appearance was nondescript, but the way they had met. She had been walking up the High Street with Lavinia when he had emerged from the Angel, long legs striding, and almost bumped into them. He had stopped dead, gazing at her fixedly, then he had swept off his hat and bowed almost to the ground. It was so comical that she had wanted to laugh, and Lavinia had laughed. They had passed by without acknowledging him, naturally, but he had followed them all the way back to the vicarage. He had been in the congregation the next Sunday, but for several weeks he could do no more, for he had no acquaintance in common to introduce him to the society they moved in. When he had finally got his introduction, he had pursued her relentlessly for weeks… no, months, until he had plucked up the courage to speak to Papa. Poor man! He had gone away so dejected, Papa had said.

“But whatever does he want? Has he moved back to Guildford?”

“I think not,” he mother said, with an gleeful grin. “Look at his card.”

She pulled it from the pocket of her apron, and thrust it at Annie. ‘Rupert Huntly, Esq. Willow Place, nr Salisbury, Wilts.’ she read.

“Willow Place. His brother’s estate.”

“It is his home now, and he is an esquire, do you see? A gentleman. What a fine thing for you, Annie!”

“Oh, Heavens, Mama, may a man not call on old friends without exciting speculation? He may simply live with his brother. He may even be married. Ouch! Too tight, Betty.”

“We will find it all out soon enough, but he is not coming here to see me, you may be sure of that, even though he asked for Mrs Dresden and Miss Dresden. He has already found out that you are still unmarried, you see. I expect he made enquiries about you, and now that he knows you are single, he comes to call upon you. There now, that gown shows off your figure to full advantage. This necklace, I think, Annie, and the other fichu. Yes, the lace one, Betty, and then you must do what you can with her hair, while I go and change, too. Goodness, to be receiving morning callers again — why, it is just like the old days when your poor, dear papa was alive, Annie. I do so miss it.”

“I know, Mama, but there is nothing to be done about it, and Uncle Tom has been kindness itself to us.”

“Of course, of course, and I hope I am not ungrateful, dear one. Never that! But I may be grateful and yet still miss my old life, may I not?”

Uncle Tom had been called away to attend to a patient, so only the three ladies sat in the parlour to receive Mr Huntly. Aunt Hester was excited, her eyes bright with speculation. She had a fertile imagination, and so it needed only a male caller for her to be planning the wedding clothes. Annie’s mother was, as always, outwardly serene, yet there was a certain flush on her cheeks all the same.

Annie herself was not sure what she felt. Excitement? Perhaps. Hope, certainly. To be married, and have a home and a family of her own! It was of all things the most desirable to her, and yet here she was, at the advanced age of six and twenty, still a spinster. So if Mr Huntly had matrimony in mind and could afford a wife, she would not rebuff him. Yet she dared not allow herself to consider it possible. He was an old acquaintance who was paying a courtesy call while in the town. Yes, that was all it was.

Betty showed him in, her eyes wide. “Mr Huntly, madam.”

He was just as Annie recalled, although the skeletal frame of youth had filled out a little. He was still nondescript in appearance, but he was clothed rather better than she remembered, with well-fitted coat and breeches, polished top boots and a carefully arranged neckcloth. It would be too much to say that he was fashionable, but he certainly looked the gentleman.

They all rose, and Annie’s mother stepped forward to greet him. “Mr Huntly, how kind of you to call on us. It is always pleasant to meet again with old friends.”

“Mrs Dresden,” he murmured, bowing, but even as he rose, his eyes strayed towards Annie.

“We have so much to talk about, but before you tell us all that you have been doing, my sister-in-law would be gratified to make your acquaintance. Hester, Mr Huntly visited us many times when my poor husband was still with us. Mr Huntly, my sister-in-law, Mrs Perkins. And… you will remember my daughter, Annie.”

“Mrs Perkins.” He bowed to her, then his eyes turned again to Annie. “I remember Miss Dresden perfectly.” Another bow.

Annie curtsied composedly, but her heart was racing. His eyes! There was an intensity in them that could not be mistaken. This was not the courteous call of an old acquaintance passing through the town. He was here for her!

Her mother waved Mr Huntly to a chair and they all sat.

“Are you in Guildford for long, Mr Huntly?” was her mother’s first question.

“I cannot say,” he said. “That will depend on how long it takes for my business to be concluded.”

“You are here on business, then?”

“Personal business, Mrs Dresden. Personal business.” His eyes were on Annie as he spoke, so that she almost blushed. He was so direct! Impossible to misunderstand him. Before anyone could enquire further, he said quickly, “I was so very sorry to hear of the death of Mr Dresden, and the event was most unexpected, as I understand. Such a fine preacher. I always enjoyed his sermons enormously.” He shifted on his chair a little, so that he was facing more towards Annie. “Miss Dresden, do you still attend your father’s former church?”

“Occasionally, sir, but we are closer to St Mary’s, and… it is distressing to Mama to—”

“Of course,” he said quickly. “Naturally it must evoke memories of happier times.”

Annie could see her mother drooping at this turn in the conversation, so she made a rapid change of subject. “You are not any longer living at Grantham, I understand, sir?”

“I am not. I have had… a change of circumstance. You will remember me speaking of my older brother, perhaps, Miss Dresden? The one who inherited my father’s estate in Wiltshire?”

“I remember.”

“He met a tragic demise earlier this year, and therefore I have assumed the responsibility for the management of the estate.”

“That is sad news indeed,” Annie said. “You have my condolences, sir. Was his illness of long duration?”

His lips quirked in a wry half-smile. “He was not ill. Herbert was aboard a ship from Ireland when it foundered off the coast of Cornwall. He was drowned.”

“Not the Minerva?” Annie said, sitting a little more upright. “The same on which the poor Duke of Falconbury lost his life?”

He shook his head a little, albeit with a rueful smile. “I should have realised you would have heard of it. Everyone has heard of the drowning of the poor Duke of Falconbury. Well, Miss Dresden, my poor brother was also on board and also lost his life, which was just as precious to him as the young duke’s was to him, but naturally no newspaper filled its pages with the death of Mr Herbert Huntly. That is the way of the world, that a duke is of more interest than a mere gentleman, and a great deal more than an able seaman. We all have our place in the world, do we not?”

His words were commonplace, but the look in his eyes told a different story.

Her mother said calmly, “The loss of your brother is a great tragedy, Mr Huntly, and the management of his estates must be irksome for you. Are you now settled permanently in Wiltshire, or shall you hope to return to Grantham one day?”

“My home is now at Willow Place,” he said. “My brother had no son and so the estate fell to me. I had no wish for it and it was a wrench to leave my work, for I flatter myself I was beginning to make a name for myself as an attorney, but I daresay I shall grow accustomed, in time, to living as a gentleman. I have a few adjustments still to make to my style of living, but once that is accomplished, I daresay I shall be as contented as any man can be.”

Once more his eyes fell on Annie, and he smiled at her with a warmth that made her blush and drop her eyes. Well! He could not have spoken plainer if he had dropped on one knee and offered for her on the spot.

Aunt Hester was naturally agog to know of his intention in calling, so she tiptoed around the subject by asking courteously if Mr Huntly had any other brothers, or any sisters.

“None now living, to my sorrow. I am the last of my father’s children.”

“And are you married, Mr Huntly?” Aunt Hester said.

His voice was heavy with meaning as he replied. “Not yet, Mrs Perkins. Not yet.”

Annie’s eyes were lowered, so she could not see whether he looked in her direction, but it scarcely mattered. She understood him perfectly.

The tea and some hastily procured cakes were set out, everyone ate and drank, the conversation reverted to indifferent topics and after precisely half an hour, Mr Huntly rose, asked if he might call again the next day and went away.

There was no time to discuss the matter. Aunt Hester was wanted in the kitchen and Annie had her bottles to finish counting. She changed out of the blue muslin gown, and went dutifully down to the cellar again to complete her task. Then there was an errand for her uncle, and then dinner, with the children’s noisy presence. Only after that could the ladies settle to the agreeable task of discussing Mr Huntly, his person and manners and intentions. Annie said nothing, but when the two older ladies settled it between them that a summer wedding was very probable, she could not disagree.

Annie’s uncle had gone out to a patient, but when he returned, the supper tray had been brought in, and his end-of-the-day claret had been poured, he said, “Well, Annie, so you have an admirer, it seems. What do you think of him, this Huntly fellow?”

“He is a pleasant sort of man, Uncle. Very well-spoken.”

“True enough. He asked me very politely if he might call upon you and your mother. I trust I did right in telling him to come back in an hour?”

“Perfectly right, Mr Perkins,” his wife said. “Annie had time to put on one of her good dresses. She looked very well, I thought.”

“Annie always looks well,” he said. Turning to Annie’s mother, he said, “What say you, Mary? Will he come up to scratch, do you think?”

“What a vulgar expression, Tom! But it did seem… one would not wish to raise expectations too soon, but he did seem to speak in a most particular way.”

“And to come all this way solely on Annie’s account suggests the strongest attachment,” Aunt Hester said.

“Do we know that?” Uncle Tom said. “That he has come here solely on Annie’s account?”

“He said he was here on personal business,” his wife said triumphantly. “And then he looked directly at Annie. What could be clearer?”

“Hmm.” Her uncle looked at Annie thoughtfully. “He wished to pay his addresses to you once before, I believe, Annie, but your father sent him away. Were you… disappointed about that?”

“Oh no, Uncle. Papa knew best, and Mr Huntly had no great income then. It would have had to be a very long engagement.”

“We don’t know what his income is now, come to that. You send him to me if he starts talking about marriage, and I’ll have it out of him. No point tying yourself to a man with the appearance of a gentleman unless he has the means to keep you respectably. I know a man in Salisbury who might tell us something about the family. I’ll write first thing. But don’t you go rushing into anything, missy.”

“No, Uncle.”

As she went to bed that night, Aunt Hester whispered, “Oh, Annie! Just think, you’ll soon be married.”

“I know,” she said, smiling.

She was still smiling as she climbed into bed and blew out the candle, for the glow inside her would not be extinguished. She would be married! What more could any woman want?

2: An Offer Of Marriage

Mr Huntly called the next day, precisely at the appointed time, and this time he stayed for an hour. Uncle Tom was there, too, and admitted cautiously that he seemed like a respectable sort of man. The next day, Mr Huntly hired a barouche and took the ladies out for a drive in the countryside. In return, he was invited for dinner. The following day, with Uncle Tom squeezed into the barouche, too, they took a longer drive, with a stop at an inn for a light repast. The day after that was Sunday, so Mr Huntly accompanied the family to church, and then joined them again for dinner.

On Monday morning, he asked Uncle Tom for a private interview, and talked to him for more than an hour before leaving without seeing the ladies. Then Uncle Tom called Annie, her mother and her aunt into his office. He had no desk, so they sat around the battered old table where he worked, piled high with his records of medicines to be prescribed, bills to be sent, prescriptions from the physician, and lists of ingredients to buy on his next visit to London or to be collected from the herbarium. On the shelves were stacked his ledgers and boxes of patient notes, all muddled up with the learned tomes he occasionally referred to, which he allowed Annie to read in the evenings when she had no sewing to be done. The room smelt of dust and old leather and, very faintly, of snuff which her uncle liked to pretend he never used.

“Well, Annie, it is true, he wants to marry you,” her uncle said. “He has never forgotten you, and now that he has come into an independence, here he is come looking for you. He spoke rather eloquently, I must confess. He seems a solemn sort of young man, not a one to harbour an attachment of such strength, I’d have thought, but he spoke of you with great feeling.”

Annie’s mother and aunt twittered happily, but her uncle looked grave, so she waited for him to tell her the worst of it. There must be something worse, she was sure of it from his expression, for otherwise would he not be happy for her?

“He has two thousand a year,” her uncle went on, and the two women gasped and exclaimed in delight. Still Annie waited. “A little more, he thinks, but he is not quite sure. There are some tenancies in dispute, and the rents are under review. But at least two thousand. He also has savings of four thousand pounds which he is prepared to settle on Annie for her pin money and jointure. He told me that he had saved all that over the last eight years, not even buying a new shirt or coat except when the old one fell to pieces, in the hope of having enough, one day, to marry Annie.”

“He’s lucky she’s not already wed,” Aunt Hester said sharply.

“True enough,” Uncle Tom said, “although he seems to have known she wasn’t. He still has friends here, I expect, who kept him informed.”

“It says a great deal for his devotion to Annie,” her mother said. “To think of her for all those years, and to be saving every penny, all in the hope of one day having his heart’s desire — that is faithfulness indeed.”

“And so romantic!” Aunt Hester said with a sigh. “It is a true love match.”

“It’s not a match of any sort yet, and may never be,” Uncle Tom said sombrely. “That’s up to Annie.”

“I shall not refuse him,” Annie said quietly.

“Of course she will not!” her mother said. “Goodness, Tom, what are you thinking about? Her father would not have hesitated for a second to approve such a match. He would have been so proud of her! A splendid offer like this does not come along every day. It would be madness to refuse a man with such a good income. She will be a lady, as she was born to be.”

“She will certainly have fine clothes and jewels enough, but still I would have her consider every aspect carefully before she makes her decision. Marriage is not to be undertaken without a great deal of thought.”

“What is there to think about?” Aunt Hester cried. “He is respectable and rich and head over heels in love with her. No sensible woman would hesitate for a second.”

Uncle Tom smiled. “Annie is very sensible, and I would have her hesitate for twenty four hours, at least. I have told Mr Huntly to return tomorrow at noon, and I shall permit him to see Annie alone, but if she takes my advice, she will ask him for a little time to consider his offer — a week or two, at least, just so that she can get to know him a little better. And now, Mary, Hester, let me talk to Annie alone for a while.”

Grumbling, they went. Annie waited. Surely now her uncle would explain all the disadvantages of the match? He would tell her very gently that Mr Huntly was a gambler or had bad habits or there was some dreadful scandal in his past, perhaps.

“Do you like him, Annie?” were his first words.

“I see nothing in him to dislike,” she said cautiously. “He is clean and dresses suitably for his station in life. His manners are good, neither too reticent nor too forward. When he read from your book of sermons yesterday, he showed great sensibility, I thought, and his opinions are always well expressed.”

“Yes, but do you like him? As a man, I mean… It is not for me to judge, but I presume his looks are such as would please a woman of taste. Do you feel a preference for him? Are you at all attached to him?”

Annie frowned. “Is that important? I see women marry all the time, and men too, who are not the least bit in love. I have no romantic notions, you know. To me, love is a poor foundation for marriage, if unsupported by more reliable sentiments. Respect is a much better guide, and I feel certain I can respect Mr Huntly. Unless you know of any reason why I should not?”

He shook his head. “He is, so far as I have been able to ascertain, exactly what he appears to be — a pleasant young man with no vices or disreputable behaviour. No one has a word to say against him. The solicitor who had him in training here for several years regards him as a very worthy young man, and my acquaintance in Salisbury tells me that the family is a perfectly respectable one, and the estate exactly as he has described it. His offer is a generous one. He understands that you have no dowry to bring to the marriage, and will only have your mother’s three thousand pounds after her death. He cares nothing about that. I had hoped he would take your mother, too, for she would certainly be happier in a gentleman’s household than dwindling away above an apothecary shop, but he would not do it. He said it would be better for you to be mistress of his house right from the start, and not have anyone there to whom you might be tempted to defer. No one would blame him for that, for it’s not wonderful for a man to have his mother-in-law living under his roof. To speak truth, Annie, I cannot fault him.”

“But?” she said quietly.

He exhaled slowly, then leaned across the table, setting a precariously balanced pile of papers wobbling, to take her hand. “My dear niece, let me speak plain to you. I would not have you marry out of any misplaced sense of obligation or duty. You do not have to marry Mr Huntly, or any man. You will always have a home here, you and your mother, and you will always be cherished and valued members of my household. Even if I should be carried off by a seizure tomorrow, know that I have made provision for you both.”

“Uncle, I—”

“No, do not thank me or speak of gratitude, for the boot is entirely on the other foot. When your father died, I offered you a home here from affection and family ties, and should always have done so, were you the most troublesome pair imaginable. But I have been repaid a thousand fold for my charity, Annie. Your mother brought a degree of refinement to the house that Hester, much as I adore her, was never able to do. The servants are in better order, the children are better taught and even the linens last far longer with Mary’s dainty ways. And you, Annie… what would I have done without you, my little apothecary? You know the drugs and potions and illnesses better than any apprentice I’ve ever had, and you have a wonderfully careful hand with mixing and making. Your experiments are clever, your notes are detailed, and you have such a memory for the patients! You remember them far better than I do, and it is such a help to be able to discuss a difficult case with you. You can be so much more than a wife, my dear. You can be a scientist, learning about herbs and drugs for the benefit of the whole profession, improving the skills of every apothecary in the kingdom. There is so much you can do, but not if you are tied to a husband, and overwhelmed with children. So understand that there is always a place for you here, as my own little apothecary.”

“But I am not an apothecary, uncle, and can never be. Only a man can have a profession. I cannot go out to the patients or even serve in the shop. I can never be more than your lowest helper scuttling about in the preparation room or the cellar, out of sight. The only way to disseminate the results of my experiments is for you to write about them, and present them to your peers. Whereas Mr Huntly offers me his name and wealth, an establishment of my own, a family, a respectable position in the world. It is every woman’s duty to marry, uncle. I have never wanted anything else but a large, happy family, just as you and Aunt Hester have. Believe me when I say that I have been entirely happy here, and my gratitude can never be too strongly expressed, but my life will always be incomplete without a husband and home and children of my own.”

“Then there is nothing more to be said on the subject,” he said sadly.

~~~~~

Mr Huntly arrived as the town clocks were striking noon. Annie received him in the front parlour, the only room deemed grand enough to witness an offer of marriage. Her mother, Aunt Hester and Betty had spent the whole morning dusting, polishing and arranging flowers there, so that now it smelt of mingled beeswax, raised dust and sweet peas. Annie wore the blue muslin again, but her hair was curled to drape in short ringlets about her head, held in place by ribbons to match the dress. Her mother had lent her the plain silver cross she always wore on Sundays, and in which she had herself been married. It seemed auspicious.

She heard the footsteps on the stairs, Betty’s lighter ones leading the way, and then Mr Huntly’s heavier, more measured tread. She was unaccountably nervous, for she had never been the recipient of an offer of marriage before. There had been admirers, for in her youth she had enjoyed a certain pale prettiness. Her eyes were her best feature, everyone said, large and dark. Hazel, her papa had called them, although they looked brown to her. Her skin was good, and Lavinia envied her long neck, but Annie knew she was too tall for beauty, her mouth too large, her nose undistinguished. Still, she had been admired, but either Papa had sent her admirers away disappointed, or they had drifted away of their own volition, to girls with greater fortunes or less choosy fathers.

Now at last she would join the hallowed ranks of those who had been courted and had watched a man ask her for the honour of her hand in marriage. Would he kneel? Would he be ardent or prosaic? She hoped prosaic, for she was not sure how to respond to ardour. She had her little speech ready prepared in her mind, having spent much of the night and several hours this morning rehearsing it to herself. Honour and gratitude and humble acknowledgement of her good fortune… and more besides. I thank you for the honour you do me… No, it should be very great honour. Heavens, her mind was a muddle!

The door opened. “Mr Huntly, Miss Dresden.” That was Betty’s acknowledgement of the solemnity of the moment, to accord her her full title.

Annie rose, her knees quaking. “Mr Huntly.”

“Miss Dresden.”

She curtsied, he bowed, Betsy withdrew and the door closed behind her with a soft click.

“Thank you for receiving me, Miss Dresden. I am sure your uncle has apprised you of the nature of what I wish to say to you.”

“He… he has, sir. Will you sit?”

She waved him to a chair and she herself sat on the sofa, but he merely smiled and paced around the room. He seemed not in the least nervous.

“Do you remember when we first met, Miss Dresden?” She nodded, with a little smile. As if she could forget! “That moment… that precise moment when I emerged from the Angel Hotel and almost bumped into you… that moment when I first saw your face, I knew in that instant that one day I would make you my wife. It was our destiny. Naturally, I soon realised all the difficulties that stood between us — your youth, my own lack of a settled position and a steady income, the many years that must pass before I could hope to afford a wife. It was not to be thought of, not then, although I did think of it, naturally. For eight long years I thought of little else, all my energies bent on that one shining prospect. And finally, the time has come as I always knew it would. The manner of it is unexpected, and I would not have had my brother die for the world, but it means that we may now fulfil the destiny which was laid down for us outside the Angel Hotel all those years ago.” Abruptly he sat down beside her, startlingly close. “Miss Dresden… Annie… will you now honour me with your hand in marriage?”

If his words bemused her, she tried not to show it. His nearness flustered her rather, but she managed to say, “Thank you, I… You honour me… do me great honour… I… I should be delighted to accept. Thank you.”

He smiled, but he had not been in the slightest doubt of her answer. His confidence was not punctured by the least concern of a refusal, for it was his destiny to wed her. And hers to wed him, she supposed.

“May I kiss you?”

That flustered her even more, but he had the right, now. She nodded, blushing, not quite sure how to go about it. Should they stand?  Should she put her arm around his neck? Such odd questions that she had never wondered about before.

But he knew what to do. He put one hand under her chin to raise her bashfully lowered face, and then he simply pressed his lips against hers. His lips were dry and warm. It was not an unpleasant sensation, and it lasted only a few seconds before he broke away, laughing.

“You are mine at last, Annie Dresden,” he said exultantly. “Finally!”

And then there was Betty to summon, and her mother and aunt and uncle to be sent for, and congratulations to be received, and a bottle of claret, brought up from the cellar the night before in anticipation, to be opened and poured and drunk, and not a moment to think about how her life had changed or what the future might be like.

Mr Huntly stayed the whole day, and for dinner, and through the evening, talking happily of Willow Place and the wonderful life they would have together there. Annie’s mother and aunt talked of wedding clothes and boxes and the need for a lady’s maid. Her uncle talked of settlements and banns and journey times. Annie said nothing at all, watching her future husband covertly, and trying to guess, from the choice of one word rather than another, or the way his hands crumbled his bread, how happy she would be.

It was not until long after she had climbed wearily up the stairs, undressed by the single candle and curled up in bed that she realised a strange thing — in all the talk of destiny, Mr Huntly had never once spoken of love.

3: Willow Place (June)

Uncle Tom had insisted on a betrothal of a decent length, with the banns called in what he called ‘the proper way’. Licences, he told Mr Huntly in no uncertain terms, were all very well for the nobility, but Annie was a clergyman’s daughter, and there should be a respectable interval between betrothal and wedding, for fear of creating unseemly speculation. Annie was old enough to know what that meant, but she was also old enough not to want any undue delay. Now that the decision had been made, she wanted to get on with the business of being a wife just as soon as the wedding clothes could be got ready. Mr Huntly already had a house and a carriage, so what need was there to wait? They settled on six weeks — long enough to suit her uncle’s notions of propriety, and still quick enough to satisfy the wishes of bride and groom.

The settlements were drawn up, and signed, and Annie discovered she was to have pin money in the sum of forty pounds every quarter. For someone who had never spent more than twenty pounds a year on herself, and that in the giddy season when she had attended five private balls, this was wealth unimaginable. Betty was to be her lady’s maid, for although she was only young, she was careful with clothes and had a way with hair. Aunt Hester had already engaged a replacement housemaid.

The day arrived, the church filled to capacity on the bride’s side and empty on the groom’s. Mr Huntly was attended only by a former colleague from the solicitor’s office where he had previously worked.

Annie felt no more than a momentary pang that it was her uncle who was to give her away, and not her father. Her mother, naturally, wept excessively. As Annie emerged into the auspicious summer sunshine on her husband’s arm, to be greeted by a crowd of well-wishers as Mrs Rupert Huntly, her mother was still weeping.

“Your poor, dear father!” she said, as she had for weeks now. “How proud he would have been to see you married so well, dear one. How he would have enjoyed bringing you to the altar, and giving you into Mr Huntly’s tender care. It is not the same with your uncle, for all he is my own brother. It is a father’s privilege to give his daughter away, and your poor, dear papa would have delighted in it.”

Annie had been tempted to say that if he had wanted it so much, he should not have died, but she swallowed the words. She would not for the world pain her mother by expressing such thoughts. Instead, she said mildly, “I am quite content for Uncle Tom to give me away, Mama. He has sheltered us and looked after us for six years now, and has treated me quite as his own daughter, so it is very fitting that he should be called upon to take the place of a father on this occasion.”

“He can never take the place of your own, dear father,” he mother said, with dignity.

“No, of course not, but since Papa is not here, Uncle Tom is the best possible alternative one could wish for.”

But her mother looked disbelieving.

There was a tasteful wedding breakfast at the Angel Hotel, chosen by the groom in sentimental memory of his meeting with the bride, and agreed to without demur by Uncle Tom. He had no wish to invite a great crowd into the shabby accommodation above his apothecary’s shop, and since Mr Huntly was prepared to put up the readies for it, he was welcome to call the tune.

The groom’s carriage was awaiting them in the yard, the final few tears were shed, handkerchiefs were waved and the newlyweds waved in return as they began their journey to married life. Since the valet and maid had already gone on ahead with all the luggage, Annie was alone in the carriage with her husband.

“At last you are mine!”

He was smiling. He had smiled a great deal since she had accepted his proposal, but now there was something of pure triumph in his face that made her lower her eyes.

“Ah, I love the way you do that!” he said. “So demure, so diffident, my modest little wife. It is what I have always loved best about you.”

“Is it?” she said, daring to look up at him again, and hoping to encourage him to say more in this vein. She knew that he loved her, for how could she not know when he had waited eight years for her? Yet he had never quite said it in so many words.

“Ah, you want compliments, do you? Of course you do! Shall I tell you how beautiful you are? You are very beautiful today, my little wife, a great credit to me. I am very proud of you.”

“I am glad of it,” she said. “I hope I shall always be a credit to you, and… and make you happy.”

“Oh yes, we shall be very happy in our own private heaven, just the two of us. You are so perfect that we shall go on very happily together, Annie.” He frowned a little. “Annie…” he said thoughtfully. “It is a very commonplace name which makes you sound like a housemaid, rather than Mrs Rupert Huntly of Willow Place. I shall call you Ann, I think.”

“Ann!” she said, shocked. “No one has called me that since I was baptised. Even my father called me Annie.”

“You are not a clergyman’s daughter now, Ann,” he said in tones that brooked no argument. “You are the wife of a gentleman of means.”

She bit back the obvious retort that she would always be a clergyman’s daughter. There was no point in antagonising him unnecessarily, not on their wedding day, so she lowered her eyes again and said timidly, “Then what should I call you? May I call you Rupert?”

He considered that before saying, “It is a little informal. Perhaps in the bedchamber it might be acceptable occasionally, but in general I shall expect you to treat me with the respect due from a wife to her husband and address me as Mr Huntly. Naturally, I shall accord you the same courtesy in public.”

“As you wish, sir,” she said, deflated.

~~~~~

Their honeymoon was ten days in Bath. During the day, they walked about seeing all the sights and gazing into the windows of the many enticing shops, and sometimes they drove about the surrounding countryside, but with no acquaintance there, their evenings were rather dull. They attended a concert at the Upper Rooms once, but Mr Huntly was not minded to dance and so they did not attend any of the balls.

From the circumstance of not having had a sister, Annie was unaccustomed to the close company of another person. She might occasionally have gone out with her mother or her aunt, but it would generally be for a few hours only. Most of her time had been spent alone, in her uncle’s preparation room or his office or in the cellar. Even when she was in the company of others, she was not a great talker. She would work in silence in the kitchen while the others chattered around her, and in the evenings she had her books to read. And she had always slept alone.

As a consequence, she found it oddly oppressive to have Mr Huntly’s company for almost twenty four hours a day. His face was the last sight she saw before she fell asleep, and the first to be seen on waking. He was with her throughout the day, for whatever they did, they did together. The only time she was not with him was when she bathed, or Betty was dressing or undressing her. She had never in her life spent so much time with one person, and yet it felt strangely impersonal. She was his only companionship, just as he was hers, yet she was never quite sure how to talk to him. They were not yet so comfortable together that she could tease him or share a joke, nor did she feel that she could neglect him while she read a book. He never read for his own interest, only religious tracts on a Sunday, so she would feel very selfish opening a book while he was in the room. And he was always in the room. She was never alone.

She told herself that everything would be different at Willow Place, for there he would have his own duties to attend to and she would have hers. They would not be so thrown together. A honeymoon was quite different from the reality of their everyday life, a time when they could get to know each other and grow accustomed to being married away from the distractions of mundane life. So she said nothing, and counted the days until they should go to Willow Place. Her home now.

The separate post-chaise for the valet, maid and luggage was dispensed with for their departure from Bath. Sheffield, the valet, sat beside Palcock, the coachman, while Betty sat inside with Annie and Mr Huntly. Their boxes were piled onto the back and roof of the carriage. This made the journey tediously slow and necessitated an overnight stop, in order not to overtire the horses.

Nevertheless, by two or three in the afternoon on the second day they came within sight of the smoke and spires of Salisbury, and turned aside onto a rutted country lane. They passed no villages or houses, there being nothing but heath and scrubby woodland to be seen. After another thicker belt of trees, the carriage passed through a high hedge, and into a park where sheep grazed in the distance. It was some time before the house came into view.

It was larger than Annie had expected. Mr Huntly had told her little about it except that it was a manor house of great antiquity, but the many leaded windows and rows of chimneys were impressive. The walls were of red brick laid down in a pattern, with wooden beams visible between them.

As they drew near, the doors opened and a line of servants emerged to greet the new mistress of the house. Three men and five women, she saw, as well as the coachman and valet she knew about. Her stomach twisted a little. Such a large household! How would she manage? But she remembered her mother effortlessly running the vicarage and gently guiding her aunt’s servants, and knew that she had been in training all her life for the rôle she was now to play. She straightened her shoulders a little.

Now another group emerged from the house — a woman in black, and three small children, the youngest carried by a nursemaid. Who were they? But there was no time to ask, for the carriage was already drawing to a halt. Sheffield leapt down from the box to open the door for them. Mr Huntly descended first, then, with a smile, handed her down.

“Welcome to Willow Place, Mrs Huntly.”

There was a flurry of names as he led her past the servants, who bowed or curtsied deferentially. Then to the lady in black. She was slender and delicate, so small she might have been mistaken for a child herself were it not for the cap on her head and the children holding her hands. And pretty! Annie was briefly envious of such enchanting loveliness.

“This is my brother’s widow, and his daughters,” was all Mr Huntly said.

“I had not the least idea he was married!” Annie cried, quite shocked that her husband had never thought to mention such a thing to her. “Do you live here, too? Or is there… a dower house or some such?”

She flushed a little, and threw a quick glance at Mr Huntly. “My brother-in-law very kindly permits us to stay on here.”

“How delightful!” Annie said. “I have always wanted a sister, and now I have one.”

“Oh, what a lovely thing to say!” the widow said, her face lighting up with a wide smile. “Your husband said you were charming, and so you are. Do come inside, for it is not as warm as one might hope for June. There, now, mind the step, Mrs Huntly. It is a little uneven. May I show you to your room, or…?” She looked at Mr Huntly questioningly.

“You may show Mrs Huntly her rooms,” he said curtly. “I shall ensure the boxes are unloaded safely.”

So saying, he turned and strode back outside, leaving Annie with Mrs Herbert Huntly in the hall. It was a fine medieval hall, all carved dark wood, the panelling and ceiling divided into solidly symmetrical squares, with not a curve to be seen anywhere. A few murky portraits of ancestral Huntlys did nothing to lighten the gloom. Near the stairs, a pair of framed sketches showed the exterior of the house and floor plan. A large clock embedded in the carved stone over-mantel ticked mournfully.  The wooden floor made Annie think of the assembly rooms.

“What a splendid place for a ball,” she said involuntarily.

The widow giggled. “It would be, yes, if the Huntly men were inclined to dance. But perhaps there will be a ball to celebrate your marriage, who knows.” One hand which had been tucked out of sight behind her back now reappeared with a crumpled apron in it. “You caught me by surprise, rather,” she confessed. “I was still in the kitchen. You have made such good time! We did not look for you much before four or even later, and then we should have had to scramble to sit down to dinner on time.” She turned to the nursery maid, still holding the youngest child in her arms. “Dawn, do take the children back to the nursery. Isobel is so tired. Will you come upstairs, Mrs Huntly? Careful crossing the rug! Everything in this house is so old. I could never get Herbert to undertake any improvements, for in his eyes it is perfect. Perhaps you can persuade your husband to have a little work done, for I am sure he will do anything to please you. The chimney pots… one fell last winter, and likely there are others just as bad, and the stables need attention, too. This way.”

Annie, smiling at this honest recital, followed meekly. There were two staircases, each framed by a high stone arch, with a passageway between them leading to hidden parts of the house. The widow led Annie up the left-hand staircase and then along a long, dark passage past numerous doors. Only a window at either end let in a little light to relieve the gloom. Eventually, throwing open a door, she said, “This is your room.”

It was dark, as the whole house was dark, but above the dado, the walls were plastered and painted a pale lemon colour, and the ceiling between the beams was the same, which brought some lightness to the room. There was little furniture beyond a few narrow tables, cupboards and chairs scattered around the perimeter of the room, but the centre was dominated by a massive canopied bed with heavy velvet hangings of a rich, ruby red. A low fire burned in the hearth, and on every surface were bowls of delicate wild flowers.

“How lovely!” Annie said, with genuine pleasure, fingering a pale blue forget-me-not. “You have been busy in the hedgerows this morning, I can see. Thank you!”

The widow sat down on the edge of the bed. “I took Janet and Margaret with me — my two eldest. They were a little overenthusiastic, as you can see, but they would have every last bloom set out for you. I daresay there is not a bowl or a vase left in the house.”

“It was a kind thought, and makes me feel quite at home,” Annie said. “I look forward to meeting your daughters properly later.”

“You are not at all what I expected,” she said thoughtfully. “From the little that my brother-in-law told us of you, I imagined you as some great lady, a diamond of the first water and a paragon of every angelic virtue, so naturally I thought you would be terribly puffed up. But you are not in the least.”

“I should hope not!” Annie said, laughing. “I have no cause at all to give myself airs, being only the impoverished daughter of a clergyman, and quite dependent on my uncle, who is an apothecary, until Mr Huntly rescued me.”

“Oh, I like you!” the widow said, her eyes widening at this frank speech. “We shall be such friends, you and I.”

“I do hope so,” Annie said shyly. “I am very glad to find you here. Will you call me Annie?”

“And you must call me Judith,” she said, jumping up and throwing her arms impulsively around Annie. “Let me show you everything. This is your dressing room, just here. Come on through.”

Annie did so, stepping through the door into another world. The wainscoting was still there, and the heavy wooden beams across the ceiling, but the wood was washed with a pale coloured paint, and above it was a delicately patterned wallpaper with strange birds and blossoms. There were more vases of wildflowers, their delicate scent filling the air.

“This is beautiful!” Annie cried in delight.

“And over here is the connecting door,” Judith said.

“Connecting door?”

“To your husband’s bedroom. Do you truly like it? I used to call this room my boudoir.”

Annie finally realised. “But this is yours! This room, and the bedroom — they are yours.”

“Not any longer,” Judith said, with a gay smile, “and if you want to know the truth, Annie, losing my bedroom and boudoir is the very least of my concerns. Herbert left me more or less penniless, and there are no relations for me to turn to. If your husband had not allowed us to stay here, I imagine we should have been on our way to the workhouse by now.”

“Was there no settlement?” Annie said, horrified.

“None. The idea was that I should have a son to inherit, and so I should always be looked after. But there is no son, and I am not with child, so that is that. But I shall try to make myself useful in the house, and keep the children out of your husband’s way.”

And she smiled so bravely that Annie was deeply moved, for she and her mother had themselves been in just such a difficult position a few years ago. Her father’s living had not been enough to make any savings to provide for them, but at least they had had her uncle to help them, and her mother’s small portion. Poor Judith! Just a short time ago, she had been mistress of all this, the servants working to her command, her future secure. Now she was an indigent widow with three children, and their very lives, perhaps, dependent on the whims of a relation. Yet her husband had been rich. How thoughtless of him to make no provision for his wife and children.

But at least Mr Huntly was taking care of them. Beneath his rather stiff exterior, he had a kind heart.

4: Compliance

Dinner was at Mr Huntly’s preferred time of six o’clock, with the valet and groom acting as footmen. There were two courses and several removes, but Annie noted that Mr Huntly twice commented on the overabundance of food, and privately decided that in future one course would be sufficient. The dining table was large enough to seat twenty or more guests, so they huddled at one end of it, Judith in black and Annie in a dark blue gown, the darkest she owned, which she wore in sympathy with the grieving widow. Mr Huntly wore a green coat, silk knee breeches and a gold brocade waistcoat which had looked very much the thing in Bath, but which was rather too ornate for quiet country living.

Little was said beyond the usual civilities of the table — food offered, joints carved, dishes passed about, praise given. Judith, who had chattered freely to Annie upstairs, was silent in Mr Huntly’s presence, and he himself ventured no subject for discussion, beyond the commonplace. Annie felt it reasonable to enquire about the fundamentals of the household, such as the time of breakfast, and when she might be expected to meet with the housekeeper each day.

“Mrs Cumber will await your convenience, naturally,” Mr Huntly said repressively.

“Indeed, but I have no wish to disrupt the workings of the household unnecessarily,” Annie said. “Judith, when was your usual time to meet Mrs Cumber?”

“Oh… quite early, as a rule,” Judith said, eyes lowered. “That way there is time for Billy to ride into Salisbury if there is anything needed.”

“Is there no village nearby? Or a farm where immediate needs may be met?”

“The nearest village is very small, no more than a church, manor house and a few cottages,” Judith said, her voice subdued. “There is a farm across the river which provides our basic needs, such as milk, eggs and plain meats, and the kitchen garden and orchard here provide most of our fruit and vegetables, but for game or fish or dried goods, Salisbury is the nearest source.”

“Across the river?” Annie said. “What river is that?”

“The River Durran,” Mr Huntly said. “It loops around the estate, and the willows fringing it give the manor its name.”

“I shall look forward to exploring it,” Annie said. “I shall suggest eight o’clock to Mrs Cumber. Mr Huntly, what are your plans for tomorrow? Do you require my presence for anything, or may I ask Judith to show me over the rest of the house?”

“I reserve to myself the pleasure of showing you around Willow Place,” he said, with one of his sudden smiles. “I should relish the opportunity to learn more of it myself.”

Annie had a mouthful of strawberry tartlet, but she swallowed hastily and said, “But this is your home, sir! Surely you know it well?”

The smile widened. “Not so, to my regret. My mother… went away from Willow Place when I was but five years old, so my aunt’s house in Grantham was my only childhood home, as it was also for my sister Rachel.”

“You have a sister?”

“She died in childbed many years ago.” His face closed up, and she saw that the subject was painful for him and resolved to ask nothing further. After a moment, he went on, “Herbert was old enough to go away to school, and in the holidays he returned here, so he always knew the house well, but I—” He took a long draught of wine, then said in more sombre tones, “I knew only what my brother told me of it. I never came here again until word reached me that he had perished. So I know almost as little of it as you, Mrs Huntly.”

“Then we shall learn its ways together,” she said.

“Yes!” he said, his face softening. “That is exactly my plan.”

Judith applied herself assiduously to her plate, saying nothing further.

In the evening, Mr Huntly insisted Annie play the instrument. “I always remembered your playing with such fondness,” he said with a soft smile. “I loved to watch your face as you concentrated on the performance.”

“I had to concentrate because I was not very skilled,” Annie said, laughing. “Nor have I played since we left the vicarage. My aunt and uncle have no instrument. I am greatly in need of practice, but I will undertake to do so diligently if you will but give me a little time to improve before asking me to perform in public.”

“This is hardly public, with only myself to hear, and I shall not be a critical listener, you may be sure of that. Indulge me tonight, if you please.”

Reluctantly, she followed him into the music room, every wall hung about with huge tapestries, and began to look through the box of sheet music beside the pianoforte.

“I have already chosen a piece for you,” he said eagerly, showing her one already resting on top of the instrument. “It was such a favourite of mine when I used to visit you, all those years ago.”

Her heart sank when she saw it. “This is not an easy piece, Mr Huntly. I never quite got it right, even when I practised every day. May I not begin with an easier piece?”

“Try it, to please me.”

“Very well, but pray accept my apologies in advance for all my mistakes.”

“I shall notice none, I assure you.”

And he drew up a chair and sat right beside the pianoforte, positioned so that he could watch her face. At first, this flustered her, but after a while, as her unaccustomed fingers began to recall to some degree their former proficiency, her playing became smoother. The result was not anything of which she could be proud, but neither was it so dreadful as she had feared.

Mr Huntly never took his eyes from her face. “That was wonderful, Mrs Huntly,” he said, and immediately urged her to play another piece. Pleased to have found some occupation for the evenings that gave him pleasure and required no speech, she played on until her hands ached, and Judith had long since retired. By the time supper had been served, Annie was longing for her bed.

Leaving Mr Huntly to make a final round checking that the doors and windows were secure, she made her way to her dressing room. Betty was already there, her nightgown and robe laid out awaiting her. Through the open door, the bedroom lay in near darkness, only the deep red of the bed hangings a pool of colour in the gloom. The dressing room, by contrast, was bright with candles. A fire burned merrily in the hearth, making the room unpleasantly stuffy. Annie crossed the room, pulled aside one of the shutters and threw open the casement.

The cool night air was pleasant against her face, heated as it was from the effort of playing music after such long neglect.

“Goodness, it is warm in here!”

“Master’s orders, madam,” Betty said. “Doesn’t want you to catch a chill. He’s very thoughtful that way, isn’t he? Looks after you so well.” And she sighed with sentimental fervour. “And isn’t this grand, having a whole room to get dressed and undressed in?”

“Is everything to your satisfaction?” Annie said, as she allowed Betty to unfasten her gown and stays. “You have a pleasant room, I trust?”

“Oh yes, madam, my room is wonderful.” Another sigh. “It’s so much better than that tiny attic room I shared with Della. I have a room to myself, and there’s a little place off the servants’ hall for taking care of your clothes. I have to share that with Mr Sheffield, the master’s valet, but he’s been ever so helpful. He has such a clever way to get candle grease off things.”

“And the housekeeper?”

“Mrs Cumber? Oh, she’s lovely! I thought she’d be a bit… you know, looking down on me, what with me being so much younger than the others, but she’s been ever so kind to me. Barbara — that’s the under-housemaid — she’s been set to look after me, and show me where everything is.  She said she thinks we’ll be great friends. It’s lovely to have a friend here already, like you have Mrs Herbert. I’m sure I’m going to like it here. Well, who wouldn’t, when everyone’s so kind? They wanted to know all about you, but I’m not to tell, am I? Your ma said a lady’s maid keeps all her mistress’s secrets.”

Annie slipped her nightgown over her head, and let Betty to fasten the robe around her, then sat down at the dressing table to allow the maid to loosen her hair and brush it out.

“I have no secrets to keep, Betty, so you may tell them what you know of me, by all means,” she said. “I hope they will tell you something about my husband, in return, for I know little enough of him. He has so much natural reticence that he never likes to talk of himself.”

“No one knows much about him, madam. He was never here until his brother died, and then only briefly, and then he came back to say he was getting married and give orders about that. He’s never lived here at all, not since he was a tiny boy, and his brother never mentioned him, which is odd, isn’t it? Everyone’s very interested to know what sort of master he’ll be and whether he’ll go away as much as his brother did. Off in Ireland with his mother half the year, he was, and his poor wife left here alone with the babes. Poor lady, to be widowed so young! Mrs Hewitt said that it was a blessed release for her, but I don’t know about that. She must have been prostrate with grief, losing her husband all of a sudden, that way. I remember when you and your ma first came to Castle Street, madam, and Lord, she was bad, your ma. You showed it less, but she never stopped weeping for weeks and weeks, and even after that, the least thing would set her off. Grief’s a terrible thing, isn’t it?”

Annie murmured some response, but Betty was in full flow and she had not the heart to stop her. It was pleasant to have someone to talk to who knew her history, who remembered the Guildford house and her family there, a last tenuous link to her old life. There was a little more freedom here, too, where Mr Huntly had his own room, and there was not the delicate dance to dress or undress without inconveniencing the other.

It was a surprise, therefore, when Mr Huntly came through the connecting door into the dressing room, already in gown and robe ready for bed, before Betty had half unpinned Annie’s hair. Betty froze, hands poised to remove another hairpin, and fell silent.

“I am not quite ready yet,” Annie said, with what composure she could muster.

“No matter,” he said. “I am perfectly happy to watch while your maid attends you. There is a draught in here… who opened this window?” He strode across the room, and closed the window firmly.

“I opened it,” Annie said quickly, in case he thought to blame Betty. “It was a little warm in here.”

“The evening air is most injurious to the lungs, Mrs Huntly, especially after the warmth of the drawing room. I must insist that you not expose yourself to any risk to your health.”

She said nothing, unconvinced, but unwilling to argue the point. He chose not to sit, but stood behind the dressing table where he could watch her, never taking his eyes from her face. His intensity was unsettling, but she imagined her charms would lose the appeal of novelty in a few weeks and he would be a more relaxing companion. Betty brushed and then plaited Annie’s hair as quickly as her fingers could fly, tidied away the discarded clothing and scuttled out of the room.

“Your maid is very young,” Mr Huntly said, once she had gone. “Too young, perhaps, to know how to take proper care of you.”

“She is young, it is true, but she is a quick learner and manages my hair cleverly. She has always helped me look after my clothes, even though she trained as a housemaid.”

“Let us not talk about housemaids.” He moved round to stand behind her. Even then, he still watched her reflection in the mirror, his eyes dark pools as the candles threw shadows across his face. “Come here.”

Obediently she rose and turned towards him, and he rested his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs stroking her neck, regarding her with a little smile. “How do you like your new home, Mrs Huntly?”

“I like it very well indeed! How could I not? I am sure I shall be very happy here.”

“Naturally you will be. I did not know, that day when I first saw you, that we should spend our married life here at Willow Place. I knew we were fated to be together always, but I assumed it would be at Grantham. Sometimes I would walk about the streets there looking for the perfect house for us, or attend the auctions so that I might determine the right setting for you, to show you off to best advantage. Yet somehow, none of them pleased me. There was some deficiency in every one — too small or too inelegant or on too mean a street for Mrs Rupert Huntly. But as soon as the solicitor’s letter arrived to tell me of Herbert’s death, I understood. This is where you are meant to be, this is the only possible setting for so perfect a jewel as you are, wife of mine.”

Such words were delightful, of course, but she had to demur. Blushing, she said, “I am very far from perfect, sir.”

He gave a rumble of laughter that made him shake. “Let me be the judge of that, Ann. To me you are perfect, like the first rosebud of summer, all delicate pale beauty so tightly furled. Ah, there it is! That way you dip your head… so shy, hiding your charms, just like the dainty rosebud. You bring me so much joy, my little one.”

“Do I?” Diffidently, she lifted her eyes to meet his, and saw a warmth there which made her glow. His tenderness gave her the courage to ask, “Do you love me, Rupert?”

“Of course I do! What a question! Would I have dreamt of you for eight long years if I had not? Would I have married you? The love I bear you is so deep, so all-encompassing that I cannot imagine my life without you. I was not truly alive before… but now, at last, I have you and my life is complete. I want for nothing when I have my dearest, my only love with me. I shall take the greatest care of you, my very dear wife, you may be sure of that. I shall protect you from every ill in the world, and we shall live in perfect bliss together for our whole lives.”

Thrilled to the core by such words, she lifted her hand to stroke his face. To her surprise, he removed it at once, with a grunt of disapprobation.

“Too forward, Mrs Huntly. Do not allow your sense of obligation to lead you into unseemly error. A wife must always be submissive to her husband.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, lowering her eyes.

He chuckled. “You will get into the way of pleasing me soon enough, and when you are dutiful, you please me very well.” Again his thumbs rubbed her neck, up and down, up and down.

The warmth had returned to his voice, but all her pleasure in the moment had gone.

~~~~~

Annie awoke hot, her head heavy. Pushing aside the heavy bed hangings, she slipped out of bed. The morning light seeped around the shutters, illuminating the room in a pale glow. Beside her, Mr Huntly was fast asleep, his face gentle in repose. He was not a handsome man, his face often stern or lugubrious. Only the smiles when he looked at her gave him some softness in appearance at times.

She crept across the room to the door to the dressing room, which creaked slightly as she opened it, but her husband did not stir. The dressing room was brighter, for the shutter she had pulled aside the previous night had not been repositioned, and the room was flooded with golden morning light. Once again she was struck with how pretty the room was, and felt a pang of guilt for Judith, surrendering her so-carefully decorated room to a stranger. How horrible it must be, not only to lose one’s husband, but to lose one’s familiar rooms and even one’s position within the household. Poor Judith!

She was still hot, so she padded noiselessly across the plush carpet to the window and pushed open the casement. There was a fine prospect over the park towards a line of trees, morning mist making the air hazy in the early light. Nearer to the house lay a wide shrubbery, half hidden in the mist, dark and mysterious.

A movement…

She looked more closely, saw nothing. No, there it was again, a flash of white… a man! As her eyes adjusted to the distance, she saw that it was indeed a man, wearing a white shirt and perhaps a waistcoat. His trousers were invisibly dark, or perhaps they simply disappeared into the encroaching mist. He moved… perhaps he waved an arm… and then he vanished. No matter how her eyes strained, she could not make him out.

“Ann? Are you well?” Mr Huntly stood, barefoot, and clad only in his nightshirt, just as she was, in the doorway.

“I am perfectly well, but I was hot when I woke, and came here to get some air without disturbing you. Rupert, there was a man down there, just in front of those dark bushes.”

“A man? The groom, perhaps?”

“He did not look like a groom, or anyone with any business to be there. He was just… standing there.”

“I expect it was the gamekeeper. Really, Mrs Huntly, it is not good for you to be exposed to the morning air so soon after rising.” He reached past her and closed the window. “It is not yet time to leave your bed. You must take a proper degree of rest each morning, or you will be vulnerable to all manner of chills and noxious airs.”

“I am never ill, Rupert. Pray do not concern yourself on my account.”

“But I must do so, my dear, since you are so careless of your own health. Go back to bed now, and perhaps you will sleep a while longer. Your maid will rouse you at the appropriate time.”

Wordlessly she went, for there was no point in arguing about so trivial a matter. Perhaps in a few months his excessive anxiety for her well-being would diminish.

5: Adjustments

When Annie woke again, her husband was gone and she could hear Betty moving about in the dressing room. When she went through, two gowns had been laid out ready for her to choose from, and a tray of tea and cake awaited her. She went about her ablutions, and sipped her tea before beginning to dress.

Her morning routine was swift, but even so, Mr Huntly appeared, dressed for the day, while she was still pulling on her gown.

“Mr Huntly?” she said, rather startled, and trying not to be offended that he felt at liberty to enter her dressing room without invitation. At night, perhaps, there was some excuse, but not in daylight hours.

“I have ordered some chocolate brought up to us here,” he said.

“I prefer tea to start the day, as we did in Bath,” she said, bewildered.

“Tea is watery pap,” he said. “Chocolate is far more nourishing. Your health is a great concern to me, Mrs Huntly, and I prefer you to drink chocolate when you rise. You must keep up your strength.”

Annie suppressed a certain irritation. It was high-handed of him, but it was done with the best of intentions. There would be time enough to order matters to her wishes whenever the excessive care of a new husband should mellow somewhat. Betty finished dressing her in silence, the chocolate arrived and Annie dutifully sipped it as her husband watched her, cradling his own cup. She would not have minded the chocolate so much if she could have eaten some cake, but Mr Huntly had instructed Mrs Cumber to remove the tea tray.

Once Betty had withdrawn, her husband said, “Now, Mrs Huntly, we shall begin our tour of the house, and then see the housekeeper at eight o’clock, after which—”

“We?” she burst out. “You wish to be present when I discuss domestic arrangements with Mrs Cumber?”

“Do you object to that?” He raised one dark eyebrow in surprise.

“No, but—” Flustered, she struggled for the right words to express how intrusive this felt to her. “It is not usual. A gentleman does not normally care how his dinner arrives at the table, so long as it is cooked to his liking.”

“Ah, you are jealous of your rôle as housewife,” he said, in amused tones. “I understand. But you mistake me, my dear, if you imagine that I take much interest in soup and ragoût. However, I know very little more of the servants than you do, so it will be beneficial for me to meet Mrs Cumber today.”

That was so reasonable that she felt a little foolish in objecting to it.

When he deemed that she was sufficiently fortified by chocolate to face the day, they made their way downstairs and began their tour of the rooms on the ground floor. The buttery, the peacock chamber, the blue room, the tapestry room all passed her by in a whirl of names and brief impressions of large, imposing rooms, rendered even more formidable in daylight. Only the fittingly-named little parlour was of more modest proportions, seeming homely by comparison. The furnishings were a little drab and tired with age, but there was not a speck of dust to be seen, and fresh flowers brightened every room. They came in time to the hunting room, although she could not see why it was so called, for the walls were lined with shelves filled with books.

“A library!” she cried delightedly.

“My study,” he corrected her. “I have caused some small alterations to be made, which will suit us better. Here is my desk, you see, and here is a smaller desk for you. Is it not an elegant piece of furniture? It is intended as a secretary’s desk, perhaps, but it is perfect for you. This way we shall be able to write side by side, in complete harmony.”

“But this is your study!” she said, her heart sinking. Was there to be no escape from her husband’s presence? “I shall be very much in the way when you have to see your steward or receive callers.”

“We shall deal with that when it occurs,” he said, with the smug air of a man who has thought of everything. “Is it not cosy? There is a table here where you may spread out your embroidery when you have completed your correspondence. This way I shall always be able to enjoy your company. It is almost eight, so Mrs Cumber will be here shortly. We shall receive her… let me see… yes, sitting here, on this sofa, I think.”

Numbly, Annie sat as she was bid. She would not argue with him… she would not. For now, she would accept his wishes placidly, like the good wife she was, and hope to teach him to keep her on a looser rein in future.

Mrs Cumber was a rather angular woman, who stood stiffly before them, her eyes flickering from one to the other. Mr Huntly, however, said nothing, and once the housekeeper realised that Annie was not about to make sweeping changes to the house, and was happy with her suggestions for dinner, she relaxed a little.

“So you will not wish for two courses every night, madam?”

“That would be an unnecessary expense. Eight or ten dishes with two or three removes will be perfectly adequate, but please try to have a fish dish every day, if at all possible. Mr Huntly is very fond of fish.”

“Very well, madam. Will that be all?”

“That will be all, thank you.”

The housekeeper curtsied and would have turned to leave the room, but Mr Huntly said, “One moment, Mrs Cumber, if you please. How many housemaids do you have?”

“Two, sir.”

“You may let one of them go. Mrs Huntly’s lady’s maid is also a housemaid, and Mrs Herbert has indicated her willingness to do her share of the work.”

Annie bit her tongue, for she could not challenge her husband’s decision in front of the housekeeper.

Mrs Cumber looked nonplussed. “It would have to be Barbara, but… she’s been here for years, sir. Fifteen or more. Are you sure?” Again her eyes flicked to Annie and back. “This is a big house, and—”

“Get rid of her.”

Annie said quickly, “Let her work her notice, Mrs Cumber, then I shall be able to write her a good reference, and I am sure Mrs Herbert Huntly will do so as well.”

When Mrs Cumber had left the room, Annie said, “In future, Mr Huntly, I would prefer to discuss any such alterations to household arrangements in private beforehand. I cannot yet judge the proper number of female servants required for an establishment of this size, and it is a little premature to dismiss any until it is certain they are not required.”

“Hardly so,” he said. “Your maid and Judith may each undertake half the work of a housemaid. Therefore one housemaid is unnecessary.”

“But we may find we need to increase the number of servants in the future.”

“Then we will hire more,” he said, with an indifferent shrug. “I have letters for you, Mrs Huntly.” He went to his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a pile of unopened letters. He sorted through them and pulled out several. “These are yours. They came while we were in Bath. One of them is franked by a Lord Morpeth. I was not aware that you were acquainted with any peers.”

“My old friend Lavinia is married to a son of the Earl of Morpeth,” she said absently. “You had these yesterday. I wonder that you did not let me have them at once.”

“Letters are for the morning,” he said. “We may read them and write our replies sitting side by side here before breakfast. Is that not charming? Then the rest of the day is free of such chores. Sit at your desk, Mrs Huntly, and attend to your correspondence.”

Annie sat and read her letters, which were mostly congratulations on her marriage, with a few tidbits of local news from her mother and aunt. She could not, however, write any responses, not with Mr Huntly alongside her, constantly asking if her letters contained good news, or whether she needed her pen mended. He devoted more attention to what she was doing than to his own letters.

In the end, because he was becoming persistent in his enquiries as to why she wrote nothing, she took up her pen and wrote a few lines to her mother.

“There are no wafers here, or sealing wax,” she said. “May I have some of yours?”

“It will be my pleasure to seal your letters for you, and see that they go to the post office,” he said, holding out his hand, and she had no option but to give him the unsealed sheet.

They breakfasted together in the buttery. Judith was absent, and Annie could only hope she was not on her knees somewhere black leading grates. Then it was back to the hunting room.

“I still have a few letters to write,” Mr Huntly said. “If you have finished your correspondence for the day, you may fetch a piece of embroidery.”

“There is no embroidery for me to work on,” she said. “My usual stitchery is of the more practical sort — hemming handkerchiefs and mending shirts. May I read while you work?”

He smiled, and stroked her face softly. “Ah, yes, you are not used to the life of a lady, are you? Let me find you a book to read.”

“I can do that,” she said hastily. “I would not for the world distract you from your important correspondence.”

“It is not the least inconvenience,” he said, moving to one of the bookcases and unlocking the door. “Let me see… no, these are very dull, and you need not read sermons except on Sundays. Ah, here we are… a history of the county of Wiltshire, and all its important events and places. That will be very interesting for you, to learn about your new home. You may relate some of it to me at dinner tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” she said at once, although determined to choose her own books at the first opportunity. She was not hopeful of finding the latest novels on the shelves of Willow Place, but there must be something more enjoyable than sermons and local history.

For a while, they worked without speaking. His pen scratched away as he answered the accumulated letters of the last two weeks, and hers likewise, for she found the book so dreary that she was obliged to make a note of anything she encountered that might safely be recounted over the dinner table before she forgot it. She hoped that would serve to convince him that she was, in fact, reading his chosen tome, but in fact her mind was bent on a more pressing problem — how to escape the suffocating hold he had over her. Every hour, it seemed, day and night alike, was to be spent in his company, and she could not find a way to avoid it. If she protested directly about any matter, he at once found a reasonable answer to her concerns, and she could not explain to him how stifling it was to have one’s life directed in so minute and relentless a fashion.

Around noon, there was a reprieve of sorts, for Ransome, the steward, arrived.

“You will not want me here while you discuss business,” Annie said, jumping up and trying not to appear too eager. Here at last was her chance to meet the rest of the servants more informally, or to find Judith and the children, and check that all was well with them. Or perhaps she could—

“This is the ideal opportunity for you to practise at the instrument,” Mr Huntly said. “I have set out a piece which would bring me great pleasure to hear tonight.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, curtsying demurely, but inside she seethed. How dared he! Was she to have no time to do anything on her own account? Or even to do nothing at all, if she wished.

Still, playing the instrument was something she would enjoy, especially if her husband were not there to appraise her performance. Accordingly, she went through to the tapestry room where the instrument was, found the sheet music on top of it and sat down to play. It was the first time she had been alone for any length of time since her marriage, and the sense of freedom was exhilarating. There was an element of guilt, too, in feeling so joyous to be apart from her husband of less than two weeks, but she could not stop herself from smiling as she played.

Nor was her release from his company the only source of satisfaction. She could look around her and know that everything she saw was hers to enjoy now. The instrument, the exquisite tapestries on the walls, the lovely old house, the servants, the estate yet to be explored… how lucky she was! She was Mrs Rupert Huntly of Willow Place, and that was something of which to be proud. And if her husband constrained her activities just now in the first flush of marital enthusiasm, perhaps that was a small price to pay for the life he had given her.

She played, and for a little while lost herself in the music. At first, her fingers were tentative, but by the fourth time through the piece, she felt she had mastered it rather well, and stopped at the end well satisfied with her progress.

Hearty applause from the doorway made her jump.

“Bravo!” cried a cheerful male voice. “An excellent performance.”

He was a gentleman, that much was certain, for his well-cut clothes, closely fitted to his form, and the artfully disarrayed hair betrayed as much. He was handsome, too, that much she would admit. Yet he was unknown to her, and therefore she should not be receiving him at all, especially given the teasing eyes and mischievous grin, which suggested the habitual flirt.

“Are you here to see my husband? He is in the hunting room. I am sure the housekeeper or footman will show you the way.”

He laughed, moving without invitation further into the room. “Now, where would be the pleasure in that? I had much rather stay here with you, and see if I can coax a smile to that pretty face.”

Yes, definitely a flirt. “I had much rather you did not,” she snapped. She would not normally allow her temper to get the better of her, but he had startled her, and she was cross to have her solitude so rudely disrupted. And perhaps a little simmering vexation against her husband turned itself against this provocative stranger.

“Oh, you are no fun at all! Where is the welcome for a fellow come to congratulate the blushing bride? You are the bride, are you not? I feel sure you are, although the blushing is conspicuously absent.”

“You are impertinent, sir. I wish you will leave.”

He laughed even more at that, and bowed ironically, yet he still made no move to leave. She was about to ring the bell to have him thrown out when her husband loomed in the doorway.

“What is going on? Oh, it is you, is it?”

“Indeed, it is I,” the stranger said, bowing again.

“Mrs Huntly,” her husband said, “may I present to you my cousin, Adam Huntly of Wickstead Manor. My wife, Huntly.”

“Another relative of whom I knew nothing,” Annie said angrily, too ruffled to mind her words. “Perhaps I should peruse the family Bible, Mr Huntly, so that I may be forewarned of the existence of sundry cousins and aunts and nieces.”

For an instant, her husband’s eyes flashed dangerously, and she subsided, but Mr Adam Huntly laughed uproariously. “Ah, the lady has spirit, I think. You should have heard her ring a peal over me, Cousin. Told me I was impertinent, and she wished I would leave. My fault, of course, for entering the house from the stables and taking her by surprise. I beg your pardon, Mrs Huntly.”

He bowed yet again, and she inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement. She would not forgive him for treating the house as if it were his own, but she appreciated the deft way he had turned aside her husband’s wrath.

They moved into the peacock chamber, which Mr Huntly had decided was the appropriate place to receive social callers. It was an odd sort of room, dominated by a massive and rather faded tapestry of a garden with peacocks parading about. A few patches were marred by broken or frayed threads, and Annie wished she had the skill to mend it. The work took up the whole of one wall, obviously too large for the smaller tapestry room next door.

Mr Huntly poured Madeira for the two men. When Annie asked the visitor if he would like anything to eat, her husband said curtly, “He will not be staying long.”

“No, indeed,” Mr Adam Huntly said equably. “Cousin Rupert dislikes me, Mrs Huntly, but I cannot see why he should, can you? For who could possibly dislike so charming and amiable a fellow as I am? A discerning lady like yourself would not be so harsh, I am sure. You must have drawn the attention of any number of gentlemen before you disappointed them all by choosing my cousin, so I am sure you will be well able to recognise my innumerable good qualities.”

“I recognise an outrageous flirt when I see one,” she said, but there was no longer any sharpness in her tone. Indeed, she was finding it impossible to sustain any degree of hostility against one who was irrepressibly good-humoured.

They were exact opposites, the two men. Her husband was tall and thin and dark, all long arms and legs, with a saturnine expression in that moment. In his dark coat, he looked just like a spider. His cousin was fair, his expression sunny, as if life were a perpetual joke provided for his amusement. He was not much above average height, but well-proportioned, and his tightly-fitted coat owed nothing to buckram padding. Annie’s eyes were drawn to his powerful and shapely legs, and she had an unexpected wish to see him astride his horse, where she was certain his figure would appear to uncommon advantage.

He had just risen to take his leave when the door flew open and Judith bounced into the room.

“Adam! I have only just heard that you were here. How are you?”

“All the better for seeing you, my dear Judith.” He bowed, and swept her hand into his, raising it almost to his lips. “You light up every room you are in, although I have to tell you that you have a rival now. You and Mrs Rupert are the twin suns around whom we lesser lights must orbit.”

“What nonsense you do talk, Adam! Are you staying? We can manage an extra place for dinner. Oh! I beg your pardon, Annie. It is hard to lose the habit of issuing invitations.”

Annie could see from her husband’s face that his cousin’s presence at dinner would not be welcome. “I believe Mr Adam Huntly is just about to leave, but doubtless there will be many other opportunities for him to join us for dinner.”

“I shall look forward to it, dear lady.” His eyes twinkled merrily as he spoke. He bowed low over her hand, bowed to his cousin and without further ado took his leave. Judith accompanied him back to the stables, and Annie heard her high voice chattering away as they disappeared through the house.

“Intolerable coxcomb,” Mr Huntly muttered. “Ransome is gone, my dear, so you may resume your reading in the hunting room.”

How she longed to refuse! If only she dared tell him what she would truly wish to do, but that flash of anger in his eyes had made her cautious. It was too soon for confrontation, and perhaps he would himself loosen his grip on her in time.

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly.

6: Gooseberries (July)

Annie settled somewhat uneasily into her new life. Mr Huntly still kept her close for much of the day, but his vigilance was less relentless. He established a strict routine, for he quickly discovered that Judith had been rather a lackadaisical mistress, and the household had fallen into what he regarded as bad habits. Annie was permitted to spend half an hour each morning with the housekeeper, discussing meals and other domestic concerns, while Mr Huntly inspected the stables and met the gardener and gamekeeper, there was an hour of music practice daily, and after a week or two, her husband began to insist that she rest for an hour before dinner. She made no objection to this, for while he imagined her dozing on a chaise longue in her dressing room, she was in fact sipping her favourite kind of tea, reading books slipped quietly out of the hunting room, or writing long, chatty letters to her mother, her aunt or any number of friends and distant relations. There was sealing wax in the escritoire in the dressing room, so she no longer had to hand unsealed letters to her husband. Once sealed, she gave them directly to Mrs Cumber to be sent to the post.

Mr Huntly still took upon himself the task of giving her any letters addressed to her, and questioned her about the contents. Once, when a letter from her mother arrived, he said, “What news from Guildford?”

“Nothing of great moment,” she answered absently.

“May I see?” He walked across from his desk, and held out his hand.

She looked up at him in disbelief. He was so tall that when he loomed over her in that fashion he was somewhat intimidating, but nevertheless she said sharply, “You wish to read my private correspondence?”

“Is there anything you would not wish me to read?”

“Of course not, but…” He made it sound so reasonable, and yet she hated to let him see her letters. They were a small part of her life that was still her own, and now he wanted to make it his, too. Yet she could not refuse him. Wordlessly she handed it over, and watched as he scanned every line intently. Even if he never again asked to read a letter of hers, she was uncomfortably aware that he could, if he chose to.

Shortly after their return from Bath, the congratulatory calls began. The number of families with whom they were acquainted was not large, Judith told Annie, but all of them made the effort to pay a wedding visit to the new bride. Mrs Popham, the vicar’s wife, was the first, gushing over her delightedly. Then Mrs Saunders and Mrs Grey, two sisters who looked alike and even dressed alike, beaming at Annie with matching smiles and wondering if she might like to join their project to stitch small shirts or chemises for the children in the work house.

Not all were friendly. Lady Alicia Ransome, a sour-faced elderly woman severely dressed in purple, said everything that was proper to the new bride but without the least warmth in her manner, and when she discovered that Annie’s father was merely a clergyman, and one descended from trade, moreover, and not the scion of a noble family, she lost interest. She said nothing in disparagement, but her mouth pursed up, making her look rather like a prune. She did not stay long, and Annie suspected she would not call again. She was amused to discover later that, for all Lady Alicia’s proud ways and noble father, the family was sadly impoverished, the estate encumbered and both her sons employed as bailiffs, the elder at Willow Place and the younger at Adam Huntly’s estate.

The highest ranking visitor was the Lady Charlotte Litherholm, aunt to the new Duke of Falconbury, whose home was just the other side of the River Durran. She was a large, rather loud lady, very out of breath, who instantly made the peacock chamber seem smaller. She was accompanied by a companion, as thin and angular as her ladyship was plump and rounded.

“We never venture far from home these days,” Lady Charlotte boomed wheezily, settling her ample behind on a chair marginally too small for it. “Never at home to callers, never dine out, never invite guests, so do not be insulted not to receive a card from me, Mrs Huntly. We like our solitude, do we not, Camilla?” The companion nodded her birdlike head. “We spend a month or so at Valmont every summer seeing the family, and that is more than enough entertainment for us. Exhausting, is it not, Camilla, having so many relations around one? Camilla dislikes it so! We prefer the peace and quiet of our own dear little house. But naturally one always makes the effort for a new bride, or a betrothal, or condolences, as with Mrs Herbert Huntly. We shall enjoy knowing that you are here, just across the river from us, and you will be such good company for Mrs Herbert. A lady should always have a female companion, for gentlemen never enter into one’s concerns in the same way, do they? That is why I have my dear Camilla with me, for companionship, and neither of us has ever felt the lack of a husband in our lives, have we, Camilla?”

Her companion murmured in a tiny voice, like a child, “No, indeed, Lady Charlotte, never.”

Mr Huntly was in a great flutter to have the daughter of a duke in the house, and smiled and fawned over her in a manner that turned Annie’s stomach. She was as respectful of the nobility as anyone could be, she hoped, but there was no need to grovel. She was learning to read her husband’s expressions now, and could see the difference between the smiles of genuine warmth and the less sincere variants. For Lady Charlotte, his smile was excited. For other callers, it was cool and reserved. For Annie herself, she could distinguish between the warm smile of affection when she earned his approval, the eager, almost triumphant, smile of the bedroom and the cold, supercilious smile when she ventured to argue against him or did something he disliked.

Only one visitor failed to draw a smile of any sort from Mr Huntly, and that was his cousin. Mr Adam Huntly came regularly to call, bringing a little sunshine and lightness into the customary sedateness of Willow Place. Whoever else was visiting, however grave their demeanour, he would quickly have everyone laughing. Everyone except Mr Huntly, who glowered at his cousin with greater ferocity on every visit.

In the end, they fell out altogether. Mr Adam Huntly had related some long, convoluted tale involving a rabbit, a stile and a very nervous youth of his acquaintance which had the several ladies gathered in the room in gales of hilarity. Annie suspected that it was entirely fabricated, but she had long since set aside her antipathy of Cousin Adam and was pleased to see some amusement in a house which was all too serious most of the time.

“Really, Mr Huntly, you are too comical for words!” the vicar’s wife said, shaking so hard with laughter that her half-eaten lemon cake bounced off her plate onto the floor.

“He is perfectly ridiculous!” Mr Huntly snapped. “It is all made up, you know, every word of it.”

“Of course it is,” Adam said at once, his cheerful smile never faltering. “Did you not enjoy my little diversion, Cousin?”

“Naturally not, and I will thank you not to fill my wife’s head with such nonsense. If you cannot converse like a sensible man, then you are not welcome at Willow Place.”

There was a stunned silence, which Annie could not immediately see how to break. She cowered in her chair, hot with mortification, trying not to notice the shocked expressions and raised eyebrows.

The only unconcerned person present was Adam himself. He rose smoothly and bowed to Mr Huntly. “Your pardon, Cousin. I intended no offence, and offer my deepest apologies for any inadvertently given. As I doubt my ability to converse to a satisfactorily sensible degree, I shall withdraw at once. Your servant, Mrs Huntly. And yours, Mrs Herbert. Mrs Popham, my regards to your husband. Mrs Saunders, I hope to hear better news of your niece soon. Mrs Grey, I shall see you on Thursday evening, and hope for better fortune with the cards than was my lot on the previous occasion. Farewell, all.”

With that he was gone, and everyone talked with great determination of the weather until the remaining visitors felt it possible to leave. He never came again, and Annie missed his cheerful company more than she could say.

They received several invitations to dine, but Mr Huntly refused them on the grounds that it was too soon for Annie to venture into society. She was disappointed, but it was not a point where she felt able to question his decision. When the leading families returned to the country for the start of the sporting season, he told Annie, then they would begin to go about and to entertain.

“I would not have your first appearances in Wiltshire society take place in the drawing rooms of Mrs Grey or Mrs Popham,” he said. “Such people will not add to your consequence.”

Annie cared nothing for her consequence, but accepted his decision without demur. More concerning was his determination not to return any morning calls. Annie had looked forward to the opportunity to escape the house for an hour or two, but it was not to be. There was always some excuse — the coachman was unwell, or there was rain and he did not wish her to catch a chill, or he thought she was looking tired and needed to rest. Once the excuse was that he had to meet the gamekeeper.

“That need not hinder Judith or me,” she said. “We may go without you, may we not?”

But he would not allow it, nor would he order the carriage solely for Judith, so they stayed at home once more. As the weeks passed, Annie grew increasingly frustrated as the number of callers gradually dwindled. Only the vicar’s wife seemed not to mind that her calls were not reciprocated, and came twice a week whatever the weather. Annie could only be grateful for her company.

When there were no callers, and Annie and her husband had dealt with the chores of the day, he would accompany her for a walk through the gardens or about the parkland surrounding the house. She would have preferred to go with Judith and her daughters, but when she had once or twice proposed such an exercise, he had told her he would not entrust her to Judith’s care, and he would never permit her to walk alone, and so he was her only companion.

These walks were not as frequent as Annie would have liked, for Mr Huntly was in great fear of exposing her to rain, so whenever he felt there was the least risk, he insisted she stay safely at home. Nor would he believe her when she pointed out that the weather was settled and the wind gentle, and from the south. Her many years’ study of weather patterns under her father’s tutelage weighed not at all with her husband. However, if he decided she would be safe from the threat of a wetting, he allowed her to walk as far as she wished.

He was good company on these walks, more knowledgeable than she was about birds and beasts, and interested in her expertise with plants. He listened while she discussed her plans to improve the herb garden with Dewey, the head gardener, or gave her requirements for fresh flowers to Davy, the under-gardener. When they walked through the meadows and woods, or alongside the river, she explained to him the medicinal uses for the innumerable varieties they encountered, and he permitted her to take a basket and gather armfuls of whatever interested her.

“What is this one?” he said one day, as she dug vigorously at a patch of bryony root. “Is it poisonous?”

“Improperly prepared it can be very unpleasant, but in a mild dose with honey it is efficacious on a cough of long-standing, and clearing phlegm from the throat. Mrs Cumber tells me that Palcock is troubled in that way, so if he is amenable, I might try him on a very low dose once a week to see if it helps.”

“What would you recommend for… for difficulties of the bowels?” he said hesitantly.

“That would depend on the type of difficulty,” she said. “For looseness, comfrey or plantain, or flux-weed, of course. For infrequency, rhubarb.”

“Rhubarb…” He frowned, chewing his lip.

“Should you like me to make you an infusion? It is too early to collect fresh, but I have a little of the dried root in my medicine chest. A few small slices steeped in white wine overnight, and then the wine drunk in the morning, is very effective.”

His expression lifted. “Just drink the wine? I should not have to eat the stuff, or… or anything unpleasant?”

She shook her head. “I shall mix something for you tonight.”

“Thank you,” he said with one of his warmest smiles, and they walked on together quite in harmony.

The river made a great loop at this point of its journey, so that the Willow Place parkland was almost an island. A path meandered for several miles along the river bank, with views across the water of farms and fields and Lady Charlotte’s back lawn, yet there was no bridge, it was too deep for a ford or stepping stones, and the only boat house was empty of any boats.

“How far is it to Lady Charlotte’s house by road?” she asked her husband one day.

“Ten miles at least,” he said.

“And six or seven miles to Salisbury, and almost five to the parish church,” she said pensively. “Willow Place is very isolated.”

“That is its great attraction, its peaceful solitude,” he said, showing her one of his smug smiles.

The river bank was beautiful, the trees in their full summer majesty and the banks high with sedges and campanula and meadowsweet. Dragonflies hovered over the water, and butterflies flitted from flower to flower. In many places the willows which gave the estate its name clustered along the water’s edge, their long tendrils reaching almost to the surface. Each day they walked along a different part of the river. At one end, a gate led to a place where the river widened into quiet pools at each side before passing under an arched bridge, the road to Lady Charlotte’s home, Durran House. At the other end, a matching gate led to the track to Wickstead village. In between the path hugged the river bank as it wound its sinuous way towards the Avon, every turn bringing a new vista, and every part of it delightful.

One favoured spot, dappled with sunlight filtering through the leaf canopy, had a fallen tree where Annie liked to sit. The next time they came to that place, she found that her husband had caused a wooden seat to be placed there for her greater comfort. At such times, she felt a great affection for her husband, whose care of her might feel confining at times, but which stemmed purely from love, and a desire to shelter her from all the unpleasantness of life. Then she would sit, quite contented with her choice, while he held her hand and gazed at her features, although he must surely have committed them to memory by now.

But at other times, when he had again refused to allow her to call upon their neighbours or accept invitations, her resentment writhed inside her like a worm. She looked across the river at the distant chimneys of Lady Charlotte’s house, and pondered distances. Ten miles to Durran House, seven to Salisbury, five to the parsonage in Wickstead village. Having grown up in a town surrounded by friendly neighbours, such isolation made her feel desperately lonely.

Mr Huntly had been approached very soon after their return from Bath by the leaders of the parish Vestry, who invited him in the most respectful and deferential terms to join their number and offer them the benefit of his worldly advice. He was too flattered to refuse, although he disliked leaving Annie alone, even for the hour or two a week such meetings would occupy, for the church was an inconvenient distance away and he was not much of a rider, preferring to walk. However, he discovered that there was a footpath which would cut off a great loop of the road, and allow him to walk there in a very short time. He contented himself, therefore, with setting her a book to read, or a piece of music to practice while he was out. This she was able to accomplish in a very little time, so she was free at last to improve her acquaintance with Judith and her daughters.

She discovered that Judith was remarkably cheerful for one who had been widowed at the age of four and twenty.

“You must have been married very young,” Annie said to her, as they put clean sheets away in the linen cupboard one day.

“I was seventeen, and very dazzled by Herbert,” Judith admitted. “He was almost twice my age, and seemed so worldly and cultivated to my girlish self. He had been betrothed several years before… or perhaps they were not betrothed, but merely wished to be, I am not very sure.  He had been very attached to her, anyway, but she died, and so he clung to her memory for many years. Naturally I was flattered that he chose me, and quite fancied myself in love with him for a while. Such feelings never last, do they? I never quite understood, when I considered the matter dispassionately, why he had ever married me, for he never had a tenth of the affection for me that he had for his mother. On the whole, I cannot help feeling that I should have preferred him to take a mistress. At least then he would have come home from time to time.”

“His mother lives in Ireland, I understand?” Annie said.

“She does, so off he went to see her every summer, like the good little son he was. Then he added Christmas as well, and the visits grew longer and longer. The last time, he left here in November and did not start for home again until February. It was a relief when he died, so that I could stop waiting for him to come home. He never told me of his plans, so he would simply appear one day, and it was so unsettling, never quite knowing whether he would be here or there. I did not dislike Herbert and he was not unkind, but he never displayed any fondness for me. He was cold, that was all. Like all men, he did precisely as he wanted. I doubt he ever thought about me at all.”

“Mr Huntly has never mentioned his mother,” Annie said thoughtfully.

“Maybe you will find him packing one day and then he will disappear for months,” Judith said, laughing.

“No, I cannot think he will leave me here alone for so long,” Annie said.

“True enough. He hates you to be out of his sight. I cannot decide if that is a charming degree of affection, or… something else.”

But Annie did not want to pursue that line of thought, so she turned the subject.

One day, she discovered there was a glut of gooseberries to be bottled, so when Mr Huntly went to his meeting, she donned an apron and went to the kitchen wing to offer her help. She had made some of her herbal remedies in the still room previously, but this was the first time she had joined in a purely domestic task with the kitchen servants. All the female servants were there, as well as Judith, and for the first time since her marriage Annie felt the sort of comradeship she had experienced in her uncle’s house. From the kitchen maid up to the mistress of the house, they were united in a single enterprise, sharing not just the work, but also jokes and songs and gossip and laughter. She was so well entertained that she failed to notice the time for her to return to the peacock chamber to await her husband.

When Mr Huntly returned from his meeting, therefore, he found her missing from her expected station and went in search of her. He burst into the steamy still room, to find a gaggle of aproned women busily engaged in topping and tailing, bottling, mixing, heating and sealing, while chattering away like a flock of birds. At his arrival silence fell, and they all turned and curtsied, Annie included.

“Whatever are you doing?” he said to her.

“Bottling gooseberries,” she said, too startled to think of a better answer.

“Mrs Huntly, you are a lady now, not a scullery maid. Kindly remove your apron and return to your own quarters.”

“Yes, sir.” She curtsied again, untied her apron, then meekly followed him out of the room and back up the service passageway.

“I trust I shall never again have to search for you amongst the servants,” he said, in clipped tones. “Look at the state of you — red from the heat, and your soft hands no doubt spoilt with such rough work. You must take better care of yourself, my dear. It seems I cannot leave you even for a few hours lest you fall into bad habits.”

An apology was on the tip of her tongue, but then she wondered why she should apologise for doing what most married women did, when they were not too grand. How she conducted herself in her own house was her own business, after all. So she lifted her chin and said, “We are rather short of help since Barbara left. Perhaps if we had another housemaid I should not be tempted to fall into bad habits.”

He frowned, and for a moment she wondered if she had angered him still further, but then he chuckled. “Very well, Mrs Huntly. Another maid. I shall arrange it.”

“Perhaps Mrs Cumber will know of someone,” she suggested.

“I am sure she will. There is always someone who has a niece or some such, but there is no knowing where she may have come from, or whether she will be suitable. There is an excellent agency in Salisbury. Sheffield came from there, so I can vouch for the quality of the servants they supply. I will engage to go myself, so that Mrs Cumber need not neglect her duties for the purpose.” He laughed again. “You are quite right, Mrs Huntly. Another maid — that is exactly what we need.”

And even though he seemed to be acceding to her wishes, she had the uneasy feeling that he had bested her yet again.

7: The Lady's Maid (August)

The new housemaid arrived, and Mrs Cumber declared herself pleased with her. Although it was regrettable that Barbara, with fifteen years’ service, had been let go, at least they had the proper number of servants again.

Then Mr Huntly retired Palcock, the coachman. He was too old and infirm to do his job, he declared, and he could not be trusted to drive Mrs Huntly in safety. Since Annie had not been anywhere except to church since her arrival at Willow Place, she could not feel this was a strong argument, but the male servants were for her husband to command, so she made no comment. Billy, the groom, was promoted to coachman in Palcock’s stead, and the gardener’s boy was appointed to the rôle of groom. Mr Huntly made no further changes, but the remaining servants were unsettled, all the same, Annie could tell.

One day, an unusually smart carriage rolled up the long drive to Willow Place, and two ornate cards were sent in to Annie where she and her husband worked side by side at their desks.

Annie squeaked in excitement. “Lavinia! It is my old friend Lavinia.”

“The viscountess?” he said in sudden interest. “Two cards? Is the viscount with her? Mrs Cumber, bring up a bottle of the best Madeira, at once. Or Canary… will he want Canary, do you suppose? Bring both. And some fruit… are any of the peaches ready yet from the hot houses? Whatever you have, and some of those cakes we had at supper last night, the gingery ones.”

Mrs Cumber glanced at Annie, and she gave a tiny nod. Mrs Cumber, at least, knew that the mistress of the house gave the orders for refreshments, not the master.

“Please tell Mrs Herbert Huntly that she is welcome to join us, if convenient,” Annie said.

Mr Huntly’s eyebrows snapped downwards. “His lordship and her ladyship are here to see you, Mrs Huntly, not Judith.”

“Lavinia will want to meet my sister-in-law,” she said firmly.

He grunted, and thankfully made no further protest.

Lavinia had not changed a bit, bouncing into the peacock chamber in a flurry of silk ribbons and tears of joy. She had always been of a petite, delicate form, and her large hat with its many feathers only served to emphasise her smallness. Flinging her arms around Annie, she hugged her with cries of delight. Six years ago, at the advanced age of four and twenty, she had attracted the attention of a diffident lawyer by the name of Wilbraham Willerton-Forbes. Within a six-month, two of his distant kin had died, unexpectedly propelling his father from a quiet life as a rural attorney to the peerage as the Earl of Morpeth. Wilbraham, as the eldest son, had therefore become a viscount, but just as diffident as he had ever been. He shuffled in behind his wife, standing awkwardly in the doorway and fiddling with the fob dangling from his waistcoat until such time as Lavinia should remember his existence and perform the introductions.

This done, and the Madeira poured, they settled down to catch up on all their news, Lavinia bombarding Annie with questions, barely giving her time to answer before hurtling on to the next, while the two men laboured to find an interest in common. Mr Huntly tried politics, but the viscount knew little of affairs of state. Lord Dillington asked about sport in the parish, but Mr Huntly preferred his fish and game on his plate, cooked to a turn, and rode only when a distance was too far to walk. Neither had much to say about the weather or the roads or the latest crimes or the prospects for the harvest. Eventually, however, they discovered that they had both trained in the law before fate pronounced them gentlemen, and they fell into an agreeable discussion of complex tort cases.

When Judith appeared, the conversation became general again as Lavinia wanted to know all about her husband and the tragedy that had befallen him.

“He was drowned, Lady Dillington,” Judith said. “He was on the same ship that took the life of the Duke of Falconbury in February.”

“The Minerva?” Lavinia said, sitting up straighter in sudden interest. “Why, then you will have met my brother-in-law. Pettigrew Willerton-Forbes.”

“No, indeed. I know no such person.”

“He is a lawyer. All the Willerton-Forbes men are lawyers, but he is working at present for the Benefactor. You know of the Benefactor, naturally.”

“Is that another ship?” Judith asked, bewilderment written on her face.

“A ship? No, no. It is a person who is giving one thousand pounds to the nearest kin of everyone who drowned on the Minerva. Pettigrew is administering the funds — distributing them to those entitled to them, and so forth. Has he not come to call upon you?”

“No, indeed. No one has given me a thousand pounds,” Judith said. “It would be most welcome, I assure you, for my husband left me with nothing to support me, and nothing for his daughters, either. A thousand pounds would be very acceptable.”

“That is most odd,” Lord Dillington said. “I was sure that Pettigrew told me he had all but finished his distribution of funds, except for one or two odd cases who cannot be identified or those who, like the duke, refuse to receive him.”

“You must write to him, Mrs Huntly,” Lavinia said. “Annie, I depend upon you to make sure Mrs Herbert Huntly writes to my brother-in-law at once to claim her thousand pounds, and mark it ‘Urgent’ so that he will open it at once. Dillington, you must furnish Mrs Huntly with the address in London. You must have what is due to you, Mrs Huntly. It would be an outrage if you should not.”

And nothing would do for Lavinia except to call for paper and pen and ink at once, and stand over Judith while she wrote, dictating most of it herself. Then she sealed the letter and took it away in her reticule to ensure it was left at the nearest post office that very day.

“A thousand pounds,” Judith said reverently, after the viscount and viscountess had left. “That would set me up very well.”

“It is a prodigious sum,” Mr Huntly said. “I find it hard to believe that any rational person would give away so much money. A thousand pounds for every next of kin — why, it is a fortune!”

“Whether the Benefactor is rational or not, if he gives Judith a thousand pounds I shall be delighted,” Annie said stoutly.

~~~~~

Annie found the hot weather that prevailed at this time something of a trial. Mr Huntly was most insistent that she be preserved from the deadly effects of the night air, and no amount of remonstrating would change his mind. She suffered greatly through the heat in her bedroom, and regularly woke to find herself far too hot. Often, the only remedy was to creep through to her dressing room and sit beside an open window until she was cool enough to sleep again. Then she would find herself unwell the next morning.

If her husband was unsympathetic to her need for fresh air, he was all consideration for any weakness in her health, and himself brought a breakfast tray to her in bed, pressing her tenderly to eat and drink some small amount, if only to please him. She suspected he guessed the real reason for her indisposition, but he said nothing, and she hugged her secret to herself until it should be more certain.

Several times as she sat in the window seat at night she saw again the man in the white shirt lurking just inside the shelter of the shrubbery. Once she thought he waved to her, and she ducked hastily back into the room. If it was unsettling to see a man in the garden, it was downright unnerving to know that he had seen her and was insouciant enough to wave. But Mr Huntly seemed unconcerned about it, and the man seemed unthreatening. There had been no reports of thefts or unexpected encounters, and the maids, who would be the first to sound the alarm against any male interloper, made no complaints of such a nature, so Annie decided he was harmless. Perhaps he was, in fact, the gamekeeper simply patrolling his domain, but where he came from or how he got into the grounds she could not guess.

One day, Annie returned to her dressing room for her usual afternoon rest to find a strange woman there.

“What are you doing here?” she said sharply, for although her few expensive jewels were safely locked away, there were silver-backed hairbrushes and brooches and decorative hair combs lying about for the taking.

“Preparing your gown for this evening, madam,” the woman said, with a deep curtsy. “I am Honeywell, your new lady’s maid, madam.”

“My new—? I already have a lady’s maid, with whom I am perfectly satisfied. You may leave whatever you are doing and send Betty to me at once.”

“Betty has left, madam. The master engaged me to take her place.”

“Did he indeed!”

Annie spun on her heel and flew down the stairs to the hunting room. Ransome the steward was there, standing in front of the desk, twisting his hat in his hands, while Mr Huntly glared at him from his chair behind the desk. He looked up and frowned as Annie strode in.

“I am engaged at present, Mrs Huntly.”

“Mr Ransome, you may wait outside while I discuss a matter with my husband.”

Mr Huntly’s frown deepened. She noted that he did not stand as she entered, as he should have done. It was not a good sign but she was too angry to be circumspect. Ransome slipped silently from the room, the door closing behind him with a click.

“You have dismissed my maid.”

“I have. It was done for the best. There was a slyness about her that I did not like, such as bringing you tea despite my orders, and sneaking books out of this room that I had not approved.”

“You had no right,” Annie said, shaking from head to toe with rage.

“I beg your pardon, madam, but I have every right. This is my house, let me remind you. My house, my servants.” He rose to his considerable height, and moved round to her side of the desk. It was a deliberate attempt to intimidate her, she was sure, but if so, it was a failure. She raised her chin a little higher to look him in the eye.

“The male servants you may dismiss as you please, and although it would be a courtesy to allow me to manage the female servants, as is customary, I will not question your decisions there. But Betty is my maid, chosen by me, her salary paid for out of my own pin money. You have no right to dismiss her. If she has transgressed, then naturally I will reprimand her, but you cannot dismiss her.”

His eyes flashed with rage, but his voice was dangerously calm. “May I remind you where your pin money comes from? From my purse, at my discretion, and—”

“That is not true!” she cried. “My pin money is laid down in my settlement. It is mine by right, under the law. Mine, Rupert, to do with as I please, and it pleases me to engage my own lady’s maid. I will not have any other, do you hear me? I will not—”

He grabbed her wrist so abruptly and crushingly that she yelped in pain, but his voice was still low. “Stop this at once! Calm yourself, or I shall have to—” He stopped, and she could see him considering his options. What could he do to her? Beat her? Lock her up in the coal cellar? But she no longer cared. All the little resentments that had gathered for weeks exploded in a great conflagration. She was on fire and her anger would not be quenched.

With a heave, she freed herself from his grip. “I am going to find Betty. She cannot have got far, for I saw her not an hour ago. I want her back, Mr Huntly.”

She turned and swept out into the great hall. That was a mistake, for Ransome waited there and half the servants, presumably alerted by Honeywell. They scattered into the shadows as Mr Huntly followed in her wake, clearly determined to have the last word.

“You will not have her back, and that is final,” he hissed, with icy control. “This is my house and you are my wife and you will obey me, do you hear?”

Despite its low tone, his voice echoed around the vast empty space. With the servants vanished, only the ancestors gazed down impassively on the quarrel from the walls high above.

Annie was too incensed to consider her words. “I shall not. I have obeyed you too often, and you have consulted my wishes too seldom. You permit me no freedom, not even to manage my own household or to order my days. You tell me what to eat and drink, when to rise and when to sleep, what to read and what to play. You refuse all invitations, reject all callers, refuse to allow me out of your sight. And now the final insult — you will not even allow me to choose my own maid, the last little link to my home and my family. Betty understands me and cares for me as you do not, and you will not part me from her.”

“How dare you! You insolent little hussy, how dare you speak so to me? What were you before I married you? You were nobody!”

“But I was happy!” she cried.

For an instant, his face changed. She saw shock there — had she really said that? She could hardly believe it herself, and if she could have taken those words back, she would have done. Not the rest of it, for there was nothing there that was untrue. But to imply that she was unhappy as his wife — that was different. It was not entirely true. She chafed at his restrictions, but she had always hoped that in time he would mellow and slacken his grip on her, and in many ways he was a tender, loving husband.

He wavered, and perhaps on another day, in a different setting, he might have softened and made some conciliatory move. But he had too much pride and could not back down. The hope of reaching an accord flickered briefly and was gone. She knew then that he would never forgive her.

When he spoke, his voice was icy calm. “I cannot allow such behaviour to go unpunished. It is your duty as a wife to obey your husband, and if you will not do so willingly and joyfully, then you must be taught to do so. It will bring me no pleasure to chastise you, and such a task will lie heavy on my heart but—”

A flash of black bombazine was the only warning, as Judith burst into the hall from the service corridor. “Annie! Oh, Annie! Betty is still here, so you need not—”

“You keep out of this!” Mr Huntly spat back. “No one can interfere between man and wife, and I will not have her defy me. I will not! She must be chastised.”

“No!” Judith cried, grabbing his arm. “No, Rupert, I beg you, you must not!”

“How else will she learn? She must go to the punishment room.”

He grabbed Annie’s wrist again, and began to pull at her. Annie screamed, and strained to escape, but this time he held her tight. Judith screamed too, and hurled herself onto him, kicking and pulling at his fingers where they gripped Annie’s arm.

Into this mêlée, the hall clock boomed out the hourly chime. With an exclamation of annoyance, Mr Huntly released Annie so abruptly that she staggered and almost fell.

“Now I am late for the Vestry meeting,” he said petulantly. “Wife, I will deal with you when I get back. And as for you…” He turned to Judith. “I want you and your brats out of this house before I return. You have been hanging on my sleeve for too long, subverting my orders and turning my wife against me. I never want to see any of you again.”

So saying, he snatched up his hat and gloves from the console, and stormed out through the front door.

For a long, long moment the only sound in the great hall was the dying chimes of the clock. Then Judith collapsed to her knees in a fit of noisy weeping. “Oh God! What have I done?”

Annie shook violently, but she was too shocked to cry. Kneeling beside Judith, she put her arms around her and the two women clung together, seeking what comfort they could from each other. Eventually, Mrs Cumber appeared.

“She mustn’t be here in the hall when the master returns,” she said to Annie in urgent tones. “We must get her out of sight…”

Between them, they persuaded Judith to her feet, and then down the corridor to the old butler’s room, now the housekeeper’s sewing room. There they sat, each as wretched as the other, as Mrs Cumber came and went with tea and cakes and then, when that did not answer, a decanter of brandy. As the hours passed, she brought reports that Mr Huntly had not yet returned from his meeting.

“What time will he be home?” Judith said, her weeping now reduced to an occasional sniff.

“Before four, usually. Sometimes earlier.”

“What will you do, Annie? Have you anyone you can go to? Have you enough money for the stage to go back to your uncle?”

“I shall not leave,” she whispered. “What is the point? He would find me easily enough.”

“What will he do to you?”

“Who knows?” She could not even think about it. It was not real… none of it was real. This was not happening. Her husband had his peculiarities, but surely he loved her. He would not hurt her… would he?

“You cannot stay here for him to beat you!” Judith cried. “You must not!”

“He will not hurt me,” Annie said, with more confidence than she felt. “I… I am with child, and he would not—”

“Oh, Annie! I knew it!” Judith hurled her arms around Annie and hugged her fiercely. “I guessed… we all guessed. A new bride… everyone in the house knows, and certainly Rupert must. He has been so solicitous of you. No, he will not injure you in any way— especially not now.”

“It is his right,” Annie said slowly. “It is my duty to submit.” She shivered.

Judith hugged her and wept, but had no real comfort to offer.

So Annie sat, her mind empty. Somewhere in the dark corners of her mind lurked a terrible, formless fear… of what? Pain, she supposed. Deliberate pain inflicted on her by a man who professed to love her. The punishment room, and whatever lay within it. And beyond that, fear of the future, the long, dreary years of superficial politeness tinged with terror lest she misstep and rile him to anger again. How could she live like that? Yet she must. Somehow she must.

It was the clock striking five that awoke her from this cloud of inertia. Five o’clock! Mr Huntly was not home, she had to dress for dinner, and Judith—

“Why are you still here?” she said, wondering why this had never occurred to her before. “He told you to leave.”

“I know, but I cannot. I have nowhere to go, not yet, but we live in the attics above the kitchen wing and he will never know we are there, I promise you. Forgive me for my hysteria, Annie. I panicked rather, but now I have recovered my senses a little. At least I can hide away from him. How can you be so calm? Your case is much harder than mine.”

“I think… because I am all in pieces inside, and if I begin to think too hard, I shall fly apart, like the springs of a clock, and then I might never be put back together again.”

“Oh, Annie!” Judith said. “I have not been much of a friend to you, have I? In avoiding him, I have avoided you, too, and when I did speak up just now, I only made things worse.”

“It was already as bad as it could be,” Annie said. Then, restlessly getting to her feet, she cried, “Where is he? Why is he not back yet? I must dress for dinner, for if he returns and I am not ready—”

“Yes, go, you must go!” Judith cried.

And so, the most bizarre element of that most bizarre of days, Annie went up to her dressing room and went through the routine of donning her evening gown as if nothing at all were amiss, and her insides were not roiling with terror. Both Betty and Honeywell came, having decided between them that they would share the duty until a final agreement on the matter had been arrived at by husband and wife.

Then Annie went downstairs and sat in the peacock chamber, awaiting her husband. Judith rushed in and sat with her, although ready to skitter out of sight as soon as he returned. Yet still he did not come.

“Shall I tell Mrs Hewitt to serve the dinner, madam?” Mrs Cumber said at six o’clock.

“Let us wait,” Annie said firmly. Not that she would be able to eat anything, whether Mr Huntly returned or not. Was this part of her punishment? Was he making her so anxious about him that she would fall at his feet in abject repentance when he eventually returned? If so, his plan was doomed to failure. She would certainly beg his forgiveness for her intemperate language, but the substance of her complaint was valid, and if he had any honesty in him, he would recognise it.

The room began to grow gloomy, and Billy silently entered and lit the candles. And still Mr Huntly did not return. Surely he had gone to eat his mutton elsewhere, for it was almost eight o’clock, and he would not go without food for so long. He was a creature of habit.

The sound of a carriage on the drive turned Annie’s knees to jelly. He was come home! Although he had left on foot, he had obtained a carriage to bring him home. Now she must face whatever punishment he deemed appropriate for her. She thought for a moment she might be sick, but she took several deep breaths and steadied herself.

Several male voices in the hall. That was odd… had he brought someone to dine with them?

The door opened, and Mrs Cumber stood there, white faced.

“Sir Leonard Fairbrother, Mr Popham, Mr Grey, madam.”

Sir Leonard? The magistrate? Dear God, were they here to arrest her? Was it a crime to argue with one’s husband? She sprang to her feet.

“My dear Mrs Huntly!” It was the vicar who came forward. “Dear lady, we bring you bad news, I fear. You must prepare yourself for a very great shock. Pray sit down. Mrs Herbert, do you have smelling salts to hand?”

“Do get on with it, Popham!” Sir Leonard said gruffly, his bushy eyebrows ominously lowered.

“Of course, of course. I very much regret… I deeply regret to inform you of the most tragic circumstance—”

“Your husband is dead, Mrs Huntly,” Sir Leonard said.

“Sir Leonard!” Mr Popham protested.

“Dead?” she said faintly, struggling to breathe.

“Dead. Some villain shot him through the chest not half a mile from here, and he is quite dead.”

Annie felt as if her head were underwater. She was hot, she could not breathe, the world faded into the distance… then all was blackness.

8: A Death In The Family

Annie woke to the odd feeling that the world had fallen onto its side. She was lying down, that was it… lying on a chaise longue in the peacock chamber. Judith’s concerned face was bending over her, waving a vial of smelling salts under her nose and behind her she saw Mrs Cumber, anxiously wringing her hands. Somewhere in the distance, male voices rumbled.

Slowly she remembered… Rupert not returning… he was dead… shot in the chest… then she had fainted.

A man’s face. Mr Grey, the physician. “How do you feel now, Mrs Huntly?”

“I… not sure.” She made a feeble attempt to sit up.

“Lie still, and you will be better directly. Have you a fan about you, Mrs Herbert? Mrs Rupert looks very hot.”

“No… I am quite well… if I could but sit up…”

Judith put an arm behind her to lift her up and the room righted itself. Judith found a fan — oh, her own fan, she realised — and began waving it vigorously in front of her face. The air was not cool, but it revived Annie a little.

Sir Leonard and Mr Popham were talking in low voices across the room, rather tersely, by the sound of it. Sir Leonard’s deep voice was gruff and peremptory, Mr Popham’s higher one admonitory. The parson was reproving the magistrate for his abrupt announcement.

Mr Grey took her pulse and nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“Is it true?” she said. “My husband is dead?”

“I am afraid so.”

“Someone killed him?” He nodded. “But why? Who would want to do such a thing?”

“That remains to be discovered, Mrs Huntly. Sir Leonard has sent word to the coroner, and has pledged to investigate the matter personally. The parish constables are well enough for straying cows and the like, but will not do for murder.”

“Murder…” Such an ugly word… she shivered.

“Mrs Huntly, may I give you something to help you to sleep tonight? A little laudanum, and you will feel a great deal better in the morning.”

“Will I?” she said. “My husband will still be dead, Mr Grey. Murdered…”

She allowed him to leave her a vial of laudanum, although she knew she would not take it. Her own remedies were gentler and more fitting, she felt, than the harsher poppy seeds.

They left soon after. Judith and Betty helped her to bed, and both offered to sleep in the dressing room, to be near at hand if she should need anything. She refused, for what she needed most was solitude, to settle her mind and begin to accept what had occurred. She had eaten nothing for hours, so Judith arranged for a tray of food to be left in her room, together with a decanter of claret.

“Half a glass when you eat will do you a world of good,” she said. “Oh, Annie! I hate to leave you alone like this. Will you promise me that you will send for me if you need a friend to bear you company?”

Annie agreed to it, and after Betty had readied her for bed, they left her alone. She listened to them disappear down the corridor and silence fell. Outside the house, the trees rustled slightly, and somewhere an owl hooted. Within, all was quiet. In the kitchen wing, no doubt, the servants were discussing the day’s events in shocked whispers. In the attics above the kitchens, Judith would be checking that all was well with her daughters before preparing for bed herself. Did she have a maid? Annie had no idea. She knew so little about the house, or the people in it, even though she was its mistress. Her husband had taken charge of everything.

The room was hot, so Annie opened the window and sat, hunched over her knees, on the window seat. There was no husband now to reprove her for the risks inherent in the evening air. Somehow, that made her feel guilty, so she closed the window, and climbed into the huge bed. But that, too, reminded her of Mr Huntly, for it was the first time since her marriage that she had occupied the bed alone. Miserably, she curled up under the blankets, closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

Astonishingly she did indeed doze for a while, waking with a start in the depths of the night. Noises… someone was moving about in the corridor outside her room. Low voices, and the soft sound of a door being opened. She slid out of bed, lit a candle, threw on a wrap and went to the door. Opening it a crack, she saw several candles moving about, Mrs Cumber and Sheffield, still fully dressed, and several men carrying something wrapped in a sheet on a hurdle—

She knew what they were carrying. Her husband’s body was being returned to his chamber. She turned back into her room and shut the door firmly, turning the key in the lock. Then, in sudden irrational terror, she tore through to her dressing room and locked the connecting door.

Her heart racing, she paced about the room for a while, telling herself firmly that he was dead and a dead man could not hurt her. He would never come through the connecting door again. And gradually, by infinitely slow degrees, her panic subsided.

Annie realised that she was both hungry and thirsty. She measured a small amount of a soothing syrup, ate some cold meat and bread and drank half a glass of claret. To her surprise, she felt much better. Realising her earlier panic was quite foolish, she unlocked the doors again and when she returned to bed, she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

~~~~~

The doctor arrived before she was even dressed.

“Well, you have a much better colour this morning,” he said, as her felt her pulse. “The laudanum has done you good. How much did you take?”

“None of it,” she said. “I preferred something of my own.”

“Hmpf. What did you take? Some foolish herbal concoction, I’ll warrant.”

“Syrup of water-lily flowers, made with violets, lettuce and purslane. I find it more cooling to the body than poppies, and it helped me to sleep.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Well… your mother is a herbalist, I suppose?”

“My uncle is an apothecary. I often helped him make his mixtures and medicines.”

“Ah. Nevertheless, a little knowledge can be dangerous where such matters are concerned. He is presumably fully qualified and experienced in such matters, whereas you…”

“I assure you, I only employ the simplest infusions and decoctions, and only those known to be safe. The syrup I took was one prepared to my uncle’s instructions.”

“Good,” he said, with an abrupt smile. “Very good. You are perfectly lucid today, therefore I see no need to bleed you. I shall tell the housekeeper to ensure there is beef tea always available for you. Drink that, and half a glass of claret or other wine three times a day, do not exert yourself in the slightest, and you will do very well.”

Annie blinked. “Thank you,” was the only response she could manage.

Betty had managed to unearth a mourning gown — “Your mama insisted when your wedding clothes were being made. Said that a lady should be prepared for every eventuality.” — so Annie dressed herself from head to toe in deepest black.

“I have no widow’s cap,” she said.

“I’ll stitch a bit of black ribbon onto a plain one,” Betty said. “Just wear your usual cap for now. You won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

“I never went anywhere before this,” Annie said gloomily.

“And now you can,” Betty said cheerfully. “No man can tell you what to do or where to go now, and although I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, Miss Annie, it’s my opinion that you’re better off without him.”

Annie opened her mouth to reprimand her, then snapped it shut again, recognising the fierceness in her expression. Besides, was she wrong? Somewhere at the back of Annie’s mind, buried deep below her sense of duty and wifely loyalty, she knew that there was truth in Betty’s words. Yet what was to happen to her now, widowed only two months after her wedding? She had entrusted herself to Mr Huntly, and whatever his failings, he would have taken care of her. What would become of her? Like Judith, she would lose her rightful place here to a new master and mistress. She might even have to leave Willow Place. Where did widows go when there was no dower house — to the poor house? Or could she go back to her uncle? That would feel too much like failure.

The daily routine asserted itself to keep her from dismal introspection. She dutifully drank the chocolate that had been sent up to the dressing room, trying not to think of the man who had ordered it, his shrouded body lying even now in next room. Then she made her way to the hunting room to await Mrs Cumber. It was not yet eight o’clock, so perhaps she should start her correspondence for the day. But how could she, when Mr Huntly was not there to put her letters into her hand?

Annie sat in her chair before her empty desk, completely nonplussed. Such a trivial little detail, foolish in the extreme, yet she could not see a way past it. So she simply sat, her hands in her lap, until the clock struck eight and Mrs Cumber knocked.  Annie jumped up, her heart racing… she was not in her proper place! She should be sitting on the sofa to receive Mrs Cumber. Mr Huntly would be so cross—

She was halfway across the room before she remembered that he was dead, and would never be cross with her again. Even then she was so flustered that she could not think straight. Whatever Mrs Cumber asked her, she replied mechanically, “Whatever you think best, Mrs Cumber.” The new lady’s maid to be dispatched back to Salisbury, whether to send Billy out to buy some fish, would she prefer the last of the strawberries or peaches… all of these she left to Mrs Cumber. It was too difficult to think about any of them.

“Should you like Mrs Herbert to sit with you, madam?” Mrs Cumber. “Or Betty can bring some sewing in here, if you prefer. Forgive me for saying so, madam, but I don’t think you should be on your own.”

“I… I cannot say. There is nothing for me to do,” she said, still unsettled by the change in her usual routine. “I have no letters to read or reply to.”

“Billy will collect the letters later this morning,” Mrs Cumber said. “The post boy leaves them at the gamekeeper’s cottage on the Salisbury road around noon.”

“Oh. I did not realise… But where do the morning’s letters come from? Mr Huntly always gave me my letters well before noon.”

“I expect those were yesterday’s letters, madam. They were always put into the master’s hands, the bag unopened, and he distributed them himself. I expect he put them away somewhere safe.”

“Oh. Yes. He said they were yesterday’s letters. He liked us to do our correspondence in the morning, before breakfast. Thank you, Mrs Cumber.”

“Are you all right, madam?”

“Yes. Yes, I am quite all right, thank you.”

“Would you like a pot of tea sent in, madam?”

“Oh no! Mr Huntly does not like me to drink tea. I have had my chocolate, and there will be coffee at breakfast. More nourishing than tea.”

“Yes, madam.”

After Mrs Cumber had gone, Annie went to sit behind her desk again, but there were no letters to read, no replies to write, nothing for her to do. Perhaps there were letters for her somewhere in her husband’s desk, but it was unthinkable to search for them. Without her husband, she felt oddly adrift, as helpless as a child awaiting instructions. It was hard to remember the way she used to be at her uncle’s house, when she had been busy all day and yet no one had ever directed her time. She had worked out what needed to be done, and then she had set herself to do it, without fuss. Yet somehow, in two months of married life, she had lost that ability altogether. How strange!

Judith arrived to sit with her, together with Janet, her daughter of six years. They brought with them some wooden pieces that slotted together to make a map of Great Britain, and a collection of wooden letter blocks. Then they sat quietly at a table together, as Janet worked away and Judith corrected her mistakes and praised her successes. The low murmur of their voices was soothing. After a while, there was breakfast, when Annie drank the beef tea prescribed by Mr Grey, and half a glass of claret, and Judith persuaded her to eat a little of a Bath bun. Then she drank the cup of coffee that Mr Huntly had insisted she take. After that, they returned to the hunting room.

The morning saw a succession of visitors. Sir Leonard arrived with another gentleman whom Annie had never met before, a Squire Thornton. He was a magistrate too, and they asked her gentle questions that were easy to answer. When had she last seen her husband? Was she aware of where he had gone? At what time had she expected him home? Had he ever been late before?

Then the coroner came to ask her permission to examine her husband’s body. He, too, asked her much the same questions. Then Mr Grey again, to see how she was, to take her pulse and frown over her. Mr Popham came, also to see how she was, and to pray for her husband’s soul, and to enquire in the gentlest terms possible about the funeral, and whether she had any particular wish for a delay, given the current unfortunate spell of hot weather. He spoke of the cellar, and ice, which made Annie shudder.

Sir Leonard returned, this time with a constable, requesting permission to talk to the servants. Mrs Grey came, in a great flurry of black ribbons, to condole with Annie, and ask in the most sympathetic tones, how she was. As always, Annie replied instinctively that she was perfectly well, although a little shocked, naturally.

“Oh, but of course, my dear!” Mrs Grey said. “Such a dreadful thing to happen, quite dreadful. How distressed you must be! It is of all things the most horrifying, and so sudden! With illness, one has at least some little time to prepare oneself, but in this case—! How shocking for you, my dear. I do feel for you, most sincerely. It is most unfortunate, most unfortunate. And you are quite well, you say? You are a trifle pale, perhaps, but you have never had a great deal of colour, have you? And you feel… entirely well? Not the least disorder? Well! Let us hope it remains so.”

Annie was sitting in the peacock chamber with Judith and just beginning to wonder if it would soon be time for her rest, at which time she might have a cup of tea, when a rider was heard arriving in a clatter of sprayed gravel from his horse’s hooves and imperious shouts for the groom. Then came stentorian knocking on the door, which made Judith jump.

“We must get some crepe on the knocker,” she murmured.

The sound of boots echoed across the hall and the door flew open, followed immediately by Adam, with Mrs Cumber scurrying in his wake, too far behind to announce him.

“My dear Mrs Huntly!” he cried, bounding across the room in four or five long strides, and bending to one knee at Annie’s feet. She offered him her hand and he took it in both his own, holding it for several long seconds. “I came the instant I heard. This is the most appalling news! He was perfectly well when the Vestry broke up yesterday afternoon, quite his usual self, and now— It is hard to believe. Is it true? He is dead… murdered?”

She nodded. The concern in his eyes, the warmth of his hand, the horror in his voice… in some strange way, these woke her from her stupor more effectively than the soft words and gentle restraint of Judith and Mr Popham and the servants. Yes, he was dead. He had been murdered. Some wicked person had attacked him for unfathomable reasons.

“Why would anyone do such a thing?” she said.

“Why indeed?” he said, his face filled with bewilderment. “Was it a footpad? A highwayman? Was anything stolen from him?”

“I cannot say. Sir Leonard did not mention such a thing. He was shot. In the chest. That is all I know.”

Judith said, “His purse was still in his pocket, and his watch, according to Sheffield, the valet. He has been sitting beside his master’s body all night. He is very distressed, poor man, although that may only be because he must now find a new employer.”

“Tell him that I shall write him a good reference, and pay him his year’s salary, if that is worrying him,” Adam said. “I am sure Mrs Huntly will allow him to stay here until he has secured a new place. I will ask around, and see if I might hear of something for him.” He rose and pulled a chair nearer to Annie. “It is a disappointment to hear that there was no robbery.”

“Why so?” Annie said, rather startled.

“Because the alternatives are worse,” Adam said. “If the cause was not robbery, then it must have been a personal matter — revenge or a quarrel of some sort. Or else some madman is going about the countryside shooting people at random. Either option is worrying.”

“It could have been a robbery that went wrong,” Annie said tentatively. “Perhaps someone pointed a gun at Mr Huntly and ordered him to hand over his purse, and Mr Huntly refused.”

“As he very well might have done. He was not a man to submit tamely,” Adam said. “One might imagine the scene — there was a struggle, the gun went off and the would-be robber ran away in a panic.”

“Surely it must be so,” Annie said. “Who would kill Mr Huntly by intent? No one has a reason to want him dead.”

Adam started to say something, but then clamped his mouth firmly shut. Annie had never seen him like this before, anxious and uncertain. He had always seemed such a jolly, almost flippant person, but beneath the frivolity was a sensible, not to say serious, young man. How old was he? Younger than her husband, certainly. Perhaps about her own age. How strange it was that her mind should wonder about that now! Her husband lay dead in his own bed, and she was concerning herself with trivia. She should be praying for her husband, and considering her own future.

“What will happen now?” she said, frowning.

“There will be a funeral, and the reading of Rupert’s will,” Adam said. “Have you notified his solicitor?”

Annie shook her heard. “I have no idea who that is.”

“The name will be amongst his papers. A bill or a letter, most likely. We should have a look for the will itself, too. He might keep it here.”

“Mr Popham mentioned the funeral, but I have no idea what to do,” Annie said.

“Of course you have not,” Adam said gently. “Mr Popham should not have mentioned such a thing to you. You may look to me to settle such matters, as Rupert’s nearest male relative.”

“Of course,” Annie said. “Thank you. But… but what will happen to me now? Must I leave here? Go back to my uncle?” Her heart sank at the prospect. To return to Guildford and become the poor relation again, just when she thought she had secured her future… it did not bear thinking about. She would spend the rest of her life counting bottles in the cellar, dependent on her uncle’s charity. Dispiriting thought.

“Why ever should you leave?” Adam said, puzzled.

“Because it is yours now. Willow Place is yours.”

Judith laughed, and Adam smiled broadly, with a return of the light-heartedness which had characterised him previously. “Well now, Mrs Huntly… Cousin Annie… that rather depends.”

“Does it? On what? The will? I understood the estate to be entailed.”

“So it is. Entailed on the male heirs of the body.” He paused, looking at her intently, but his eyes were twinkling.

“It depends on you, Annie,” Judith burst out. “Or rather, on what happens next spring.”

“Next spring? Oh!” Annie gave a little chuckle of surprise, then blushed. “Of course, and if it is a boy—”

“He will inherit Willow Place,” Adam said, with a soft smile.

“And if it is not, then you will inherit,” Annie said, responding with a sudden smile of her own. “What a strange position to be in, not to know. All our futures are dependent on a child not yet born.”

“It is a good position to be in, I think,” Adam said. “A child is always a shining beacon of optimism. However miserable or difficult the present, there is always hope for a better future with a child. My felicitations, Cousin Annie.”

9: Questions

Annie did not have time to ponder too deeply about the ‘miserable or difficult present’ Adam spoke about, for he asked if he might look for the will at once. Judith went away to check on her daughters, who were having their afternoon nap, so Annie took Adam through to the hunting room, and he began to search through Mr Huntly’s desk. It was strange to see another man sitting in that chair, and yet it was not as unsettling as Annie would have expected. It brought home to her fully for the first time that her husband was dead. Her life as a wife was ended, and now everything would be different.

“Why is it called the hunting room?” Annie said, gazing around the room with new eyes.

“The hunting room? Is it?” Adam said, looking up briefly. “I believe it is marked as the library on the plans.”

“It seems it has always been known as the hunting room, however.”

“Because it is where one hunts for things,” Adam muttered, closing another drawer and shifting to the other side. “Ah, these are bills that I should deal with. You will not mind if I take them? Oh! Why are these in here? There are two letters addressed to you, cousin.”

“Of course. Yesterday’s letters. Thank you! One from Mama and one from Lavinia. I should tell them what has happened. What about my husband’s relations? To whom should I write?”

He gave her a quick smile. He had such a warm, reassuring smile! “You may leave the Huntlys to me. Rupert’s mother in Ireland, and Aunt Dempster in Grantham, who brought him up. Apart from that, there are a few cousins to notify, but no one close, apart from myself. It is a fortunate thing that I live near enough to be of some assistance to you. If you write your letters now, I shall myself see that they are collected by the London mail.”

For a while, they worked in silence, Adam rooting through drawers and cupboards, while Annie scratched away with her pen, informing her mother, two distant aunts, a cousin and Lavinia that Mr Huntly was dead. The letters were brief, for she felt no need to mention murder or guns. To her surprise, her hand was steady, the script as neat and even as always.

Adam gave a sigh of exasperation. “There is nothing here. No will, no letter from a solicitor, no safe where such documents might be kept, at least not in this room. There might be something in his bedchamber.”

“He is there,” Annie said. “Rupert. His body. In his room.”

“Oh. I should pay my respects, I suppose. Poor fellow. I had my differences with him, but I never wished him any harm. I shall ask Mrs Cumber if she is aware of a safe. His valet might know something, too. Is he still in the house? He has not left yet?”

“I believe so.” A moment’s hesitation, then she went on, “I suppose I should have done this… looked through his desk and so on.”

“Better for me to do it,” Adam said.

“Because you are a man?” she said, with a touch of acid in her tone.

He looked up at her with his eyes brimming with amusement. “Not at all! I have never subscribed to the preposterous notion that ladies are too fragile to deal with anything more practical than embroidering a fire screen. However, one never knows what might turn up in a man’s private papers, so it is better for a wife if someone else looks through them first.”

“I hardly think my husband had any dark secrets.”

He looked thoughtful. “Yet someone shot him through the heart yesterday.”

There was no answer to that.

~~~~~

That evening was peaceful. After the comings and goings all day, all the brisk, business-like men had left and although Sir Leonard and the coroner both promised to return the next morning to continue their enquiries, for a few hours Annie and Judith had the house to themselves. They dined in near silence, using the furthest end of the table from Mr Huntly’s distressingly empty chair, and then moved through to the peacock chamber. Most evenings, Judith had disappeared to tend to her daughters after dinner, but tonight she returned after checking them, sitting with some needlework in her hand, a shift for one of her daughters.

Annie sat, hands neatly folded in her lap and let her mind wander wherever it would over the events of the last two days… that sudden, violent quarrel with Rupert… Judith’s intervention… the striking of the clock, which had propelled him from the house… the long, fearful hours awaiting his return, gradually becoming clouded with a different worry… and finally the shocking news of his death. Murder… such an ugly word.

She had been asked a score of times that day how she felt, and always she had answered mechanically that she was well… everything was perfectly all right. Yet she was not at all sure what she truly felt. Relieved, mostly. She need not fear that her husband would punish her for her defiance. Guilty, because of that relief. Glad that Judith would not have to leave. Sorrowful that the long, happy marriage she had envisaged was now lost to her. Bereft, because the structure of her life, imposed by her husband, was now swept away. She had not yet learnt to love him, and many of his restrictions had chafed, but he had given her life a purpose that her uncle, for all his talk about ‘my little apothecary’ could never provide.

But now she had a new purpose… a new life growing inside her. She had noticed the signs but never dared to allow herself to hope. She had never mentioned the possibility to anyone, not even her husband, and perhaps he had died unaware that he might become a father before too long. Somehow, keeping the secret inside herself had also kept it nebulous, a formless hope for the future. Now that it had been brought into the open, acknowledged and talked about, it had become real. She was with child.

There were still uncertainties, of course. It might yet come to nothing, or it might be a daughter. Then Adam would inherit Willow Place, and she would have to leave. She and Judith would both have to leave and finds homes elsewhere. Or one home… they could live together, sharing a little cottage somewhere. Judith had no money, but Annie had a settlement so there would be a jointure. She had four thousand pounds, and her mother’s three thousand, in time. The income from that would be enough for two widows of a practical bent to live upon. But until then, they would stay at Willow Place.

That reminded her of something curious. “Judith, why do you live in the attics above the kitchen wing?”

Judith looked up from her sewing with a smile. “To keep out of your husband’s way. He made it very plain that we might stay on here only if we were not constantly underfoot, the girls in particular. ‘I am not fond of badly-behaved children,’ he told me. When I suggested that he might find mine rather well behaved, he said, no, all children were badly behaved, and it was merely a matter of degree. I could not afford to leave, so I made very sure the girls were kept out of his sight and hearing.”

“You need not keep them away from me, however. Is there some more commodious accommodation that would suit you better?”

“You do not wish us to leave, then? It was your husband’s express order that we should go, and I should not like you to go against his wishes if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“It was wrong of him to tell you to go,” Annie said at once. “As your brother-in-law, he had an obligation to ensure you are provided for. Your husband clearly expected the estate to support you, since he made no provision for you otherwise. You have the right to stay here, if you wish it, or else to have an income enabling you to live independently. When — or if — I have to leave, I hope you will come and share a home with me, but until then, it is very much my wish that you and your daughters should stay on at Willow Place.”

Judith threw aside her sewing, tears glistening in her eyes. “Annie, you are so kind to me! Thank you! A thousand times thank you! I have wanted so much to be a friend to you, but…” She stopped chewing her lip. “No, I will not speak against the dead.”

“You may always speak freely with me, I hope,” Annie said. “Rupert came between us, I know that. I too hoped we could be friends, but his actions kept us apart. He was always by my side, and you were kept busy with household tasks. Some days I only saw you at breakfast and dinner. But now… I am very glad you are here, Judith. Move to better rooms, if you wish, and I will tell Mrs Cumber to engage another housemaid so that you need not spend your days dusting and sweeping. We shall keep each other company, shall we not?”

Judith could only nod and smile through her tears.

~~~~~

The second day after the murder was as busy as the first. Sir Leonard and Squire Thornton came again, with more questions for the servants. The coroner returned with the physician and another gentleman, a military man, and all five of them spent more than two hours conferring over Mr Huntly’s body. Adam, too, returned to continue his search for the will, or at least the name of a solicitor who might hold it.

Quite late in the day, not long before the dressing bell for dinner, all five gentlemen asked to speak to Annie. Judith was with her, and she asked Adam to join them too, for she felt that as the heir presumptive, he ought to know everything that was going on.

The coroner spoke first. He had invited the major, as an expert in the effects of gunshot wounds, to examine the deceased with some care. This examination had established that Mr Huntly had been shot from a distance of some two feet. There were also two distinct wounds. This precluded any possibility that his death might have been either an accident, or the result of a close struggle.

“Someone deliberately took a pair of loaded pistols to that place, came upon Mr Huntly, shot him twice and then left without removing his purse, pocket-watch, fob or silver-headed cane,” the coroner said. “There was no sign of a struggle or anything untoward on the footpath where he died. There were a few patches of mud under the trees, and his footprints may be clearly discerned as he walked towards the village and then returned later. There was no attempt to evade his attacker.”

“Did the fellow who shot him leave any footprints in the mud?” Adam said.

“Unfortunately not,” Sir Leonard said. “There was just such a mixture of damp patches and dry as to permit the assailant to approach without leaving any mark. But there is one thing that may be said with confidence. The villain was able to approach within two feet of Mr Rupert Huntly without causing any alarm in that gentleman. There are no hoof prints anywhere along the lane since the last spell of rain, so the assailant was on foot, and could not have taken Mr Huntly unawares. It appears that he stopped when approached, and was then shot without him making the slightest effort to defend himself or to run away. We must conclude, therefore, that he knew and trusted his killer.”

There was a long silence as they all digested that piece of information.

“Mr Huntly was a newcomer to this neighbourhood,” Annie said, much puzzled. “He had never been here until his brother died six months ago, and had few acquaintances hereabouts.”

“So we are aware, Mrs Huntly,” Sir Leonard said. “Nor could we find that he had conducted any business dealings here, or incurred any gambling debts. There is no reason that we can find for any neighbour to quarrel with him.” There was a slight emphasis on the word ‘neighbour’.

Another long silence prevailed in the room. No one moved.

At length, Sir Leonard went on, very slowly, as if the words were being squeezed out of him, “I understand that you quarrelled with your husband, Mrs Huntly. The servants report raised voices.”

What was he saying? That she had killed her husband? But that was—

“Ridiculous!” Adam spat, jumping to his feet. “Are you suggesting for one second that a gentle lady like Mrs Huntly left this house armed with two loaded pistols, waylaid and shot her husband and then returned here as if nothing had happened? That is the most insulting suggestion I have ever heard!”

“I suggest nothing,” Sir Leonard said, his face darkening. “My advice to you, Huntly, is to keep out of this, for your own sake. Mrs Huntly, did you kill your husband?”

“Of course not!”

“Then you will have someone who can vouch for your presence here that afternoon?”

“I… am not sure…”

“She was with me,” Judith put in quickly. “We sat in the butler’s room in the kitchen wing for hours. Mrs Cumber will tell you. She knows we were there.”

Sir Leonard turned on Judith at once. “And you also quarrelled with the deceased, did you not? He threatened both of you with dire penalties when you argued with him. Is it not so?”

Now it was Judith who jumped to her feet. “Oh, so we rigged this up between us, did we? We scuttled away to the servants’ quarters, bribed Mrs Cumber, no doubt, to pretend we were there, while we stole out to shoot Rupert. Oh, for Heaven’s sake!”

She stormed away to the window, and stood there quivering with indignation. Adam stole across the room to her side, whispering something to her.

Annie was not angry. Bewildered, perhaps, but the accusation was too absurd for anger, although she supposed that Sir Leonard was obliged to pursue every avenue, however unlikely, to unearth her husband’s killer.

“Sir Leonard,” she said calmly. “I did not kill my husband, nor did Judith, of that I can be certain. We were together in the butler’s room from the time my husband left the house until the dressing hour. Then we separated to dress… my maid was with me, and I imagine Judith has someone who can vouch for her actions, also. After that we were together in this room, awaiting my husband’s return. We sat here until you yourself came to tell us of his death. I am sure if you talk to the servants, they will confirm all of this, although there is no one from outside the house to support the story.”

“Indeed, and the servants are loyal to you, as is Mrs Herbert Huntly. My enquiries have confirmed all that you say. Nevertheless it is possible. The butler’s room is far from the servants’ hall and kitchen, and is very close to the garden door. From there one may leave the house unseen by the servants, pass behind the high wall of the kitchen garden to be quite invisible from the house and thence directly through the shrubbery to the lane. It is in fact the exact route your husband took on his way to the church. It is no more than a five minute walk to the spot where he was killed, five minutes back again, equally unseen, and you could then await the official report of your husband’s death with as much surprise as your acting talents can contrive.”

That was even more puzzling. “I am sure that seems very logical to you, Sir Leonard. To me it seems too fantastic for words. I had no idea there was a garden door, nor any notion where the lane to the village lay, so such a scheme would never have occurred to me. Nor do I have the least idea where to obtain a pair of pistols, or how to load them. I have never seen a pistol in my life. However, this will not weigh with you. Let us suppose that I have done as you say, and reached a suitable spot for my wicked deed. I now have to wait for my husband to return, and as I am sure your investigation will reveal, the Vestry meetings might finish in an hour or might run on for more than two hours. I should be standing in the open, with a pair of pistols in my hand, for perhaps a whole hour, at great risk of being observed.”

“Not so,” Sir Leonard said smugly. “There are thick bushes beside the lane at that point where you might have been concealed, and you could have kept the pistols in a bag.”

“You have an answer for everything!” she said, dismayed. “But answer me this, if you will. Why on earth would I want my husband dead? I had been married for barely two months, and this was the first time we had ever had a disagreement. You surely cannot imagine that after one dispute I would turn against him with murderous intent? It is too far-fetched for words.”

“Mrs Huntly,” he said gently. “I do not know you, but I understand, I hope, something of human nature. I know that your husband was the fortunate beneficiary of his brother’s tragic death, and that he subsequently married rather quickly. It occurs to me that it is not only heiresses who may be prey to fortune hunters. It may be that, having ensnared your husband and discovered marriage to be less to your taste than you supposed, you determined to do away with him and secure your future as a wealthy widow. The quarrel, perhaps, precipitated a plan already carefully laid.”

Annie stared at him uncomprehendingly. “That is the most outlandish story I have ever heard. The wildest Gothic novel would be more credible.”

“Nevertheless, I must consider the possibility. Someone murdered your husband, someone he knew and trusted, someone within walking distance of that spot on the lane, which is not half a mile from this house. Here, therefore, in this house, is where I must look for the murderer, and you are the most obvious person with a possible reason to want him dead.”

She could not fault his logic, yet she knew it to be untrue. How could she convince him? “I can see how you might arrive at such an erroneous conclusion,” she said slowly. “Yet I cannot fathom why you think I would choose guns, of which I have no experience, when I could simply have poisoned my husband.”

“Poisoned him?” he said faintly.

“Indeed. My uncle is an apothecary, and I have lived in his house for six years, helping to measure and store his ingredients and make up his medicines and pills. I have a medicine chest upstairs filled with any number of syrups and simples, and I have been treating my husband, at his request, for some time now. If I had wished him dead, there are half a dozen ways I could have done it without anyone suspecting a thing.”

The physician put in, “I can vouch for Mrs Huntly’s expertise with drugs. She described a remedy she had used to induce sleep in herself in terms which leave me in no doubt that she has the knowledge to kill a man. She is not alone in that, for a number of potent poisons are well-known to country people as well as apothecaries. Most act very quickly, however. Some instantly, others within a few minutes or hours and are therefore easy to recognise. A poison subtle enough to escape detection would also be slow, needing perhaps weeks to take full effect.”

“Ah! And this was an emergency,” Sir Leonard said, lacing his fingers together across his stomach. “Your husband, I believe, threatened to chastise you — to punish you. Do you deny that?” She shook her head. “There you are, then. You could not wait, but needed him to die at once. Even though it was risky, you were desperate enough to try it. And it almost worked, Mrs Huntly. You almost got away with the murder of your husband.”

10: Suspicions

For a moment, Annie’s mind flew into a panic. He truly believed it! She could hardly comprehend the enormity of it — that she might be hanged for a murder she had never committed. For all her husband’s restrictive ways, she had never, ever wanted to be free of him. He was her husband and if he was not perfect, which man was? She sincerely regretted his death.

But that day, when she had defied him, and he had threatened her… Sir Leonard made a good point, for it was true, she had been terrified of what he would do to her. Yet would he truly have hurt her? If she had cried and pleaded with him and begged his forgiveness… if she had told him of the child? Would that have been enough? She could not say for certain, but this was no time to express her doubts on the matter.

“I do not believe my husband would have beaten me, Sir Leonard. If he had been of the same mind when he returned, then I should have revealed that I am with child. No husband would use violence against his wife in such a situation.”

“Ah.” Sir Leonard nodded thoughtfully. “That is… interesting. I shall consider what you have said, Mrs Huntly.”

Adam moved nearer. “There is one other aspect to consider, Sir Leonard. If Mrs Huntly had wished to remove her husband and ensure a comfortable widowhood, she would do far better to wait. Since the property is entailed in the male line, a son would guarantee her future as mistress of Willow Place. That would be the time for murder, supposing such an improbable intention should enter her mind.”

Sir Leonard’s brows lifted a fraction. “The property is entailed?”

“It is.”

“And you are, I believe, the next male in the succession at present?”

A slight hesitation. “That is true.”

“Then I hope you have someone to vouch for your whereabouts at the time of your cousin’s murder, Mr Huntly, for I have not forgotten that Wickstead Manor is not so very far from here. You were at the Vestry meeting with your cousin, and could easily have followed him down the lane.”

“Oh, am I suspected now?” he said sharply. “Great Heavens, man, if I had ever wanted Willow Place for my own I should have disposed of Rupert before he married and possibly fathered an heir. I might even have disposed of Herbert, too, instead of leaving him here to enjoy a long and fruitful marriage. It is preposterous nonsense. You are determined to insult every one of us, I perceive.”

“It is no insult to implement the majesty of the law.”

“That is true, Cousin,” Annie said, laying one hand on his arm. “Anger serves no purpose. Sir Leonard must conduct full enquiries into my husband’s death so that the murderer may be brought to justice. Since I know myself to be innocent, I have no fear of the law.”

“You should fear it!” he cried. “Our law courts are far from infallible.”

She could feel him trembling with indignation, but at her touch he subsided into silence.

Sir Leonard and his fellows all rose and took their leave, and the room fell into a strange kind of calm. Adam still breathed heavily, his fists clenching and unclenching, as if ready for a fight. Judith was white-faced, the traces of tears on her cheeks. Annie herself was more bemused than anything else. Her odd little marriage, so longed for and yet so different from her dreams, had spiralled in days into furious disagreement and then into violent death, and now… now she faced the hangman’s noose. Or perhaps Adam did. It was a nightmare of the most incredible kind.

“Well, that was most objectionable!” Judith said to no one in particular, angrily wiping away her tears. “Do not tell me that he is a magistrate and must do his duty, for a man may be civil as he goes about it, surely.”

“I daresay he wished to provoke us into some kind of revealing remark,” Adam said.

“What is there to reveal?” Judith said, with some heat. “None of us killed Rupert, after all, and there is not the least reason to suppose we did.”

“That is not entirely true,” Adam said slowly. “We have all of us quarrelled with Rupert recently, and we all stand to gain from his death, in one way or another. We are the most obvious people to suspect.”

“Then what are we to do?” Judith cried. “There must be some action we can take to demonstrate our innocence. I cannot sit here and meekly wait for Sir Leonard to decide whether I am a murderess or not.”

“That is not his decision to make, fortunately,” Adam said. “However guilty we may appear in Sir Leonard’s eyes, he must convince a jury of it, beyond reasonable doubt. It is not enough to say merely that we might have murdered Rupert, but he must prove it. But you are right — we cannot sit about hoping for something to turn up. We know that we did not kill him, so someone else must have done. What we must do is to find out who that is.”

“That will not be easy,” Judith said.

“True, but if we all pool our ideas and work in concert, we should be able to come up with something.”

“Yes, we must cleave together,” Judith said. “We are all that remains of the Huntly family now, and we must put our trust in each other.”

Annie listened to them in silence. It was all very well to talk of family and trust, but she hardly knew Judith or Adam well enough to speak of trust. A two months’ acquaintance was not sufficient for her to understand their characters or habits or principles, beyond the most superficial level. She could not say of either of them with any degree of confidence that they were incapable of the crime of murder in general. It was hard to believe it of either of them, but who could ever say what evil lurked in the heart of a man or a woman, however honourable they appeared to be?

In this particular case, she could be quite certain of Judith’s innocence, for she had been with her all afternoon, apart from the hour of dressing. Adam was another matter. She knew so little of him. He had visited many times until his banishment, but he had showed only his jocular self, jesting with the men and flirting with the ladies. There was a more serious, perhaps even introspective, man hidden within, or so she hoped. He was serious enough now, that much was certain. As to whether he had murdered Rupert she could not say, but she could never be sure.

In one sense, however, Judith was entirely right. The three of them, together with Judith’s daughters and her own as yet unborn child, were the last of the Huntly family, or at least this branch of it. Rupert had wished to keep his wife to himself, which had precluded greater familiarity with his relations, but now, with the threat of arrest for murder hanging over their heads, it would be as well to become better acquainted with them. And if Adam were indeed a murderer, she would surely be able to detect some sign of it if she knew him better, some weakness of character or oddness in his behaviour that would alert her.

So when the dressing bell sounded, and Adam jumped up with an exclamation of dismay, and would have left, she said, “Will you not stay and dine with us, Cousin Adam? We shall not be at all formal at this present, so you need not worry about your boots.”

“Oh, yes! Do stay,” Judith said eagerly. “We have so much to discuss still.”

“I should like it of all things, especially as my housekeeper and manservant are away just now, and I have nothing but cheese and a slice of pigeon pie to look forward to at home,” Adam said, his words strengthened by a warm smile. “I feel obliged to point out, however, that Rupert forbade me the house. Although he cannot have expected that prohibition to bar me from offering my condolences and rendering any assistance that might be in my power, he would certainly disapprove of you dining with me.”

“I hope I respect my husband’s wishes as much as any wife should do,” Annie said with dignity. “Such was my duty when he was alive, but he is no longer here to guide me, and circumstances have changed beyond all recognition. If I were to continue according to my husband’s precepts, I should be terribly alone. His… his protectiveness prevented me from knowing you well, but you are my kin now, and it is only right that we should be friends.”

“Indeed we should!” he said warmly. “We must and shall be the very best of friends, as I have hoped from the first, and let us begin now, tonight, this very moment!” He seized her hand and swept it to his lips before she could protest, but it was done so gracefully and he released her so promptly that she could not protest.

Dinner that evening was the liveliest she had ever experienced at Willow Place. Judith, who had spoken hardly a word in Mr Huntly’s presence, was almost vivacious, and Adam soon lost his solemnity and became once more the light-hearted and amusing man she remembered. Annie said little herself, for her nerves were too raw to laugh or even smile much, and her husband’s empty chair seemed to stare balefully at her from the other end of the table, but her companions’ banter lifted her spirits.

She was reminded forcibly of dinners at the Castle Street house, with her uncle and aunt discussing all the doings of the day, the children jostling for the last potato or portion of custard, her mother reminiscing about life at the vicarage, and all of it noise and cheerfulness and jollity. The memory brought a burst of grief so potent that she felt as if her heart were being squeezed, and had to set down her spoon for a moment to recover her composure.

It was Adam, seemingly absorbed in a slightly salacious story about the verger, who noticed her distress. “I beg your pardon, Cousin Annie! Here we are, joking away as if this were the summer fair, while your husband’s body still rests upstairs.”

“It is quite all right,” she said. “I like to hear your raillery, but it reminds me of home. My former home, I mean, and I do miss them all dreadfully.”

“Of course you do, and especially just now,” Judith said.

“Perhaps I might go and stay with them for a while,” she said wistfully. “Not immediately, but in a few weeks. It would be the greatest comfort to see them all.”

“Might they come and see you?” Judith asked.

“Oh no, for my uncle cannot leave his shop, and my aunt cannot leave him, and Mama would never travel alone on the stage, even if she had the money for the fare. But I have my own carriage, so I might go to them, might I not?”

“That is an excellent idea,” Judith said. “When next you write, you must mention it to them.”

After a while, reassured that she was not about to have a fit of the vapours, the two reverted to their primary discussion, which was a review of everyone they knew in the neighbourhood who might bear a grudge against Rupert. It was not easy, for he had been almost entirely unknown to them all until after his brother’s death, and even then could hardly have been said to have entered the local society with any enthusiasm. He had attended church every Sunday without fail, and had received callers politely, but he had held no dinners and accepted no invitations. As for the lower classes, he was slow to settle his bills and even slower to institute repairs for his tenants, but this was so normal a practice as to hardly attract comment, let alone be sufficient motivation for murder.

“Could it be someone from outside the immediate area?” Annie asked, when all local possibilities had been exhausted.

Adam sighed. “I wish it might be so, but Sir Leonard gave very clear reasons why it could not be. The murderer was on foot, not mounted and certainly not in a carriage. That spot is more than two miles from the road by the shortest distance, which is over moderately rough ground, and very open. To keep out of sight, skulking in the shelter of the trees — three or four miles, at least, and there would still be a need to arrange a conveyance by which to escape after the deed was done. Where would one conceal a carriage, or a couple of horses, with a groom to watch them? Or is the assailant presumed to have arrived and departed on the public stage? No, it must be someone local.”

Annie had to concede the logic. “Only Rupert’s acquaintances would know his movements,” she said thoughtfully. “Someone from afar would not be aware that he attended the Vestry meetings on certain days, or the times of his journeys to and fro, or the path he would take. I did not know his usual route myself.”

So little of him she had known! He had never talked of his meetings, or estate business, or anything he deemed as belonging to the male sex alone. He would occasionally inform her of important events reported in the London newspapers, although he felt the newspapers themselves not suitable for the frailer female sex to peruse. He kept such newspapers as he subscribed to in his desk, and burned them when he had quite finished with them.

How dull their evenings had been! They could not exchange the trivial doings of the day because he was always with her and knew everything she did, just as she knew what he did. Conversation at dinner had focused largely on the food — his praise of certain dishes, and disapprobation of others. He might comment on their shared activities of the day, and sometimes he would inform her what they would be doing the next day, but there was nothing that she would describe as stimulating discourse. If she had ever raised a subject of interest to her, he was quite likely to tell her repressively that it was not a fit topic for a lady, or else to launch into a monologue to ‘improve your mind, Mrs Huntly’.

At the time, she had merely thought that marriage was more complicated than she had suspected, and that she would adjust to it in time. It was only now that her husband was no longer present to explain to her how she should act and what her opinions should be that she understood fully the suffocating nature of his behaviour. It was as if she had been labouring upwards on a fog-shrouded mountain, and now, suddenly, the fog had lifted and she could see clearly again. She could breathe the sweet, clean air, untainted by her husband’s protectiveness.

No… she must not attempt to justify his treatment of her as protection. He had been oppressive and domineering, and if their marriage had continued, she would in time have come to hate him. She had already begun to fear him, bending her wishes to his and even, sometimes, her principles. She had surrendered to his demands because that was what a wife did, a dutiful, obedient wife — arranging her life around her husband and never, ever questioning his judgement. Only now that he was gone could she see how constraining that had been. It had felt like a prison, and now, unexpectedly, she was free. She rejoiced in her freedom, even as she grieved for her husband and the loss of the joyful marriage she had so longed for.

They all moved through to the tapestry room together, Adam taking a glass of port with him. Annie found her work basket and settled with a handkerchief to hem, mindless occupation for her hands while she listened to Judith and Adam chattering away. They had given up all pretence of trying to uncover a murderer, and were ranging over all manner of topics, in the way of old friends. As they sat side by side on a sofa, Judith gesturing with her hands to make a point, her face animated, and Adam gently teasing her, she wondered for the first time if perhaps they were more than friends. The idea struck her forcibly, for had not Judith said she could not leave Willow Place because she had nowhere else to go, or at least not yet? Perhaps there would indeed be somewhere for her to go in a few months’ time, when she would be out of mourning for her husband. She would go to Wickstead Manor, as Mrs Adam Huntly, and what could be more fitting?

The prospect gave her a burst of pleasure, but also a twinge of envy, for Judith would have the happy marriage that Annie had been denied. Would she be happy? Or was Adam like Rupert, a man who was to all outward appearances a devoted and loving husband, yet inwardly might be quite different? Or perhaps all marriages were so, placidly happy on the surface but jaggedly discontented within.

For the first time, she looked at Adam as a potential husband for Judith. Handsome, yes, and good-humoured, certainly. He enlivened every gathering, and even the gloomy peacock chamber seemed somehow brighter when he was in it. But he was an unrepentant flirt, and she wondered how happy a wife could be when her husband directed his teasing attention towards every female he encountered.

And there was the small matter of murder to be considered. It was almost impossible to believe him capable of such an act, and yet someone had done so, and Adam had more reason than most since he stood to inherit Willow Place…

Except that Annie’s child might yet stand between him and the prize… and if he had killed Rupert to obtain it, would he hesitate to kill again? Her child, if it were a boy? Or perhaps he would not even wait to find out.

Perhaps Annie herself would be murdered next.

11: The Funeral

Annie must have made some sound, a little gasp, perhaps, because Adam looked up sharply, a joking remark dying on his lips. He jumped up at once and strode across the room. Sweeping her work basket aside, he sat down beside her.

“What is it?” he said, his tone gentle. “Are you unwell? Distressed? What has occurred to upset you? Tell me, so that I may set you at ease again.”

“You cannot!” she blurted.

He gazed at her, a little frown playing across his forehead, trying to puzzle out the meaning of her words. She dropped her eyes in guilt, entirely unable to look him openly in the face when she had just that moment been considering whether he might murder her.

“You fear me!” he said, half to himself. “That is what this is about. But why? Is it something Rupert said about me? But that cannot be, for you have been calm for some time now, yet you are in sudden alarm of me. Will you not tell me why? I thought we were friends.”

She looked up at him then. Were they friends? “I should very much like us to be friends,” she said slowly. “But…”

It was Judith who understood first. “Annie, you cannot think that Adam had anything to do with your husband’s death, surely?” she said sharply. “It is impossible! To murder his own cousin in that callous way? He is incapable of such an act!”

“Is he?” Annie said quietly. “All I know beyond any doubt is that I did not kill Rupert, and nor did you, since you were with me all afternoon. Of anyone else, I cannot be certain. Even Mrs Cumber could have slipped out of the house between visits to us in the butler’s room.”

“That is ridiculous!” Judith said. “You are as bad as Sir Leonard, hurling accusations about in this wild way.”

Adam’s face was serious. “No, Judith, we must face up to the unpalatable truth — none of us can ever be sure what wickedness lies in the heart of another. Perhaps the two of you schemed together to kill Rupert. Or perhaps I did it, for no one saw me after I left the Vestry. Oh… I have just realised!” He smiled suddenly, and it was as if the sun had emerged from behind a cloud. “I understand why you fear me, Annie, for if I killed Rupert, then I might kill you also. That is it, is it not?”

She hesitated, but there was little point in evasion. Amongst the three of them there must be honesty, for suspicion would drive a wedge between them and curdle their friendship before it had even begun. “I do not believe it,” she said, “but I can never be entirely sure.”

“Of course you cannot. But wait here a moment, and perhaps I can relieve your mind of some of its anxiety.”

He dashed out of the room. Annie was left with Judith’s disapproving looks.

“I do not accuse him,” Annie said quietly. “I accuse no one, for it seems to me that no one here truly had a reason to kill Rupert. In my own case, murder would be an excessive response to a marital disagreement. In your case, you would not truly have been obliged to go to the workhouse if Rupert had forced you to leave. You have friends to whom you might turn, like Adam, for instance.”

“Not Adam,” she said quickly. “He is a friend, it is true, and he would certainly offer me shelter at the Manor if I asked it, but he lives there alone so—”

“Your reputation,” Annie said.

“Exactly! There is not much left to me, beyond my three girls. I have neither fortune nor a home of my own, and my husband neglected me when he was alive and failed to provide for me when he died. At present I am a respectable widow, however, and it would grieve me deeply to lose the last vestiges of that respectability. If Adam were to take me in, I should be quite cast out of society, and he would feel obliged to marry me and that would not suit either of us.”

“Would it not?” Annie said. “I had supposed the two of you to be rather well suited, in fact, and wondered only this evening if you would make a match of it, in time. Forgive me — that was impertinent, to be speculating in that ill-bred way.”

Judith laughed. “No one could ever describe you as ill-bred, Annie. It is true that Adam and I get along well, but then I defy anyone to dislike him.”

“Rupert did,” Annie said, frowning. “His antipathy seemed excessive, but perhaps there was some boyhood history between them which rankled.”

“Oh no, he was jealous, that was all,” Judith said. “Adam is something of a flirt, and Rupert could not abide any man exerting his charm on you. It was about you, Annie.”

“Good Heavens! How foolish of him, for although I find Adam amusing, he is too frivolous a man for my taste.”

“Is he?” Judith tipped her head to one side as she gazed at Annie thoughtfully. “I have often thought that a little frivolity in your life would not go amiss. You are quite a serious person, and Rupert was even more so.”

“We were a good match then,” Annie said, a little affronted.

“Perhaps, although if you and Adam should ever—”

It was as well that Adam came back into the room just then, for Annie was greatly disturbed by this train of thought, when her husband’s body still lay in his bedroom upstairs.

“Here we are,” Adam said, heaving a huge book onto a table. “It took me a while to find it in the dark. I had to light a whole candelabrum.”

“Whatever is it?” Judith said, jumping up to examine the book. “Oh. The family Bible. What are you about, Adam?”

“I am going to do my utmost to reassure Cousin Annie that I am not about to do her in, and no normal oath will do. So…” He knelt beside the table, resting one hand on the Bible, his eyes fixed on Annie’s. “I swear to you, Cousin, upon my honour and in the eyes of God, that I did not kill Rupert or harm him in any way or cause anyone else to harm him, nor did I wish him the least misfortune. As God is my witness, you have nothing at all to fear from me, neither for yourself nor for your child, and I will do everything within my power to keep you safe, now and always, and so I do swear. May God strike me down at once if I lie.” He jumped to his feet, and smiled at her eagerly. “There! Does that help at all?”

His enthusiasm was so infectious that she smiled too. “Thank you, Cousin. Since no thunderbolt has struck you down, I accept your assurances as the truth.”

He grinned. “Excellent! So we can be friends after all.”

“May I look at the Bible?” Annie said. “I always wanted to, so that I could know about the many relations Rupert had not told me about, but he always found some excuse and I never knew where he kept it. It was not on the shelves.”

“It was locked away in one of the lower cupboards,” Adam said. “By all means look at it. Has he added your name yet?”

“Yes, here it is.” She turned to the page recording births. “Here is Herbert’s birth, and Rupert’s, and—”

“What is it?” Adam said.

“Who is James Huntly?”

“I have never heard of him. What is he, a cousin? An uncle?”

“He is a brother, a younger brother to Herbert and Rupert.”

“A brother?” Adam said. “I cannot believe it.”

“It is true. The date of birth would make him eighteen now. Wait… perhaps he died.” She flipped the pages to check the records of deaths in the family. “No… he must be still alive. And… surely he would be the heir, not you, Adam.”

“That is… impossible,” he said. “Let me see.” He quickly scanned the pages. “That makes no sense. I have never heard him mentioned. Have you, Judith?”

She shook her head. “And where is he?”

“He must be found, for he is certainly the heir presumptive to Willow Place,” Adam said. “I shall write to Aunt Connell in Ireland to ask about him. She must surely know what became of her youngest son.”

“By all means write, but you should tell Sir Leonard of this discovery, too,” Judith said. “If this James is alive, he is another person with a possible reason to have wanted Rupert dead.”

~~~~~

When Adam had left and Judith had gone to her own room in the attics, Annie slowly made her way up the stairs. It was the third time she had retired to bed alone, the third night without her husband. It was no easier than the first. She had been married just two months, yet her husband had been such a large part of her life, accompanying her for almost every waking hour, and every sleeping hour, too, that she could barely comprehend his loss. Even when her father had died, she had not felt so bereft. Had Mama felt like this when Papa had died, as if half of herself were missing? Yet they had been married for thirty years, so such grief was understandable.

Was it grief that she felt? She had not shed a single tear for Rupert, and she was aware of a certain relief as well as loss, so perhaps it was no more than the shocking circumstances of his death, and the suddenness of it, that affected her.

As she came to the dark corridor that led to her bedroom, she became aware of a trickle of light seeping out from under the door to Rupert’s room. There were candles set around the bed where he lay, no doubt, and perhaps the servants kept watch over his body. She had not thought to ask.

On impulse, she stopped outside his room, turned the doorknob, pushed open the door. The room was in deep shadow, only two candles lit, one at the head of the bed and the other beside a chair near the door, where Mrs Cumber sat. She closed the book she had been reading, and rose to her feet.

“Have you come to say farewell?” she said softly.

Annie nodded, realising that was exactly what she was doing.

“I will wait outside,” Mrs Cumber said. She took her candle and left the room.

Annie moved towards the bed. She had never been in her husband’s room before, yet it was very familiar for it was almost an exact copy of hers. The same hangings around the bed, the same furniture, even the same carpet on the floor. The black crepe draped everywhere did not disguise the similarities. Had Judith’s husband arranged the two rooms thus, or was it Rupert’s wish? Yet he had never slept in this bed. Every night he had shared Annie’s bed. They had never been separated. Until now. ‘Till death us do part…’ So they had sworn, and so it was.

Her husband lay motionless on the bed, shrouded in black. In the flickering light of the candles he looked almost as she remembered him, as if he might open his mouth and speak to her at any moment. Only the pennies on his eyelids betrayed the truth.

She set her candle carefully on the small table beside the bed, pulled across a chair and sat down next to her husband.

“Goodbye, Rupert,” she said, surprised to find that her voice was firm and strong. “Thank you for marrying me, for loving me enough to remember me for all those years. Thank you for the compliment. I am sorry you will never see your first child, but if it is a boy, I shall name him after you and tell him about his father. I shall tell him that you were a good man… at heart, and that you wanted to protect me from harm… from the world. But I do wish you had trusted me, my dear. I wish you had allowed me some freedom, so that I might have had my own friends and interests, and you yours. Then I could have learnt to love you, as a wife ought. I am sorry we quarrelled and that our last moments together were spent in anger. I am sorry you died, and especially in this wicked, brutal way. With Sir Leonard’s diligence, I am optimistic that your killer will be brought to justice in this world, as he certainly will be in the next. Goodbye, my dear. Go now to your eternal rest, and leave your earthly cares behind you at last. May God bless you.”

Closing her eyes, she made a brief prayer for his soul. Then she rose, took her candle and left her husband’s room. She had shed not one tear for him.

~~~~~

The carpenter and his brother came not long after dawn to coffin the body, then later a steady stream of carriages. Adam was the first, then Sir Leonard and Squire Thornton, Mr Grey and several men that Annie did not know. They milled about in the great hall, speaking in low voices until the coffin was brought down.

Annie and Judith stood beside the fireplace to see the funeral procession depart, veiled and black-gowned. Janet, Margaret and Isobel stood beside them, also in black, their small faces bewildered. The servants filed out from the service corridor to see their master depart. The coffin was lifted, the men fell into procession behind, they made their way out of the door, slowly and in silence. When the last straggler had gone, Mrs Cumber pushed the great wooden doors shut with a soft thud. Outside could be heard the stamping of horses and the closing of carriage doors. Then the rumble of wheels over gravel. Inside was silence. Only when the last sounds of the funeral procession had receded into the distance did the servants file back to the kitchen wing. The nursemaid took the children away. Only Annie and Judith remained.

Annie pushed back her veil. “Well, that is that.”

Judith gave a soft laugh. “It is indeed. Are you not going to cry, Annie?”

She thought about that. “I believe not, but this must be the most dreadful ordeal for you. This is the second time in a year you have witnessed a funeral departure here.”

“I was no more distraught in February than you are today. I had little affection for my husband latterly, Annie, I regret to say. Had it not been for my financial position, his death would have been a welcome release for me. Once Rupert assured me that I might stay on here, I was quite at ease about my widowhood. I was sorry for Herbert’s death, of course. It is always a tragedy when a man dies untimely. He was not a bad man nor even a bad husband, or at least no worse than any other. I never discovered that he had any great vices, he kept no mistress, left no debts and did not even ill-treat his horses. He was not affectionate towards me, even in our most private moments, but at least he did not suffocate me with his love, as Rupert did with you. I should not have suffered such treatment so quietly as you did, I assure you.”

“A husband must be obeyed,” Annie said slowly. “However unreasonable his requests, a wife must be obedient and dutiful. Should I have begun our marriage in defiance and argument? I could not! It was always my hope that time would mellow him, and he would relax his care of me somewhat. Surely he would have done?”

“Who can say? Perhaps you are right,” Judith said, but she sounded dubious.

Annie spent the day in the hunting room, writing letters and preparing mourning gifts for the servants. As there was as yet no will to be read, Adam had arranged for refreshments to be served after the funeral at the inn in the village to save the mourners the journey back to Willow Place, so no visitors disturbed her solitude. Apart from giving her orders for dinner, and arranging with Judith which rooms she would like to use in future, she never left the room. Even her hour of music practice, so precious an escape from her husband when he was alive, seemed less appealing now, even if she had felt like playing on the day of her husband’s funeral. Judith offered to sit with her, but Annie preferred to be alone.

She had ended one chapter of her life, but she could not yet see what her future life would be. The child growing within her was as yet a nebulous, barely-comprehended being, no more than a slight queasiness each morning. She could not be sure of the outcome. Her stay at Willow Place might be quite temporary, a few months only, so was there any point in making changes to her routine? It was easier to follow Mr Huntly’s schedule for her. At least that way she need not make any decisions.

She had already changed for dinner and was waiting for Judith in the peacock chamber when Adam arrived.

“How did it go off?” she asked him.

“The burial? It went off as well as these things ever do. No one dropped the coffin or fell into the open grave, no one was visibly drunk, at least until a decent interval had elapsed. The whole village came out to pay respects to him.”

“They are your tenants, not his, surely?”

“Oh yes, but there was free pie and ale to be had at the Three Stags. A man must be strongly disliked not to attract a goodly number of mourners in such a case.”

She laughed. “I am glad to discover that he was not strongly disliked, then.”

“Not by the labouring classes, at any rate,” Adam said more soberly. “I confess that I was beginning to dislike him a great deal, myself.”

“Because he insulted you?”

He smiled. “Not for that reason, no. He thought me a frippery sort of fellow, I daresay, but he is fully entitled to whatever opinion of me he chooses. It was his treatment of you that concerned me most. You must have been aware that such closeness as he expected of you was not usual? It seemed to me to be quite unnatural, and not the affectionate intimacy of early matrimony.”

Annie made no comment. Although she agreed with him, it seemed disrespectful to her husband to say so publicly.

After a moment, Adam went on, “I have been into Salisbury today, visiting every solicitor and attorney I could find, in case one of them might hold Rupert’s will. My quest was unsuccessful. Not one of them has even had any dealings with him, apart from an attorney by the name of Wakeman who drew up a tenancy agreement a few weeks ago. Have you heard mention of him?” Annie shook her head. “He is the regular attorney for Willow Place, seemingly, and has the handling of all routine matters. He drew up a will for Herbert, years ago, but nothing of the sort for Rupert. Nor does he hold the title for the estate. It was kept here at Willow Place, he said, but I have not found it.”

“What will happen if it is not found?”

“Nothing of great moment to you, I am sure. The entail on the estate is a matter of record, so there is no issue there, and your jointure will also be secure. I am sure your uncle will know about that. It is only the small bequests and so forth. Twenty pounds here and there for the servants. His clothes to his valet, that sort of thing. Modest amounts, but very significant to the recipients.”

“Yes, of course. So there will be no question about where the estate is to go?”

“None at all. To your son, if you have one, or to this James Huntly, if he lives. Failing that, to me. No, it is not the contents of the will that concern me, it is that it cannot be found at all. Having been through all Rupert’s papers, I can say that he was a man of meticulous order. Everything was annotated — bills marked as paid, with the exact date, letters marked as replied to, with the date and a copy of his reply, unpaid bills in drawers labelled with the due date, his accounts up to date. He was a very, very methodical man, so why no drawer labelled ‘My last will and testament’? Why no box or cupboard or safe for important documents? It makes no sense. But I shall write to Aunt Dempster in Grantham.”

“Perhaps he used a solicitor there, do you mean?”

“There is always a possibility.” But he did not sound convinced.

12: On Being Alone

Annie’s days fell into a dull pattern, which bore a striking resemblance to the pattern they had borne before Mr Huntly’s death. She still saw Mrs Cumber at eight, dealt with her correspondence during the morning, rested for an hour each day and went out for long walks beside the river as the sun waned. Her only rebellions were to move dinner to five o’clock, and to replace her morning chocolate with a much more palatable cup of tea. She no longer practised the instrument, but that was from a feeling of the impropriety of music during the first weeks of mourning. She received no callers other than the indefatigable Mrs Popham, who seemed quite oblivious of the usual rules of etiquette, assuming that her husband’s position as parish clergyman gave her licence to behave with greater freedom. Annie was glad of it, since she would have no other company besides Judith, and could not even go out in public to attend church yet.

Only the evenings were quite different from before. Somehow, without any explicit agreement between them that it would happen, Adam came for dinner almost every night. He often called late in the day, on his way home after seeing a tenant or inspecting some woodland, and either Annie or Judith would be sure to say, “Well, Adam, will you stay?” and he always seemed very happy to do so.

They sat at the furthest end of the dining table from Mr Huntly’s chair, Annie in the place of honour as mistress of the house, and Judith and Adam either side of her. Often the conversation was between the two of them, as Annie listened in silence. She never felt excluded when they talked thus, for they frequently addressed her directly or looked her way, so that she was drawn in to their circle of intimacy.

On one evening, Judith was teasing Adam for his willingness to accept last-minute invitations. “Surely your housekeeper cannot be still away?” she said, as they lingered over a bowl of peaches. “You are a generous employer indeed if you deprive yourself of your cook for so long.”

“Turville and Mrs Turville are both away, but I expect them back any day now.”

“Both of them away? And you do not know when they will be back? What a grand holiday for them. ‘Do go away and be entirely at your leisure for as long as you like, and do not return until you are quite sure you feel like it.’ What a way to run a household, do you not agree, Annie?”

“I daresay there is a sound reason for it.”

“Thank you for your faith in me, Cousin, for indeed there is!” he cried. “They are not enjoying a holiday, I assure you. There is an errand for them to undertake on my behalf which involved a journey. They will return whenever their task is accomplished, but I hope it will be soon, since the boys cannot come to me without a cook in the house, and I am being deluged with pleading letters on a daily basis. Cecilia would keep them for ever if she could, I think, for never was a woman blessed with more maternal feelings, but John would be glad to have a little peace and quiet again.”

Annie shook her head in bemusement. “Cecilia? John? The boys? So many names I have never heard before.”

“Have I not mentioned them? How remiss of me. The boys are my younger brothers, Benedict, Edwin and Jerome, and a more troublesome trio were never sent to plague a poor, innocent brother. Cecilia is my older sister who is married to a clergyman, John Elkington, and has a growing brood of her own, but never fails to take the boys in for a few weeks each summer. They prefer the freedom of the Manor, however, to the confines of a parsonage, and so they are wild to come to me, but unhappily for them, they must wait until the Turvilles return.”

“Do they go to school?”

“Yes, to Winchester, which has survived more or less unscathed so far. Benedict is to go up to Cambridge in the autumn, though, and I fear for my alma mater, truly I do.”

Annie laughed. “It has stood for several hundred years, as Winchester has, and both will very likely stand for several hundred more, despite the efforts of generations of Huntly boys. Such establishments are used to a degree of juvenile wildness, I imagine.”

“True enough. I passed through their portals and lo, they still stand, so there must be a certain robustness in their constitution. These peaches are magnificent, Cousin Annie. I must obtain a cutting from Dewey.”

“Do you have glass houses? They grow better under glass,” Annie said.

“How knowledgeable you are! My glass house at the Manor is a paltry affair compared with yours, Cousin. Should I expand it, do you think? Or build a second structure?”

“How can I answer such a question, when I know nothing of your situation? I know something of the growing of plants — their needs regarding sunshine or water or whether an east wind is detrimental to the spring blossom — and I know how each may be beneficial for digestion or the ague or melancholia, but as to whether a gentleman should build a glass house or not, I can offer no opinion.”

“And yet I would have your opinion, nevertheless. Supposing I should be able to afford to build a second glass house, would it be worth my while, do you suppose? Would the fruits so produced be sufficient recompense for the effort and expense?”

“Impossible question!” she cried. “If you like peaches and nectarines and figs and grapes, then build a glass house, if it be within your means. If you care nothing for them, then do not.”

“Or if you eat always at your cousin’s house, you need not take the trouble,” Judith said, although she smiled as she spoke.

Adam raised his hands in surrender. “A hit! A palpable hit! But when Mrs Turville returns, I shall invite you all to dine with me, and perhaps then Cousin Annie will advise me on the question of the glass house.”

“I do not think the Turvilles are ever coming back,” Judith said. “You have given them carte blanche and now they are living like kings at your expense. I cannot imagine why you let them go.”

“There must have been a very important reason,” Annie said again.

“You may be the judge of that,” Adam said. “When they return, you may tell me whether you think their efforts were well spent.”

“I?” Annie, said, astonished. “Why am I to be the judge?”

But he only laughed.

The following day, Annie was dressed for dinner and waiting in the peacock chamber at half past four when Adam was shown in. He was always in good time for dinner, and she had to admit that he cut rather a fine figure in evening dress. Her husband had dressed well, but he had always looked, to her eye, like a man who had risen in the world and felt a slight discomfort in the trappings of a gentleman, whereas Adam looked as if he had been born to that station. Which was undoubtedly the case, being the oldest son of his branch of the family.

“Ah, Cousin Annie!” he said, bowing with perfect formality to her. “How well you look today! You have a little colour in your cheeks, which is reassuring to see. Have you been taking some exercise?”

“I went for a walk along the river bank.”

“You were not alone, I trust?”

“Why should I not be alone, Cousin?” Annie said sharply. His solicitude awoke echoes of her husband’s close watch on her activities. But then, with a spasm of fear, she went on, “Do you think the murderer may still be nearby? That I may be at risk?”

“As to that, there is no knowing, and taking a servant with you would be a wise precaution. But that is not the cause for my concern. It is tempting when one is distressed to seek solitude, and why should you not, if that pleases you,” he said with his warm smile. “If solitude brings you solace in your grief, then I have no quarrel with it. However, I would not have you fall into melancholy. Too long spent alone can induce an inward contemplation of a dolorous kind, and long walks without company, especially following the same paths you frequented with your husband, may bring your spirits lower than your friends would like to see.”

“It is kind of you to take an interest, but I have no fear of solitude, nor does it lower my spirits. The river here can never be other than uplifting, so you need not be anxious on my account, whether I walk there alone or not. Indeed, today I should have gone with Judith and her eldest daughters, but a crisis arose in the nursery and Judith felt she must stay.”

“There is always some crisis with Judith,” he said lightly. “Nothing seriously amiss, I hope?”

“A misplaced doll, which is a crisis of monumental proportions to Isobel.”

“Ah.” He smiled again, and she was struck once more by how different he was from her husband. Rupert’s habitual expression had been stern, verging on a scowl, and his smiles had never quite reached his eyes. To Annie, he had always seemed to be disapproving of something or other. Adam, however, was a sunnier person altogether. When he smiled, his expression was so sincere and so warm that Annie always wanted to smile too. No matter how disconsolate she might feel, Adam cheered her up, and although she could not quite explain it, even to herself, she trusted him.

So it was that she leaned forward and said in a low tone, “Cousin, may I ask your advice on a discovery that is troubling me?”

His expressive face registered surprise and then clear pleasure. “It would be an honour to receive your confidence in any matter, great or small,” he said.

“On my walk today I happened to pass by the boat house, and I thought to look inside, for I had never done so before. When I asked Rupert about it once, he said only that no boats were kept there and so it was empty and of no interest. It interested me, however, for I have never seen inside a boat house before, so today I went inside.”

“And was it interesting?”

“It was, for I understand now how it works — that a boat may be taken inside and yet still be on the water. It is very ingenious, although there were no boats inside — Rupert was correct about that. But there was something… odd. In one corner, almost out of sight behind ropes and boxes, I found a pile of blankets and candles, and none of them coated in dust, as they might be if they had been long abandoned. It was almost as if someone were living there. Yet that cannot be, can it?”

“Just blankets and candles?” he said. “Nothing else?”

“What else might there be?”

“If someone were living there, I would expect to see evidence of cooking, or at least plates or flasks or the remains of food. There might also be clothing or other possessions.”

“Oh, I see. No, there was nothing of the sort.”

“Then most likely it is one of the servants. With this hot weather, the attics must be very stuffy, and the boat house is no doubt a cooler place to sleep.”

“Perhaps. You think then it is someone from the house?” she said.

“Who else could it be?” he said gently. “I do not imagine anyone comes out from Salisbury to sleep in your boat house.”

“But suppose…” she said, and then stopped. “Cousin, someone murdered my husband just eight days ago. It has been presumed that the perpetrator must be local because of the remoteness of Willow Place, but what if someone came from elsewhere and then hid in the boat house? He could have stayed there unseen for days, watching the comings and goings at the house. He could have known when Rupert went to his Vestry meeting, he could have—”

“This is… a little fanciful,” Adam said. “Not impossible, I grant you, but… it seems unlikely. Just consider, Cousin — for a stranger to know Rupert’s likely movements that day, he would have had to observe his habits closely. That would imply venturing near enough to the house to see who entered and left, whether by the front door or the kitchen door or the garden door, then follow Rupert to see where he went and at what hour he returned. He would have had to repeat that process day after day, and week after week to be sure of his target. There are a dozen, or perhaps a dozen and a half people living in this house, and more visiting or delivering. Any stranger wandering about over so long a time, no matter how adept at concealment, must have been seen. Do you not think so? Yet no stranger has been seen.”

“But I have seen him!” she cried.

“What! When? Where?”

“At night, or rather, very early in the morning, when it was already light, but no one was up. I have seen him several times, just standing, as if he is watching the house.”

“From your window, then?”

“Exactly!” she said. “He simply stands there, just inside a clump of trees, almost hidden, but he wears a white shirt so he is quite visible. Oh, and I have just this moment realised that those trees are very close to the boat house.”

“Close to the boat house…”

“Sir Leonard should be told about him. Good Heavens, but I have seen the murderer himself!”

“Well… possibly.” There was something in his tone that made Annie suspect that he did not believe her. “It seems unlikely to me that a man bent on murder would show himself so clearly, and at such an odd hour, too. What would be the purpose of it?”

Annie was immediately deflated.

Adam went on, “Have you told anyone about this?”

“Only Rupert. He thought it was the gamekeeper, or his son, perhaps, for it was a young man.”

Adam started. “You could tell that? Would you recognise him if you saw him again, do you suppose?” There was an odd tension in him as he spoke.

“Oh no, he was too far away, and I cannot be sure he was young, but there was something of vigour in his stance that suggested it. Or it might have been my fancy, I suppose. But Sir Leonard must be told, and everyone warned of him, in case he returns to kill again. And I was out walking alone!”

He frowned, started to speak, thought better of it and chewed his lip indecisively. Annie had never seen him nonplussed before, and it puzzled her.

“What is it, Cousin?” she said. “Do you think I imagined this man? If so, my imagination has created him several times.”

“By no means,” he said, with a swift smile, but she thought it rather forced. “I still think it most likely, however, that there is nothing sinister in his appearances. Almost certainly it is one of the grooms. Or perhaps Rupert had the right of it, and it was the gamekeeper, or his son, perhaps, for he is a young man, such as you saw. Cousin, will you permit me to make some enquiries amongst the servants before we raise the hue and cry to Sir Leonard?”

“That would be sensible, but I should speak to my own servants on the subject.”

He gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Well… perhaps, but if any of the male servants have been… erm, using the boat house for romantic assignations, shall we say, they will admit it the more readily to one of the male sex, do you not think?”

Annie blushed, and agreed to it, but she thought he seemed relieved by her acquiescence. His countenance was too open and his temper too honest for subterfuge, but all the same she had the uneasy feeling that he was keeping something from her. Or perhaps keeping her from asking questions. There might be an honourable reason for that… or there might not.

Before she could decide whether to question him more closely, Mrs Cumber came in.

“Beg pardon, madam, but there’s a carriage coming up the drive, with luggage. Are we expecting guests?”

“Not that I know of,” Annie said at once, jumping up and twisting her hands together anxiously. With a murderer loose and possibly wandering at will about the estate, she could not cope with any more surprises. “Who can it be? It is too late for morning callers, and we cannot possibly be expected to entertain when we are in mourning. I do not want to see anyone! It is far too soon. Can we send them away? But who would call at this hour? Why do they have luggage? Oh, it is too bad!”

“It is a mystery, is it not?” Adam said, with a wide smile that instantly dissolved Annie’s worries. “But you need not receive them if you do not wish. Let us go to the hall where we may peep out at our visitors from behind the curtains, and you may decide what to do about them.”

This was such a sensible idea that Annie was ashamed of her overwrought reaction. She followed Adam out into the hall, and he helped her to stand on a wooden settle so that she could peer out of the high window. The carriage, drawn by two rather exhausted horses, drew to a halt, but still she did not recognise it, and there was no coat of arms on the door. Nor was the coachman familiar to her, and there were no postilions or footmen to give a hint.

But then the door opened, and a man descended.

“Uncle Tom?” she said wonderingly. “But what on earth—?” He offered his hand to help a lady descend. “Aunt Hester!” Annie squeaked. Another hand, another lady…

“Mama! Mama! Oh, Mama!”

Annie leapt down from the settle and raced to the door just as Mrs Cumber opened it. Through the door and down the steps she flew, hurling herself into her mother’s waiting arms, where she promptly burst into noisy sobs.

“There now, dear one, there now,” her mother whispered, her own tears mingling with Annie’s. “Mama is here now, and all will be well, just you see. Hush now… hush…”

But she could not. Annie cried and cried, as she had not since the moment she had learnt of Rupert’s death. Not one tear had she shed, until this moment. If she had been asked if there was one thing in the world that would bring her comfort, she would have said there was nothing. Now she knew what that one thing was.

A voice at her elbow murmured, “Well now, Cousin Annie, shall they stay, do you think, or shall I send them on their way? What do you say?”

Annie was sobbing too much to make an answer, but Adam expected none, for shortly after she heard him telling Mrs Cumber to prepare two bedrooms, and to lay another three places for dinner. She cried as if she would never stop, but her mother held her and rocked her gently and whispered soothing words into her ear, with the incomparable comfort that only a mother can bring.

She was alone no longer.

13: A Matter Of Servants

Annie could hardly believe the difference in the atmosphere at dinner with her mother, aunt and uncle present. When her husband had been alive, he had dominated the conversation, and Annie’s own few remarks were either turned aside or initiated an educational monologue. Since his death, it had been Judith and Adam who had talked between them, and again Annie had contributed little. But now, for the first time, she was the focus of the dinner table. With feminine intuition, her mother and aunt had deduced, within five minutes of their arrival, that Annie was in a delicate condition, so their tears and alarm were instantly replaced by happy chatter about nurseries and the proper regime for exercise and how to deal with nausea. No one talked about murder. She had not mentioned the subject when she wrote to her mother, so perhaps they were still in ignorance of the circumstances of her husband’s death. Well, they would find out soon enough.

Afterwards, while the men sat over their port, nothing would do for her mother and aunt but to meet Judith’s daughters and sigh over them with sentimental fervour. Aunt Hester’s maternal longings had not been assuaged even by five children, and Annie, an only child, had never fulfilled her mother’s yearnings for a large brood, so they settled down contentedly to tell stories to the two eldest, who were wide awake with the excitement of visitors.

Annie crept away after a while, finding Adam alone in the peacock chamber. He looked up as she entered with his familiar warm smile.

“How do you like your unexpected visitors, Cousin Annie? Do you think the loss of my housekeeper and manservant for a few days was worth the sacrifice?”

“You must know my opinion of that, Cousin,” Annie said, smiling. “I was never so glad to see anyone in my life. But what made you think of it? I am sure nothing was said on my part which suggested sending your own carriage and servants to fetch them.”

“You said that you would like to see them again, did you not? You talked of going to Guildford on a visit, and it seemed to me that their company would be a help to you. Judith was so lost after Herbert’s death in February, even though she had been here for years and has many friends in the neighbourhood. For you, newly married and adrift from everything familiar, it must have been much worse. You are so composed, so outwardly serene, yet inside you must have been quite at sea. I could do nothing to help Judith, for she has no relatives living, but for you something could be done and your mother was the obvious answer. I would not have her travel on the public stage, so the solution was obvious. I sent Mrs Turville to bear her company, but my precaution was unnecessary, since your aunt and uncle came too.”

“I do not know how Uncle Tom managed to leave the shop,” Annie said.

“There are other apothecaries in Guildford,” Adam said airily. “A few days away will not hurt his business beyond repair, and my carriage is at his disposal whenever he wishes to return.”

“You are too good!” Annie cried. “How can I ever thank you sufficiently? It is impossible to repay such kindness.”

“Your pleasure in your mother’s company, and hers in yours, is all the thanks I require,” he said. For a moment, there was an intensity in his eyes that took Annie aback. But just as swiftly it was gone, leaving her uncertain that she had seen anything at all, and he became his usual joking self. “But if you are determined to repay me in some measure, perhaps I will inflict my rumbustious brothers upon you. Now that my carriage is back, I have no excuse to leave them at Cecelia’s for a day longer. They will be here tomorrow, and how I am to keep them out of trouble, I cannot imagine.”

“Are they so very difficult?” Annie said, laughing. “But I shall be very happy to have your brothers inflicted upon me, troublesome or otherwise.”

The rest of the party came into the room just then, murmuring together, their faces anxious, and the conversation turned in a different direction, one less pleasant to Annie’s ears.

“Well, Annie, I now learn that your husband was murdered,” Uncle Tom said without preamble. “Shot through the heart twice, and the villain not caught yet. A shocking business. I understand that you would not have wished to worry your mother and aunt on the matter, but you should have told me, you know. I should have come at once.”

“There was nothing anyone could do, uncle,” she said. “Sir Leonard Fairbrother is the magistrate, and he is investigating… asking questions and so forth. He will get to the bottom of it.”

“But you here all alone, and a murderer on the loose! It does not bear thinking about.”

“No indeed!” her mother said, white-faced. “Too shocking for words! Quite dreadful, and so humiliating. We have never had such a thing in the family before, never. Should you like to come home with us, dear one?”

“Of course she must,” her aunt said. “It is not safe here.”

Annie had longed to see her family again, but the prospect of returning to Guildford was unappealing. If she once returned there, would she ever find the strength to leave again? She was so taken aback at the very idea that she answered more sharply than usual. “Nonsense! How craven that would be, to run away at the first hint of trouble. This is my home, and whatever the reason for Mr Huntly’s death, it had nothing to do with me.” And perhaps if she spoke with sufficient conviction, she could make herself believe it was true.

“How can you be sure of that?” her uncle said. “Not a stranger, Mr Huntly told me. Not a robbery. Someone your husband knew. Someone who lives nearby. It must be some local quarrel, someone seeking vengeance against you both.”

“Mr Huntly and I have not been here long enough to make enemies,” Annie said with some heat. “Believe me, uncle, Sir Leonard knows far more of the matter than you do, and he has not suggested that there is any risk to me.” She did not mention the reason for that — that he suspected Annie herself of some complicity in her husband’s death. “I beg you not to speculate. It is the greatest comfort to me to have you all here, but pray do not allow needless conjecture to spoil your stay.”

Aunt Hester threw her arms around Annie and burst into noisy sobs. “So brave!” she said repeatedly. “So stout-hearted! So brave.”

Her uncle harrumphed uncomfortably. “I am only thinking of your safety, niece, and… and especially so in your present condition. One cannot be too careful.”

“I know it, sir, but there is no cause for sudden starts. I shall stay here, at least until my confinement, unless Sir Leonard discovers some element of risk in such a plan.”

“But you have no man in the house to protect you.”

“Cousin Adam lives very close by, and there are manservants.”

“But—” her uncle began again, but Annie’s mother put a calming hand on his arm.

“Annie is very sensible, Tom, and must be the best judge of what is right for her, especially after such a shock and in her delicate condition. Staying quietly in her own home will do her a world of good, more so than jouncing about the roads and being inundated with curious callers at Castle Street. You know what people are like, with such a shocking end to poor Mr Huntly’s life! Once it becomes common knowledge, everyone will want to see her, and she will have no peace. Besides, she cannot go about in public just yet, so she would be confined to the house in Guildford. Here she has a whole estate to enjoy — beautiful surroundings, fresh food and good, clean air. What could be better for her?”

“It does not seem right to me to leave her here alone—” He looked at Adam and Judith, and went on, “—almost alone, and no gentleman living in the house. Yet I cannot stay above two or three days, and—”

“Of course you cannot,” her mother said in her gentle way. “You and Hester must return to Guildford, as we agreed. But I may stay on a little while, may I not? A week or two, or perhaps a little longer, although only if Annie wishes it. I hope I know better than to outstay my welcome! But I feel sure there will be a thousand little tasks I may undertake to make her life easier just now. A little eye on the servants, you know. A hint here and there to the cook. A stitch or two in that fine tapestry of the peacocks. So many ways I can be of service to Annie. Only for a week or two, Tom, or three at most. You will not miss me for so short a time.”

“You will be very much missed for even a day, Mary, as you know perfectly well, but I will not object, not if Annie wishes it.”

Annie readily agreed to it, but her smiles of pleasure hid a deep thread of amusement. Her mother had always regretted the loss of her spacious vicarage, and their move to more cramped accommodation with Uncle Tom and Aunt Hester. Now for a little while she had an opportunity to be a lady again, to live in some grandeur. Mr Huntly had not wanted her at Willow Place, but he was dead and it was for Annie to order her life as she chose. She chose to have her mother in it, for a week or two. Or three at most. Or as long as she wanted… and why not?

~~~~~

None of the visitors were at all used to a life of idleness, so they were up early to set to work. They discovered that Judith and her daughters were to move into new rooms, but the servants had as yet been too distracted to prepare them. This was a project ideally suited to two ladies with a strong dislike of dust and dirt, so Annie’s mother and Aunt Hester found aprons, brooms, feather dusters and jars of beeswax, and set about the rooms with vigour. Hangings were taken down to be cleaned, rugs lifted to be beaten and every inch of window and wall and floor and furniture was scoured or dusted or polished, as appropriate. Uncle Tom, meanwhile, set out on a tour of the gardens.

By the time they all sat down to breakfast, the house already felt as if it had been woken from a deep slumber. The very air seemed brighter, and even the servants walked with an extra spring in their step. Or perhaps it was Annie who was more contented to find herself surrounded once more by the gentle, undemanding love of her family.

“This is a fine house, Annie,” Uncle Tom said, between mouthfuls of ham. “The kitchen garden is excellent, and your medicinal corner is establishing well. The gardener showed me all around. An efficient fellow, and a fine, sturdy young under-gardener. They impressed me greatly. You will not mind if I take some mulberry leaves? It is so hard to get fresh. I am not so sure about your coachman, however. He seems very young and unsure of himself. The previous man has retired, I understand?”

“Yes. Mr Huntly wished it. He considered him too old, although there was not much wrong with him apart from a persistent dry cough, which I was treating with bryony root. Do you think I should reinstate him?”

“Annie will not wish to countermand her husband’s orders,” her mother said, in her gentle way, tears brimming. “That would be shocking indeed.”

“She must manage the household in her own way, Mary,” her uncle said. “Her husband is no longer in need of her wifely obedience. I wonder, too, why you and Hester are obliged to clean rooms.”

“Oh, but we enjoy it,” Aunt Hester said at once. “It is a welcome distraction from… from thoughts of… Annie’s great tragedy.” She reached for a handkerchief and began dabbing at her eyes.

“Yes, yes, but that is hardly the point,” he said testily. “With the income Mr Huntly could call upon, there should not be so much as a pane of glass in need of washing anywhere in the house. The servants you have are good, hard-working types, Annie, your cook is excellent and your husband’s valet is looking after me admirably, but there should be enough servants to manage the work.”

Annie did not like to admit that her husband had dismissed one of the housemaids, too, so she said only, “I shall speak to Mrs Cumber about it.”

She had already seen Mrs Cumber at eight o’clock to order the dinner, but, not wanting to delay and knowing that the housekeeper would be in the servants’ quarters at that hour, she ventured down the service corridor. Annie had not been in that part of the house since the day Mr Huntly had caught her bottling gooseberries, and perhaps he was right that the mistress should keep to her own quarters, but she was not so grand as to summon Mrs Cumber all that way for one quick question.

Several surprised faces turned towards her as she entered the kitchen. They all dropped into neat curtsies.

“Pray continue your work. Mrs Cumber, if I might have a word…”

The housekeeper led the way to her own room, which was small but comfortably furnished.

“Oh, this is very cosy!” Annie said involuntarily. “Do you have everything here that you need? You do not hesitate to have a fire in the cooler weather?”

Mrs Cumber looked startled, and then pleased. “How kind of you to ask, but I have every comfort I could wish for.”

“That is excellent. You may always ask if there is anything you, or the other servants, lack. Now tell me, if you please, of Billy. My uncle has some concerns about his lack of experience. Should we ask Palcock to return, do you think?”

“Oh madam, everybody would be so relieved! He was that upset to be turned off, and Billy… well, he can drive the carriage well enough ordinarily, but he doesn’t have Mr Palcock’s way with the horses, or his experience of getting out of tricky situations and through bad weather.”

“Then let it be so. Have you had any success in finding a new housemaid?”

Mrs Cumber’s face was rueful. “It’s difficult, after a murder in the house. I’ve been offered a girl, but she’s no more than thirteen or so, and I’d have to train her up. Madam… I didn’t like to suggest it before, not liking to go against the master’s wishes, but what would you say to calling Barbara back? She’s not found another place yet, and she could be here tomorrow.”

Annie did not hesitate. Her uncle was right, it was for her to order the household as she chose. Mr Huntly was no longer here, and she had not always agreed with his decisions anyway. “Excellent,” she said firmly. “I shall leave you to arrange it.”

She turned to the door, but Mrs Cumber said hastily, “Oh, madam, if you’re minded to consider it, there is also Mr Sheffield…”

“The valet? He may stay here until he has a new place, as we agreed.”

“Oh yes, and he’s very grateful, but what he would really like— We wondered—” She stopped, hand to mouth. “Forgive me, it’s presumptuous of me.”

“I hope you may always speak freely to me, Mrs Cumber,” Annie said gravely.

“Thank you madam. Mr Sheffield would love to stay on here as a footman. He’s used to serving at table, and he already has the livery. It would be such a help to me to have someone to answer the door and serve tea and so forth, so that I can supervise the kitchens and the upstairs maids. It would be just the same salary, so there would be no extra expense, and he’d be happy to do for any gentleman visitors. He’s already attending to Mr Perkins.”

“Yes, my uncle is very pleased with him. Very well, if there will be no additional expense, let Sheffield be a footman. We shall review the situation at Michaelmas.”

“May I ask, madam…?” When Annie nodded her assent, she went on, “Is Mrs Dresden to make a long stay? Mr Sheffield was tidying the tea things last night and could not help overhearing. But forgive me if—”

“It is quite all right, Mrs Cumber. My mother will stay for… for a few weeks. Or perhaps longer. She will not interfere with—”

“Oh, no, no, madam! I never thought so. It’s just that if she is to stay longer, she might like to choose a different room, and perhaps some different furniture. A sitting room of her own, that sort of thing. Just to make herself comfortable.”

Annie smiled and said that indeed her mother would like that. And once she had made herself comfortable, she would perhaps never leave, and that was perfect. Now Annie could begin her life at Willow Place anew and enjoy all the comfort of her mother’s help and advice as she awaited the birth of her child.

14: A Proper Family Dinner

For the second day in succession, Annie was dressed for dinner and waiting for the others in the peacock chamber when a carriage rolled up the drive.

“Mr Adam Huntly’s carriage, madam,” Sheffield reported.

But when the equipage drew up alongside the front steps, it conveyed more passengers than Adam alone. Instead, one young man jumped down from the box, two more sprang out onto the drive from inside, followed by a lady. Adam himself emerged last, beaming from ear to ear, but Annie did not need his introduction to realise that these were his three younger brothers and his older sister, for they all bore the same fair hair and eyes the colour of bluebells, and the same expression of sunny delight in the world.

Mrs John Elkington was eight and twenty, just two years older than her brother, and already showing a roundness to her form that would render her rather stout by the age of forty. Combined with a lack of height, and a pelisse and bonnet that were serviceable rather than fashionable, if she had stood beside Mrs Cumber it would be hard to tell which of them was the housekeeper.

“My dear Mrs Huntly!” she cried, almost before Adam had finished introducing them. “You cannot imagine how much I have longed to meet you! And now the circumstances are so dreadful. I was never more shocked in my life as when I heard of poor Cousin Rupert’s tragic end. Accept my very sincere condolences. Jerome, stop that, dear! Lord, his boots will be ruined if he scuffs the gravel about in that manner. Edwin, you must not encourage him. Do try to be the responsible older brother. I have two boys of my own, Mrs Huntly, and they will be just as bad, I am sure. And are you pleased with Adam’s little surprise? To send all the way to Guildford for your mama and say not a word about it! What a good joke. Jerome! Stop it at once! Benedict, get him away from the horses, dear, or he will get kicked again and he might not be so lucky next time.”

With some difficulty, Adam rounded up his three brothers to be presented to Annie. Benedict was a fine young man of eighteen, taller than Adam and even more handsome, and already displaying the same roguish twinkle in his eyes. In a few years time he would no doubt be just as much of a flirt. Edwin, at sixteen, was almost as tall, but thin, as if he had been stretched. He made his bow very politely, but he had not Adam’s easy manners. Jerome, at twelve, was still boyishly bouncy. He made a perfunctory bow to Annie and then wandered off to inspect a flower-filled stone urn beside the steps. He gave it a hard push and for a moment it rocked before settling. The boy gazed at it thoughtfully, then he stretched out a hand again.

“No!” Annie cried.

The others turned startled eyes in her direction.

“I just wanted to see what would happen,” Jerome said reproachfully.

“What did you think would happen?” Annie said.

“There are several possibilities,” he said, taking this question seriously. “Nothing at all might happen, or it might move by a little amount, as it just did, or it might move a bit more, or it might move so much that it would fall.”

He was so solemn that Annie burst out laughing. “True enough, and for a proper study, you should repeat the experiment several times to see if the results are the same.”

“Exactly!” he said, his face lighting up with enthusiasm. “Although if it should fall, then I should not be able to do so.”

“But you would not need to,” she said. “You would have a definitive result at that point.”

“You should not encourage him,” Adam said. “He is forever doing things just to see what would happen, and it is not a sensible way of going on, not if one wishes to retain the use of all one’s limbs.”

“But with proper guidance, such a lively curiosity may be harnessed to the advancement of human knowledge,” Annie said. “I have conducted many investigations for my uncle, under supervision.”

“There, you see!” Jerome cried triumphantly. “Cousin Annie understands.”

The rest of the family drifted outside to greet the newcomers at this point, and Jerome wandered off to get in the way of the coachman, who was walking the horses.

“Will you not come inside?” Annie said to Mrs Elkington.

“Oh, dear me, no! We only came to say hello, because the boys were wild to see you, and I confess to just as much interest. Adam’s letters have been quite full of you, and naturally we could not wait a moment longer to meet you. We will call tomorrow and get to know you properly, for I am to stay for a few days at the Manor.”

“Oh, how lovely!” Annie said. “I am so happy to make your acquaintance. Will you not come for dinner tomorrow? My aunt and uncle will not be here for much longer, so it will be the perfect opportunity. And bring all your brothers, too.”

“Heavens! Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. Judith’s daughters can attend, too — hmm, perhaps not Isobel, but certainly Janet and Margaret. We shall have a proper family dinner.”

~~~~~

The following morning, Annie awoke full of energy. The torpor that had afflicted her since Rupert’s death was driven away. She could not any longer sit and wallow in lassitude, for Willow Place was her responsibility now. In a few months’ time, it would belong to her son, or to Adam, or perhaps to the unknown James Huntly, but for now it was hers, and she must do her best to present it in good order to its next owner.

Consequently, she asked her uncle for his help in looking over the account books. She had been closely involved with Uncle Tom’s business as an apothecary, but she had never before had to deal with financial matters. Now it had become necessary. Furthermore, it was Ransome’s day to call and discuss the management of the estate, and that too was a matter where Annie felt that a masculine presence would be invaluable.

They had spent some time on the accounts, had spoken to Ransome, and had returned, reluctantly in Annie’s case, to the accounts, when Adam was shown into the hunting room.

“Forgive me for intruding, but there is a matter on which I must consult you, cousin,” he said, his usually smiling countenance sombre. “Mr Perkins’ advice would be welcome, too, for the business is… concerning.”

“This is serious indeed,” Annie said. “We are at your disposal, cousin.”

“You will recall that I searched the house looking for Rupert’s will, but in vain. Nor did my enquiries in Salisbury yield better results. I wrote to Aunt Dempster in Grantham, but I have now had word from her that no attorney in the town holds the will. But then Mr Perkins arrived the day before yesterday, and gave me fresh hope, for the new will — the one written with Rupert’s marriage in view — was drawn up in Guildford at the same time as your settlement. I wrote at once to the solicitor, the same who supported Rupert at your wedding, and he confirms that the will was enacted there, but he has no copy of it. Rupert wrote the will himself, took it to his friend to be signed and witnessed and made legal, and then left taking with him the only copy. And therefore I return to the same conclusion as formerly, that the will is in the house somewhere, but where it may be hidden is beyond my ability to guess.”

“I do not quite see the difficulty,” Uncle Tom said. “The estate is securely entailed and Annie’s jointure is also secure. The will is scarcely necessary, I should have said.”

“That is perfectly true, but there is a will and it should not be so difficult to find. My cousin’s papers were in perfect order, everything in its proper place. I have no doubt you find his accounts to be just as meticulous.”

“Indeed,” Uncle Tom said. “If only my own were so precise.”

“Just so. Therefore the will is here to be found, if only we knew where to look. I have searched all the likely places.”

“Then it must be in one of the unlikely places,” Annie said, amused.

“Then how on earth am I to find it?” he said, with a smile and a shrug. “It is impossible. My imagination can find no more plausible hiding places than those I have already examined. I would not know where to begin.”

“Then you need someone with greater curiosity, and a scientific approach,” she said teasingly. “Can you think of anyone who meets that description?”

“Jerome?” he said in tones of astonishment. “Are you seriously suggesting that I should set a boy of twelve to look for it? Or that he might succeed where I have failed? I am affronted at this slur on my capabilities, Mrs Huntly.” But he was smiling as he spoke, so she knew he was amused by the idea.

“When Uncle Tom is uncertain of an approach in a difficult case, he discusses it with… someone else,” she said. “Another mind may bring a different perspective to bear on the case.”

“That is true,” her uncle said. “Your ideas have been very much missed, my dear. I have had to consult Mr Badger, and you know my opinion of him.”

“You consulted Annie?” Adam said in disbelief. “I am aware that she is excessively knowledgeable about medicinal plants, but I should not have supposed that her understanding was in any way comparable to that of a learned and experienced apothecary like yourself.”

“Oh no, she lacked experience and a certain awareness of human nature, perhaps. However, she has always had an original way of looking at a problem, just as now, when she suggests setting your young brother to work on the question of the will. I should never have thought of such a thing, and yet it seems to me that it will answer admirably, for even if the will remains unfound, the young gentleman will have a project to occupy him for quite some time.”

Adam chuckled. “It will keep him out of mischief, that is true. He cannot get into much trouble looking through cupboards and bookcases, can he?”

When Jerome arrived that afternoon for the promised family dinner, he entered into the spirit of the search with the utmost enthusiasm. He was all for setting off immediately for the attics, a place he had never been permitted to explore before. Only when Mrs Elkington pointed out that he was wearing his sole pair of evening breeches and he would be banished to the nursery for dinner if he damaged them was he persuaded to delay the pleasure. Even so, he spent the entire meal explaining in a penetrating voice precisely how he intended to set about his task. Fortunately, he had Edwin sitting next to him, who was almost as keen as Jerome to participate, and offered his own advice as to the most systematic approach to the problem. When Adam reminded them of the plan of the house currently hanging in the hall, they disappeared immediately to peruse this interesting document, and peace descended on the dining room. The adults sighed with relief and after a moment resumed their conversations.

“Benedict, I shall depend upon you to keep a watchful eye on them,” Adam said. “And do not let them wander about the grounds, or we may lose them entirely. If the will is to be found, it must be within the house.”

Benedict heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Am I to have no pleasure at all this summer? I want to be out riding, not bear-leading two foolish boys.”

“You can ride with me every morning before breakfast, and after breakfast you and I will take turns in watching Jerome. When it is my turn, you may ride with Ashby.”

“Am I not old enough to ride alone?” he said. “Come now, brother, you trusted me to ride your hunters when I was barely fourteen, so surely I no longer need a groom with me.”

“It is not your riding skills which concern me, but your astounding ability to become lost. Ashby will not hold you back, but I know he will get you home.”

Annie listened to this family discussion with amusement. She was beginning to understand why Adam described his brothers as troublesome, yet their gentle bickering was restful to her. It was exactly what she was used to in her uncle and aunt’s house, for although their children were no older than Jerome, they grumbled and manoeuvred for advantage in exactly the same way. Perhaps her child would do so, too.

An almost physical pain shot through her at the realisation that she would only ever have one child. She had lost her husband, and perhaps that was not a matter of much grief to her, but the loss of the large, happy family she had hoped for was. One child, that was all the family that would ever be hers.

“Are you quite well, cousin?” Adam’s voice was gentle. How was it that he always noticed her moments of distress, however slight? Absorbed as he was in his discussion with Benedict, yet he had seen something in her to raise his concern.

“I am quite well,” she said, and then impulsively went on, “It is the greatest pleasure to me to be surrounded by all my family, both the old and the new. Your brothers… Judith’s daughter… it is delightful, but it has made me realise that I shall never have a large family of my own.”

His face was sympathetic, and he leaned forward to speak quietly. “Cousin, you are young, still. You will not be a widow for ever.”

“Marry again?” Her instinctive reaction was revulsion. “No, I could not!”

He jumped back as fast as if she had slapped him, eyes wide. Then, recovering quickly, he said, “Forgive me! It was crass of me to mention such a thing.”

Benedict interrupted them to ask his brother to pass a dish of braised kidneys, and Annie was very glad to let the subject lapse. Yet she could not quite understand her own reaction. All her life she had wanted nothing but marriage, so why, when one husband was taken from her, did she not long for another? Once her period of mourning was over, why should she not consider the prospect again?

She knew why. Her judgement had been faulty. Rupert had seemed such a pleasant, inoffensive man. His manners, his opinions, his habits were all good and he had provided generously for her — better than his brother had provided for Judith. He had dealt so kindly with her that her complaints had seemed churlish. Yet he had been so protective of her that she had felt… what had she felt? As if she could not breathe. And now that he was gone, she could breathe freely again, and the air was sweet. She would not lightly surrender her freedom to another man, no matter how handsome or charming or rich. She had tasted the fruits of marriage once, and they had turned out to be more bitter than she had expected.

Nothing about her previous acquaintance with Rupert, or his visits in Guildford, had led her to suspect it. Her uncle had said she lacked an awareness of the human condition, and perhaps that was true, but she felt as if she ought to have suspected it. A man who carries an image of his ideal woman in his heart for eight full years is surely driven more by obsession than love, and when confronted with the reality of that woman — a living, breathing, flesh and blood creature — she will never match the ideal in his imagination. He could not accept Annie as she was, a woman with her own thoughts and ideas and desires.

But she could learn from this. Just as she had learnt about her uncle’s medicines and potions and lineaments by trying this and that to see what worked, so she could learn about marriage. She would begin by reflecting upon those marriages she knew well — that of her parents, and of her aunt and uncle. She would take note of other couples as she encountered them. And perhaps, one day, she would again feel comfortable enough in her own judgement to risk another marriage.

With this resolution made, she rose and led the ladies from the room. Judith took her daughters away to their beds, and Annie’s mother and aunt settled by the window with their work baskets, as was their habit. Mrs Elkington smiled and waved Annie across the room, patting the sofa invitingly.

“Do come and sit with me, Mrs Huntly, or may I take the liberty of calling you Cousin Annie, as Adam does?”

“Of course, Mrs Elkington.”

“Oh, but you must call me Cecilia, or Cousin Cecilia, if you wish to be formal. How strange to think we only met yesterday, when I feel I know you so well already. Adam’s letters were full of you, as I am sure you are aware.”

“No, indeed, how could I know such a thing?” Annie said, laughing.

“Ah, you are such a modest creature, but you need not dissemble with me. You must have noticed that Adam has the greatest admiration for you. Why else was your husband in such high dudgeon, banning Adam from the house and such like nonsense? But you need not fear— Oh! You did not know! Oh, my dear cousin, pray forget my foolishness, I beg you. I shall not say another word about it.”

Annie was almost too shocked to speak, but it was absolutely necessary to make the exertion. “Mrs Elkington, I am sure you have misunderstood or… or perhaps read something into Cousin Adam’s words that was not meant in such a way. He has never shown me the slightest hint of such a thing as you seem to suggest. He is a very friendly and amiable man, but he is so to all his acquaintance equally. I am sure you have misread something… some little phrase or other in one of his letters that he did not intend.”

“Yes, yes, I am sure that is it,” she said quickly. “Certainly, I have misunderstood him. You know what sisters are like, cousin — always matchmaking for our male relations. No doubt I have misread him in my eagerness. How mortified he will be when he hears what I have done, and your husband so recently departed this world!”

“There is no need to mention it to him, is there?” Annie said eagerly. “I shall say nothing, you may be sure. I would not for the world have him embarrassed by your little mistake.”

“How good you are! Yes, that would be for the best. Dear me, how foolish I am become, to imagine such a thing when you were until very recently a happy wife, and now a grieving widow. Can you ever forgive me?”

Annie said all that was proper, and swiftly turned the conversation into happier channels, but she was shocked, all the same, and puzzled, for how could Adam’s sister so thoroughly misunderstand her brother’s sentiments? The problem nagged at her all evening, and was still in her mind when she went to bed.

The heavy summer heat had been replaced with a sullen dampness, but Annie was still glad to be able to leave the window of her bedchamber open at night, and the bed hangings undrawn. She felt a twinge of guilt to be disobeying her husband’s orders, but her pleasure in feeling more comfortable far outweighed it, for she always slept better with fresh air in the room.

Tonight, however, she was restless, for Cousin Cecilia’s distressing misapprehension kept her awake long into the night. That anyone, even a sister with a romantic streak, could imagine her brother to have a partiality for a woman only recently married was shocking indeed. Even if it were true, it showed a sad want of propriety to mention it when Annie had not yet been widowed a fortnight.

She sat by the window, gazing out into the blackness beyond. There was no moon tonight, no stars, not the least glimmer of light to illumine the darkness. It was the dead hour when nothing stirred, although the hoots of owls and the occasional bark of a dog in the distance told of life still going on amongst the wild creatures. Not men, though. They were all abed, as they should be. Perhaps the man who had stood out there in the shrubbery had gone away altogether, his business concluded now that Rupert was dead.

With a sigh, she was about to return to bed when something caught her eye, some movement out in the darkness. A flash of light, perhaps a lantern, quickly covered, then all was still again. But someone was out there, that much was certain.

15: Of Love And Marriage

Annie was alone in the hunting room the next morning when Adam was shown in.

“All alone, cousin?” he said, almost before he had risen from his bow. “Is there no one who will bear you company?”

“I have chosen to be alone for now,” she said, rising from her seat behind the desk to greet him. “I have neglected my correspondence, and must pay the penance for it by replying to several letters before breakfast. I must write again to Lavinia, too,” she added in an undertone. “She has not yet replied to my last, and I fear it must have gone astray. You are abroad early today, cousin. Is there news? Has Sir Leonard apprehended the murderer yet?”

“Nothing of that sort, unfortunately. I am come on a different matter entirely, to apologise for my foolish sister,” he said, with a rueful smile. “I could scarce believe my ears when she confessed the subject of your discourse together last night. What must you think of her?”

She thought Cousin Cecilia altogether a most indiscreet person, for had they not agreed to say nothing of the conversation to Adam? She was sure they had. But she said only, “She made a little mistake, to be sure. I do not regard it.”

“You are altogether generous! Such a thing to say to so recent a widow! If you had forbidden us all the house, it would scarce have been too strong a response. But my sister is forever seeing matches. In reading my words of approbation of you when I wrote to her, she has immediately jumped to the most extreme interpretation. I confess, too, that I expressed myself rather strongly on the subject of your husband and the confining way he treated you. It is natural, perhaps, to combine those two elements into… something different.”

“It is as I suspected,” Annie said. “A misreading of some innocuous words, or one phrase given more weight than it deserved. Her deep interest in your wellbeing, as her brother, might also lead her to suspect an attachment on your part where none exists.”

“Ah yes! Poor Cecilia! She would love to see me settled as happily as she is herself and can never meet me without looking for signs of it. Nor can she see a widow without looking about her for a new husband for the lady, and sees no harm in the practice, but in this case she has stepped quite outside the pale. Such a suggestion must be deeply offensive to you.”

“And to you also,” Annie said. “It supposes that you harboured feelings of the most inappropriate nature towards a married woman. She wrongs you greatly in imagining you capable of such a wicked act, for what man of honour could do so?”

To her surprise, his face lit up in a smile. “Oh, but she understands human nature very well. Men of honour are just as susceptible to the pangs of love as any other, and none of us may choose where affection may grow. It is something which strikes quite without warning, and with utter disregard for the bonds of matrimony or any other constraint. Just as one cannot fall in love merely because society expects it or the object is a worthy person, so one cannot prevent oneself from falling in love, no matter how unattainable the object. A man displays his honour in the matter, however, by ensuring that the world knows nothing of it, and in particular the recipient of his unwanted affection.”

Annie said nothing to this, for it seemed to imply that he saw nothing amiss in a man falling in love with a married woman, so long as he kept his feelings to himself, and with that she could not quite agree.

Fortunately, Adam seemed to expect no reply for he went on, “I am relieved that Cecilia is forgiven her foolishness, and that you harbour no resentment at the insult. And now, it remains only for me to thank you again for the charming evening we spent with you all yesterday. Cecilia is wild to invite you to the Manor in response, but shall you feel able to accept such an invitation? It would be only those members of your immediate family as were present last night, but if it is too soon to be thought of—”

“No, I should like that,” Annie said. “I never once dined out while Mr Huntly was alive, and I regretted it very much. I cannot go amongst mere acquaintances, not yet, but so long as there is only family—”

“Yes, yes! Only ourselves, and if we can persuade Mr and Mrs Perkins to delay their departure until Tuesday, then we may fix on Monday as the very day and we shall have everyone together again, just as we were last night, and just think how delightful it will be! That would be acceptable to all, would it not?”

Annie agreed to it, and he prepared to leave, with many apologies for keeping her from her letters, and his hopes that there would soon be good news from Sir Leonard, which reminded her of something.

“Have you told him about the man I saw in the grounds?”

“Ah… no, I have not. I have made some enquiries, as I said I would, if you remember, and it is as I thought — a romantic case, not in the least sinister. I feel it best not to go into the particulars, for it is a private matter, but you may be sure that no one you see in the grounds, day or night, intends harm to you or anyone at Willow Place.”

There was some consciousness in his manner which puzzled Annie very much. There was so much she liked about Adam, and his kindness in bringing her family to her, and sending his own carriage and servants, too, was by no means the least of it. Some part of her longed to place all her trust in him, to relax into the comfort of those words — ‘no one intends to harm you’. How easy it would be! And yet, he was holding something back from her, and such reticence made her uncomfortable. She was starkly aware of her own misjudgement in marrying Mr Huntly. She could not take the risk of trusting Adam and later finding out that he had murdered Rupert, or perhaps knew the murderer and was shielding him.

She smiled, therefore, and thanked him for the reassurance with what she hoped was sincerity, and as soon as he had gone, she wrote to Sir Leonard and told him everything she could remember of the intruder.

Breakfast was livelier than it had ever been. All three of Judith’s daughters were now to join them for breakfast every day, and with Annie’s mother, aunt and uncle present, there was almost an air of normality about the meal. Only the black gowns of the ladies and her uncle’s black armband were reminders of the recent demise. When Judith had taken her daughters back to the nursery, and Uncle Tom and Aunt Hester had gone off to view the gardens, Annie was left with her mother. How comfortable that was, to have one last sliver of toast and gooseberry preserve and another cup of tea, and sit companionably together as they had done so many times at the parsonage.

“You are bearing your loss with great dignity,” Mrs Dresden said. “Your dear papa would have been so proud to see with what fortitude you face the future. He would have been so grieved to know of your great tragedy. So proud to see you married so well, so shocked to see you widowed so terribly, terribly young.” Her voice wavered, and she set her tea cup down rather abruptly and fumbled for her handkerchief.

“Do not distress yourself so, Mama,” Annie said hastily. “If all goes well, my future involves motherhood, and that is a great comfort, is it not?”

“Oh, yes, dear one, so it is, but a husband… every woman needs a husband. It is her best and only shield against the world. Ah, Annie! We were all so happy for you, and now… now… How you must feel it! But you were ever a quiet little creature, not one to make a vulgar show of your feelings to the world, and in ordinary cases that is as it should be. But your husband! Dear, dear Mr Huntly! You must be quite distraught, to lose the object of all your tenderest affections so soon.”

That was too much for Annie. “Mama, I was not in love with Mr Huntly. I held him in the greatest respect, but it was not a love match, not on my side. Not like you and Papa.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Oh, no! No, indeed, your papa and I… oh no, it was not a love match, dear one, not at first. It was arranged by our parents. That was how it was done in those days, for one’s parents always know best, do they not? A sensible match, that was what was aimed for, with no great disparity of temperament or social position, and enough money to live upon without difficulty. And so it would have been, if only your papa had obtained the preferment he had expected… But there, refining upon such things does no good, and it was such a great many years ago.”

“I had no idea,” Annie said. “You were always so contented, both of you, and your affection so clearly seen, that I assumed it had always been so. I wished… I always wished that I might meet a man, one day, who engendered in me just that kind of deep attachment, strong enough to carry us through a lifetime together. I thought… I hoped that Mr Huntly would be the one, that I would grow to love him as much as he seemed to love me.”

“Naturally you could not at first feel for him all that he felt for you, for that would have been forward indeed. The first warmth of attachment must come from the gentleman, which would have excited only gratitude and obligation in your breast. But once you were married, his tenderness and gentle care for your happiness would have engendered every proper feeling and you would have quickly come to feel just as deep a devotion to your husband as he felt for you. It is ever so, dear one, and although you are outwardly composed, you must be devastated within.”

Annie could not remember much gentle care for her happiness. She licked her lips and considered her answer carefully. “Marriage… was not quite what I expected, Mama. Mr Huntly liked to… to keep me close to him at all times. I found it… a trifle constraining.”

Her mother chuckled. “He was so in love with you, dear one! So devoted!” She sighed with sentimental fervour. “Naturally he wished to spend as much time as possible with you. I daresay you found such passionate attachment overwhelming just at first, and you have always had a very pleasing modesty, dear one, such that you would have felt quite unworthy of the attentions of such a man. Just remember that he chose you to be his companion for life, so that compliment alone should serve to arouse your own devotion.”

“Indeed, and I do not mean to complain,” Annie said hastily. “It was only that… I sometimes wished he would allow me a little more time to myself, that is all. He did not like me to do anything without him.”

Her mother laughed. “And if he had not, you would have complained of his neglect, I daresay. The transition from maid to wife is a momentous one, and not easy to adjust to just at first. You would have grown accustomed… if only you had had a little longer together! My poor dear girl — such a tragedy!”

The handkerchief was deployed again, and Annie gave it up. Her mother had too rosy a view of matrimony to see any imperfection in Mr Huntly, and she could not adequately convey the constricting nature of his hold over her. Only Adam and Judith, who had observed it at first hand, could fully appreciate it.

They had just risen from the table when the door opened.

“Lord and Lady—” Sheffield managed before Lavinia burst into the room with a squeal of “Annie! Oh, Annie!” and hurled herself upon Annie’s bosom in a paroxysm of weeping.

It was some time before Lavinia could be induced to lift her head and observe that Annie herself was not quite so stricken with grief as might be expected of a newly-wrought widow.

“Do sit down and have some tea,” Annie said. “Sheffield, a fresh pot, if you will. My lord, pray be seated.”

The viscount stood wringing his hands, watching his wife with concern. Annie noticed that he seemed rather rumpled, almost as if he had slept in his clothes.

“Have you anything… um, more fortifying than tea?” he asked Sheffield.

“Claret, my lord?” the imperturbable footman said. “Brandy?”

Lord Dillington’s face brightened. “Just the thing. Brandy.”

“At once, my lord,” Sheffield said, clearly recognising a man in extreme need.

“Oh dear,” Annie said. “Have you had a very difficult journey from Pollard End?”

“Would that we had stayed at Pollard End,” he said glumly, collapsing into a chair and reaching absently for a Bath bun.

“Your letter chased us all over the country,” Lavinia said, her sobs having abated somewhat. “It finally reached us at Drummoor, and naturally I could not rest until I saw you.”

“Where is Drummoor?” Annie said, trying in vain to recall a member of the viscount’s family, or Lavinia’s, with an estate of that name.

“Yorkshire,” said Lord Dillington, wryly. “And we have driven without rest since the moment we left there.”

“Through the night?” Annie said, horrified.

“Day and night,” he said, yawning copiously. “I beg your pardon, Mrs Huntly, Mrs Dresden, but I am…” Another huge yawn. “…rather tired. Ah, my brandy. You are a splendid fellow — thank you, but you may leave the bottle just here.”

Sheffield set a glass and bottle in front of the viscount, who poured himself a large measure, and then a little more, lifting the glass to his lips with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Poor Will!” Lavinia said. “I am such a trial to him. All he asks is a quiet life, and I dragged him all the way to Yorkshire and then all the way back here. We had only been there two days, barely unpacked and there we were packing up again. But the marchioness was so kind, and sends you every good wish.”

“Marchioness?” Annie said in astonished tones.

“The Marchioness of Carrbridge, dear one,” said her mother, who was an avid reader of the London newspapers and especially the society columns. “Drummoor is the home of the Marquess and Marchioness of Carrbridge.”

Annie’s eyes widened. “Goodness, how grand you are these days, Lavinia, but there was no need to flee the home of a marchioness on my account.”

“There was every need,” the viscount said firmly. “We were engaged there for two weeks and I was never so thankful for an excuse to leave a place in my life. I was raised to an existence as a humble attorney, and mingling with marquesses and earls and who knows what is a bit much. There was even a duke there… a duke!” He drained his glass and refilled it even more generously.

“They were rather grand,” Lavinia admitted. “Not the marchioness — she is delightful, not at all high in the instep, and some of the younger ones are quite fun, but my goodness, I have never seen so many members of the nobility gathered in one place. I thought we must have wandered into Carlton House by mistake. And eccentric! Do you know that Drummoor dinners are served on two different sets of china, as if they had not sufficient quantity of plates, and bought a second set of a quite different design to make up the numbers? It is a family tradition, apparently. Two aunts each bought a set for the wedding of some ancestor or other, and to avoid offending either, the two sets were always used together. Is that not peculiar? And we were always late for dinner because we got lost in the house. So many odd wings and stairs and passageways. It was all too confusing for words. Fortunately there were footmen stationed by every staircase to escort wandering guests to safety. Of course, it was vastly flattering to be invited but we felt rather uncomfortable there and were very relieved when your letter caught up with us. Oh, Annie! And I had thought you to be so comfortably settled and now—!”

She began to weep again, so Annie, who had had quite enough weeping already from her mother, said briskly, “Come, now, Lavinia, do not distress yourself. There is good news, too.”

Lavinia’s head shot up. “Do you mean—? Oh, Annie! Annie!” More squeals, more tight hugs that filled Annie’s face with the several curled feathers adorning her friend’s hat, which made her want to sneeze.

And that led naturally to much discussion of babies and nurseries and the awkwardness of deciding whether to engage a wet nurse or not.

“Whatever one’s mother-in-law proposes is the correct answer,” Lavinia said, laughing merrily. “How lucky you are not to have a mother-in-law, Annie! You have only your mother to guide you, and her advice may always be depended upon. Oh dear, we have bored Will to sleep. Look at him, poor man!”

The viscount lolled in his chair, head sunk on his chest, snoring very delicately.

“I must tell Mrs Cumber to prepare rooms for you,” Annie said.

“Nonsense! We will not inflict ourselves upon you without warning in this harum-scarum way. Besides, it is not just ourselves — there will be my maid, his valet, the coachman, groom and footman to be accommodated. As soon as the horses and postilions are rested, we will go on into Salisbury and find an hotel.”

“You most certainly will not,” Annie said fiercely, ringing the bell. “Ah, Sheffield, tell Mrs Cumber to prepare rooms for Lord and Lady Dillington. There will also be five servants to house. See that the horses and postilions are fed and watered, and then sent on their way.”

“Yes, madam,” he said, without the slightest hesitation. In fact, Annie thought she saw a gleam of excitement in his eyes. It would be stretching the capabilities of the house rather, but it was a challenge to be met, not shirked. “Might I suggest to Mrs Hewitt that she deploy the goose for dinner?”

“By all means deploy the goose today, so long as we have meat enough for tomorrow,” Annie said with a smile.

“Ah, yes, one must be well fortified for the rigours of the Sabbath,” Lavinia murmured as Sheffield bowed his way out of the room. “What a splendid fellow. Deploy the goose, indeed!”

“Mr Huntly’s valet, now… erm, deployed as a footman,” Annie said.

While they were giggling over Sheffield, Judith bounced into the room, to be greeted by Lavinia with almost as much enthusiasm as Annie had been.

“My dear Mrs Huntly! May I suppose that you have now received your visit from my dilatory brother-in-law, and thus received your thousand pounds from the Benefactor?”

“Not thus far, Lady Dillington,” Judith said. “I have not yet had the honour of a reply to my letter, still less a visit from Mr Willerton-Forbes.”

Lavinia’s screech of outrage woke her husband with such a start that he jumped to his feet, a panic-stricken expression on his face, no doubt assuming that violence of some kind was under way.

“This is not to be borne!” Lavinia said. “How dare he neglect his duty in this manner! Paper, Annie, at once, and pen and ink. I shall write to Pettigrew this instant and instruct him to drop every other engagement and attend Mrs Huntly here as soon as a post chaise may be had. It is insupportable that all these relations of deck hands and sail makers may be as rich as Croesus, while the widow of a gentleman has received not so much as a penny piece. Annie’s groom must ride at once to the nearest post office to be sure my letter goes off on the next mail coach. Pettigrew will not ignore me, on that I am quite determined.”

16: Outrage And Argument

While Lavinia wrote her letter, her outrage spilling onto a second sheet of paper, Annie’s mother departed with a murmured, “I shall just give Mrs Cumber a hand.” Judith cajoled the exhausted viscount and the brandy bottle to a quiet room equipped with a chaise longue, where he could rest peacefully until his bed chamber should be prepared.

Annie watched Lavinia scratching away with her pen, the quill dashing across the paper, then quickly dipped in the inkstand, then dashing away again.

“Mr Willerton-Forbes is very busy, I am sure,” Annie ventured. “Do not berate the poor man too greatly.”

“Busy! He is not at all busy, for he is back in London, and what can he possibly find to do there? No one is in town in August.” She tossed her pen down on the stand, scattering a few drops of ink, which Annie rushed to mop up. “I cannot understand it, Annie. Pettigrew is the world’s most methodical man, and that is precisely why he was given this task on behalf of the Benefactor. He has investigated everyone who was aboard the Minerva when it sank, and tracked down the legal next of kin — a wife if there is one, or the sons and daughters if not, and that was tricky enough, for should he include natural children as well as the legal ones, and should the amount be divided amongst them equally or should the eldest get the whole? And whenever he asked for guidance in the matter, he was simply told, ‘Use your best judgement, Willerton-Forbes.’ It has all been rather fraught, as you may imagine, with people who were not who they said they were, everyone he talked to claiming to be somebody’s next of kin, and he had to choose from amongst all the rival claims. And there is one person who cannot be accounted for at all — a passenger who was thought to be a man, but turned out to be a woman! And no one has the least idea who she was. Is that not astonishing?”

Annie agreed that it was. “Poor Mr Willerton-Forbes! How awkward it must be to settle everything satisfactorily, when there is so much money involved. Naturally everyone with a shred of a claim wants some of it. The Benefactor must be a very mischievous person, to arrange to give away so much money in that whimsical way.”

“Mischievous?” Lavinia laughed. “I had not thought of it so, but it is rather capricious, is it not?”

“Who is he — the Benefactor? Is he capricious in other ways?”

“My dear, no one knows! His identity is a complete mystery. The new Duke of Falconbury would be my guess, in memorial for his brother, but there are those who suspect one of the Royal Dukes, or even the Queen. She has a gentle heart, so it might be her, who knows? But Pettigrew does not, and nor does his head of chambers. Still, he does not need to know the identity of the Benefactor to do his work properly, and that he has lamentably failed to do. It is six months since that ship sank, and Mrs Huntly should have had her thousand pounds long since.”

“I am sure there will be a reasonable explanation,” Annie said. “If Mr Willerton-Forbes is as thorough as you say, then it cannot be merely an oversight. A man of meticulous habits does not forget things, or lose them.”

She was reminded as she spoke of Mr Huntly’s will, still missing almost two weeks after his death. There was another meticulous man, and surely there would be a reasonable explanation for the disappearance of the document. He must have hidden it somewhere, but where and for what purpose was beyond her ability to guess.

~~~~~

After so many quiet weeks, Willow Place now echoed to voices. The whispers of the servants, the soft, muted tones of the ladies, the deeper masculine rumbles of the gentlemen, and above them all, the high-pitched excited cries of Jerome as he went about his appointed task of searching the house for the missing will. His booted feet thumped up and down the stairs as he called out his progress, usually trailed by one or more of his brothers. “Hush, Jerome. Be a little quieter, for pity’s sake! Try to remember this is a house of mourning,” they would say, as they took the stairs two at a time to keep up with him.

Annie made over Mr Huntly’s desk to the enterprise, and it was soon covered with sheets of paper bearing lists of rooms searched, those yet to be examined and a methodical system for accomplishing the same. Jerome was a very methodical child, and yet it was just what was needed. Annie was beginning to wonder if the will would ever be found, for what was the point of such an important document if it were to be kept so well hidden that it needed a search of military proportions to locate it? It must have been destroyed somehow — burnt, perhaps, as he always burnt the newspapers when they were no longer needed. As to why he would do such a thing, she could not imagine.

Sunday was a day of calm amidst the bustle. Annie did not feel able to attend church, and her mother and aunt kept her company at home, but Uncle Tom was keen to go, and Lavinia and her husband went with him, along with Judith and her daughters.

“You must be exhausted, still,” Annie said to Lavinia. “Do not feel obliged to go if you had rather rest.”

“Indeed, we must go! The good people of Wickstead will expect it of us, for when one is a stranger to the neighbourhood, it is one’s solemn duty to show oneself in public and thereby supply sufficient fodder for gossip. Just imagine if Mrs Rupert Huntly’s old friend were known to be staying, yet sequester herself for the entire visit! Such behaviour would be abominable. As to resting, we may sleep during the sermon, you know. Will always does so at home, and I am sure your Mr Popham is just as boring a preacher as our Mr Clark. I do not mind a boring sermon, myself. I always feel that if I have suffered through a particularly long and dry one, then I have done my penance for the week and may enjoy myself thereafter with a clear conscience.”

Monday brought the resumption of Jerome’s search, but it also brought a less welcome visitor, in the sombre person of Sir Leonard Fairbrother.

“I am in receipt of your letter, Mrs Huntly, apprising me of the presence of a man in the gardens,” he rumbled in his gravelly voice. The drew out the word ‘man’ to such a length as to imbue it with some surprise, as if it might be quite usual to see a dragon standing about in the shrubbery at night, or a host of angels, but a man was hard to credit. “You saw the fellow several times, it seems?”

“Exactly as I noted in my letter, Sir Leonard,” Annie said. “I wrote down all the dates, and every detail that I could remember.”

“Yes, yes, but there is no trace, d’ye see? Not a trace of anyone being at a place and at a time he should not be. No one else has seen any such person, d’ye see? I have made enquiries… extensive enquiries of your servants and anyone living nearby, and no one has seen such a person. Nor has anyone said to me, ‘Oh, that is just the gamekeeper’s boy, Sir Leonard,’ or anything of that sort. There are no Romanies in the area just now. No tinkers. No reports of unsavoury types hiding away from the Excise men. Nothing of that nature at all, Mrs Huntly.”

“Do you think I invented the story, Sir Leonard?” Annie said coldly. She had agreed to see Sir Leonard alone in the hunting room, but now she wished she had listened to Uncle Tom’s offer to accompany her. He, at least, knew her not to be a fanciful person.

“Not invented, no,” Sir Leonard said carefully. “Merely… mistaken. This is an isolated estate, I grant you that, and a stranger could easily slip in and out unobserved, but to return many times and then to stand about in the open, just waiting to be observed? That does seem like rather odd behaviour, do you see? Very odd behaviour altogether, and not to be seen by any other person. It has been pointed out to me by one or two persons, as I pursued my enquires, that the river does sometimes exude a degree of… well, mist… obscuring fogs and—”

Annie jumped to her feet. “It is clear what you are saying — that this man was a figment of my imagination. There was never a man there at all, but my fanciful brain created him out of river mist. I know what I saw, Sir Leonard, and it was considerably more solid than river mist. I know a man of flesh and blood when I see one.”

He was obliged by courtesy to rise, but he was a large man, and his chair had no arms, so it was not a swift business. “There is no need to take that tone with me, madam,” he said, after he had heaved himself to his feet. “I am obliged to consider all the evidence and in this particular case, you are the only person to have seen this intruder and therefore—”

“Good day, Sir Leonard.”

“I wished only to explain that—”

“Unnecessary. Good day.”

Sir Leonard licked his lips, looking as if he were about to speak. He thought better of it, bowed punctiliously and departed, wordlessly but with some dignity.

Annie strode about the room, her anger raging within her. How dared he insult her so! To accuse her of inventing such a story was unspeakably rude, even if it was wrapped up as a mistake, or some kind of fog-shrouded illusion. Even if he thought it, the implication should not have been voiced.

She was still pacing restlessly when Adam came in at a rush, and moved towards the big desk, where Jerome’s notes were laid out. “Just wanted to check—” he began, before noticing her agitation. “Cousin Annie? Is anything amiss?”

For an instant she hesitated. It would be awkward to explain. Adam had airily dismissed her dawn intruder as a romantic affair, yet with some consciousness in his manner that aroused suspicions in her breast. She had written to Sir Leonard because she had not trusted that explanation. Could she now admit her actions? Yet her dislike of deception was stronger than her embarrassment. She must be honest, and if he thought the less of her for such mistrust, so be it. Her reservations were well founded, and not mere caprice.

“Sir Leonard was here just now,” she said, lifting her chin resolutely. “I wrote to tell him of my concerns regarding the man seen from my window at night, but he dismissed them. He believes I was deceived by river mist.”

Adam’s face changed from concern to surprise and then to a frowning thoughtfulness that she could not interpret. “I see. You may remember our previous discussion on this subject… when I told you that it was merely a romantic entanglement? Yet that was not sufficient to set your mind at ease?”

“How should it be?” she cried. “I am not a child, to be fobbed off with whatever story the adults choose to tell me. You forget that I have been trained by an apothecary. It is not enough to know that a certain simple has a specific effect — one must know why and under what circumstances and what the proper dosage is. My uncle trusted me with all his knowledge and experience and wisdom, and taught me to question everything — everything! Yet you expect me to accept your word blindly, and Sir Leonard does not believe me at all! I am just a foolish irrational woman, I suppose, not fit to be included in the discourse of men. Pah!”

“You are being very irrational at this moment,” he said with some heat. “If you will not trust me, there is nothing more to be said.”

“It is not a simple matter of trust,” she said, forcing herself to speak more calmly. “I cannot accept anything unquestioningly, just because someone I trust tells me so. I may read in a herbal that juniper berries are an excellent remedy against dropsy, but that means little unless I understand that the plant is in the solar sphere, and hot in the third degree and dry in the first. With such knowledge I may judge how best to apply it. Without such knowledge, I am in the dark. So it is with your words, intended as reassurance but to me of little use without further explanation.”

His lips twisted as he considered the point. For a few heartbeats, she held her breath — surely now he would explain, and reveal all that he had been holding back?

With a sigh, he said, “It is not in my power to say anything more. This man is no threat to you, that is all I can tell you.”

“Then there is nothing more to be said.” She turned her face away from him to stare unseeingly out of the window.

“Annie…” he began. Then, with a huff of annoyance, he swept out of the room.

Despite these unsettling encounters, Annie looked forward to that evening’s dinner at Wickstead Manor with some excitement. There was guilt, too, for as a new widow she should be eschewing all social occasions for some weeks to come, and perhaps if she had previously enjoyed the usual round of engagements that the neighbourhood afforded, she would have been content to stay quietly at home. Two months of confinement to her own house, however, had left her thirsty for the smallest variation in outlook, and although it would be improper to accept a formal invitation, Adam and his sister were family and that made it perfectly acceptable. Or so she told herself, and since her mama made no demur, she firmly set aside her reservations.

She even had a choice of gowns for the evening, for Mama had brought several of her own mourning gowns from Guildford, which she and Betty had been busily modifying to suit Annie. She chose the most sober, together with a black lace cap that managed to be rather fetching and deeply sombre at one and the same time, and was satisfied that she was suitably attired for the occasion. However little she grieved for her husband, there must be no lack of observance of the mourning period.

They needed both Annie’s own carriage and Lavinia’s for the journey of some five miles — almost three miles to the Salisbury road, a mile along that and then a further mile towards Wickstead. In the fields, a few children were busy gathering the last of the spilt grains from the harvest. They looked up curiously at the carriages as they passed by, and a few waved and ran alongside for a while until the dust was too great and they dropped back. The carriages turned aside before the village was reached, the entrance to the Manor marked by a pair of stone pillars topped by eagles. The gates stood wide open, but the gatekeeper’s wife and a line of children emerged from the lodge to curtsy and bow respectfully as they passed by.

The drive was short, along an avenue of stately elms with glimpses of well-kept grounds, the shimmer of a lake visible through the trees. The house was a surprise. Being called Wickstead Manor, Annie had formed an image of a property very like Willow Place, of warm medieval bricks and mullioned windows. Instead she was confronted with a starkly modern building of cool grey stone, not large but gracefully proportioned, with an elegant portico dominating the entrance. There Adam awaited them, and seeing him standing beneath the high columns in his evening attire, the coat tightly fitted, the cravat artfully tied and the stockings revealing shapely legs, she was struck anew by how gentlemanly he looked. He was perfectly fitted to his setting as a man of wealth and taste and respectability.

He greeted them with his customary amiability, handing the ladies down from the carriages with a smile for everyone, but there was a reserve in his manner towards Annie that she could not mistake. She understood it, and did not blame him although it saddened her.

“How do you like Wickstead Manor?” he said to her quietly. “Does it please you?”

“Very much,” she said with sincerity, “although it is not at all as I pictured it in my mind. A manor house should not be so gracefully modern.”

“How true,” he said. “It should be ancient, with chimneys that smoke, passageways that go nowhere and a roof that leaks, would you not agree?”

He smiled as he spoke, but Annie thought his light-heartedness seemed forced. She tried for the same jesting tone. “Certainly. Also, shutters that rattle in the slightest wind, a priest’s hole and a resident ghost.”

“I cannot speak to the resident ghost, but the original house had every other disadvantage. My grandfather and his brother bought the two adjoining properties when they settled down to become gentlemen, two houses that were equally old and inconvenient. My great-uncle grew so disenchanted with his that he tore most of it down. Only the great hall survived, where our horses now reside in some splendour. My father disapproved mightily, but luckily he did not survive to inherit. When he died, my great-uncle made me his heir and took us all in. I rather like the Manor as it is now, although I envy you Willow Place. There is something appealing in a house with so much history. Shall we go inside?”

The rest of the family awaited them in the entrance hall, its floor tiled in muted shades of grey and a warm red. In a babble of noisy greetings, Jerome’s voice high above the rest, they were divested of cloaks and swept into a pleasantly-appointed drawing room. Annie allowed herself to be carried along with the throng. Cecilia and Lavinia did most of the talking, with Uncle Tom and Aunt Hester murmuring civil compliments in their wake. Adam was the urbane host, smiling and discreetly directing the footmen.

Annie was momentarily diverted by the presence of no fewer than four footmen, knowing perfectly well that Adam’s entire indoor staff consisted of the Turvilles and a younger man who acted as groom and footman combined. She quickly recognised Edward Ransome, the Willow Place bailiff, amongst the footmen. Another man, a younger, handsomer version of him, was presumably his brother, and Adam’s bailiff. No doubt there were other temporary helpers from village families or the surrounding farms engaged in the kitchens and stables.

The dinner was plentiful, not elaborate or exotic, but a well-chosen selection of good, plain food simply dressed, the meat tender, the fish flavourful and the vegetables fresh. Since everyone ate heartily, it seemed that such provision was to the taste of all. There was lemonade and beer as well as wine, for which Annie was thankful, being unaccustomed to strong wines. She was amused to see Lord Dillington sip his wine only when invited to drink, preferring beer the rest of the time.

She was seated between the viscount and her aunt, but since the former was much taken up by Cecilia on his other side, and the latter was entranced by Jerome, who sat opposite her, Annie was able to sit quietly and observe the company, as she preferred. Adam worried her most, for there was a marked degree of strain in his face. His eyes moved restlessly here and there, alighting momentarily on Annie, then quickly flitting away. He still smiled a great deal, teasing Lavinia and listening courteously to Mrs Dresden’s compliments, mingled with her reminiscences about the parsonage, but it was clear that he was out of sorts.

But he was not alone in that. Judith, too, was unusually subdued, saying little and eating less, and even the attentiveness of the younger Mr Ransome, in his role as footman, pressing her to this dish or that, was not sufficient to raise her spirits. But then she was seated between Benedict, who was practising his flirtation techniques on Lavinia, and the irrepressible Jerome, so it was possible that it was only the contrast that made her seem so out of frame.

Yet perhaps there was something more afoot. Annie was seated in the drawing room later, feigning interest in an interminable monologue by Cecilia. She had received a visit from Lady Alicia Ransome earlier that day, under the impression that some female at Wickstead Manor had induced her younger son into falling in love.

“As if we should know anything about the romantic inclinations of our bailiff!” Cecilia said. “John is a grown man and may please himself, I suppose, without interference from us or his mother. Although the family is all in pieces, so she is hoping he will marry for money, no doubt. Have you met her? Unpleasant woman! Oh, I had better say no more, for here is John now, and it would never do for him to overhear me talking so about his mother. What do you think of this dry weather? I am sure the farmers are very glad of it to get the harvest in, but for myself I should like a little rain.”

As the drawing room doors opened, and John Ransome entered in his guise as a footman, Annie caught a glimpse of two people in the hall outside, arguing fiercely.

Adam and Judith.

Now what was that about?

17: A Letter From Dublin (September)

The next day saw many departures. Lavinia and the viscount left early for their own modest estate, and Uncle Tom and Aunt Hester prepared to return to Guildford, although this time they would travel in Annie’s own carriage, driven by the newly restored Palcock. While the servants and Judith were busy loading the luggage onto the carriage, and Aunt Hester was upstairs with Annie’s mother packing the last portmanteau, Annie found herself momentarily alone in the great hall with her uncle.

“Well, Annie, I do not like to leave you here like this, not with a murderer still on the loose. Will you not come home with us for a while, at least until the fellow is caught and locked away from good Christian folk?”

“This is my home now, uncle. I shall be perfectly all right here.”

“Well, well, you are comfortably settled for the moment,” he said, gazing around at the unsmiling ancestors on the walls and the beamed ceiling. “This is a fine place, and worthy of you, niece. Your herbarium will be a credit to you when it is grown, and I shall send you some bulbs of conval lilies by way of your coachman. And Annie…” He hesitated, scratched his nose and then plunged on. “You know there will always be a home for you at Castle Street. Should it ever be necessary.”

“You are very good, uncle,” was all she said, for she could not explain to him that she would only do so if she were truly desperate.

He scratched his nose again. “Were you happy, Annie? For you do not strike me as a woman sunk in grief. Did Mr Huntly make you happy?”

How to answer that? She had not been unhappy, just… fretful. Chafing under the restrictions imposed upon her. If they had gone on in the same way, then she would have become very unhappy indeed, but perhaps Rupert would have mellowed in time. She would never know, now.

But she was too honest to prevaricate. “No, he did not make me happy,” she said quietly. “He was not unkind to me, and I never doubted his affection for me, but my happiness was not an object with him, only my obedience. Mr Huntly wanted a dutiful, submissive wife, and I am not well suited for such a rôle, I fear.”

“Ah. No, you have all the appearance of it, but within you is something… not rebellious, for you have never been that, but unyielding. When you have considered all angles and assessed every point of an argument, your opinion is formed and will be unshakable, unless presented with new evidence. You cannot be swayed merely by the wish to appease another person. That is what makes you such a good apothecary, my dear.”

She smiled. “I am not an apothecary, uncle. I would describe myself as an amateur herbalist, no more than that.”

He chuckled, but shook his head. “Well, well, I am sorry for what you tell me of Huntly. Does your mother know?”

“I have tried to explain it, but she does not quite understand, and now that he is dead—”

“Quite, quite. I shall say nothing to Hester, you may be sure. Ah, here are the ladies now. Well, we must be away, my dear niece. Write often, and tell us how you go on, and of any news of this murderer. It would be a relief to know— Yes, yes, my dear, I am aware you do not like me to mention the subject, but Annie is not a delicate flower to be shielded from every stray breeze, you know. She is a good and sensible girl, who is coping splendidly under difficult circumstances.”

“Of course she is!” Aunt Hester said stoutly, “but I am still very thankful that Mary will be here with her.”

“And so am I, aunt,” Annie said with a fond smile at her mother. “So am I.”

~~~~~

Without the disruption of visitors, Annie’s days settled into a comfortable routine. Before breakfast, she walked round her burgeoning herb garden and made her remedies in the still room. Then, she talked to Mrs Cumber. Breakfast with her mother, Judith and the three children was a pleasant family interlude. After breakfast, Judith took the children back to the nursery for lessons, while Annie’s mother went off to ‘give Cook a helping hand’, which involved the subtle supervision of all the indoor staff — tidying cupboards, rearranging stores and inducing an air of brisk efficiency into the house.

Annie herself retreated to the hunting room, of which she was now in sole possession. She dealt with her correspondence, made lists of oils and powders for her remedies for Billy to buy in Salisbury and attempted to keep the accounts up to date. As often as not, however, she curled up in one of the big leather chairs beside the fire and lost herself in a book. It was the only way she had found to set aside all the worries that gnawed at her — the missing will, the stranger in the garden watching the house, the unknown James Huntly, her own uncertain future, dependent as it was on her unborn child, and most of all, her husband’s murder. It was more than two weeks since someone had shot Rupert in cold blood not half a mile from the house, and still the villain had not been arrested. Who would do such a thing? And was Annie herself at risk? Or her child? Such thoughts scuttled round in her head during every waking hour, but with the right book in her hand she could send her mind to some other, less troubled, place, and that brought her an hour or two of peace.

Jerome arrived each day not long after breakfast to continue his searches for the will. He had completed his investigation of the attics, finding a great many dusty and moth-eaten treasures to be carried away triumphantly to the Manor, but no will. He had begun on the bedroom floor, and after a cursory greeting to Annie, dashed away with Edwin or Benedict.

Adam usually accompanied his brothers, and would linger in the hunting room after they had left, chatting to Annie about nothing very much. His former ease of manner was little in evidence, and he seemed distracted and tired, as if he were not sleeping well. Annie had not the heart to send him away, so she poured him a little Madeira and let him sit in the matching wing chair and say whatever he wished. She was sorry for the restraint between them, but his lack of openness made a return to their former closeness impossible.

One day he arrived looking a little brighter. “I have had word from Aunt Connell — Rupert’s mother in Ireland. James Huntly need not worry us. Here, read it for yourself.”

“May I?” The letter was written in a strong, feminine hand. ‘Kilcarlow, nr Dublin. 26th August 18— My dear Adam, I cannot imagine what Henry was about to be writing James’s name in the family Bible, for he is none of his handiwork. I am astonished he even knew I had a son. His father is my very dear husband, Mr Connell, and let no one say otherwise for it is a scurrilous lie which I shall deny to my dying breath. You may set your mind at ease for there is no one to come between you and Willow Place, if you should want such a monstrous uncomfortable barn of a house. I wish you joy of it. Mrs Bridget Connell.’ Squeezed into the side of the page was one extra line — ‘James died in infancy.’

“There, you see?” Adam said triumphantly. “It was all a misunderstanding on Uncle Henry’s part, and James Huntly is not his son. Even if he were, it would be no obstacle for he died years ago… ‘in infancy’. So Willow Place is yours or mine, and we need not concern ourselves with this mysterious brother.”

Annie read the letter a second time. There were several puzzling aspects, but she was particularly struck by the phrase ‘there is no one to come between you and Willow Place’. Her own name, and the possibility of a son, was not touched on. Had Adam neglected to mention her? And if so, why? The thought of murder rose unbidden in her mind, but she suppressed it ruthlessly. Adam had sworn his innocence on the Bible, and she could not believe his heart so black as to lie with his hand resting on the Holy Book. Yet clearly Mrs Connell believed him to want the inheritance — ‘You may set your mind at ease for there is no one to come between you and Willow Place.’

“Do you particularly want Willow Place?” Annie said carefully.

“Want it? For myself, no, since I have a perfectly good house of my own, but I very much want you to have a settled home. If you have a son, then Willow Place will be his, you will live here until he is married, and if you do not, then it will be mine, and I give you my word that you may stay here for as long as you wish. This James Huntly might have expected you to leave, but now you need never leave, and that is surely a good thing, is it not?”

It was a good answer, and relieved her mind somewhat. “And what of Judith?” Annie said. “You say nothing of her having a settled home, yet she has more need of such security than I. She has no jointure and three daughters to raise.”

“I have thought of Judith, too,” he said with just a hint of smugness. “If I inherit Willow Place, I shall make her an annuity so that she will have an income of her own. A modest independence, no more than that, for I do not believe the estate could bear too great a depletion, but it would make her comfortable.”

“Indeed it would! That would be a kindness indeed,” Annie said with heartfelt pleasure. “And if… if I should have a son… might I be able to do something of the sort also?”

“It would depend on the trustees appointed to manage the estate on his behalf, and that would depend on who is chosen as his guardian.”

“Who chooses the guardian and the trustees?”

“Rupert’s will, if we can ever find it,” Adam said with a rueful smile. “Being a man of meticulous attention to detail, I am sure his will made provision for such eventualities. Failing that, we would have to apply to the Court of Chancery.”

“We?”

He looked uncomfortable. “You would apply, naturally, but I should be very happy to assist in any way possible. Many men of business such as lawyers prefer to deal with another gentleman.” He chewed his lip, then said hesitantly, “You are a woman of quick mind and sound character, Annie, and perfectly competent to deal with your own affairs, but the general view of the world is that women should stay at home and tend to domestic matters. Having a man to speak for you can sometimes speed matters along. It is a pragmatic approach.”

She nodded, for the explanation made sense to her. “Yes, I can see that. When Aunt Hester inherited a small amount of money, Uncle Tom had to deal with all the details until the very point where my aunt’s signature was required. If it comes to that situation, I shall be very happy to have your aid, Adam.”

He smiled so broadly that his face, previously so unusually drawn, was lit up with happiness. He leapt to his feet and made her a sweeping bow. “Thank you! You honour me with your confidence, cousin. I had thought we were quite at outs, and it relieves me greatly to find that it is not so.”

She laughed at such exuberance, shaking her head at him, and forbore to point out that she was still at outs with him in other ways, and would continue to be so until he honoured her with his full confidence, and addressed her concerns regarding the man she had seen in the grounds at night.

While his joy at her approbation expressed itself in pouring himself another glass of Madeira, she reread the letter. “Tell me of Mrs Connell,” she said slowly. “Or Mrs Huntly as she once was. She left her husband some years ago, as I understand it.”

“Many, many years ago. Before I was born, I think. Yes, it must have been so, for Rupert was five, and Herbert would have been… oh, thirteen, perhaps. Old enough to go to school, anyway. But Rupert and his sister went to Grantham, to Aunt Dempster. Why this interest?”

“I am trying to work out where James Huntly fits in.”

“It hardly matters, surely? He is long dead, and is no get of Uncle Henry’s, so he is irrelevant.” Perhaps detecting something in her face, he set down his Madeira glass and abruptly sat up straight. “What is it, Annie? What do you read into that letter?”

“Henry Huntly wrote James’s name into the family Bible, so he clearly considered that James was his son, and not Mr Connell’s. Why would he think that?”

“Perhaps because he was still married to Aunt Bridget at the time,” Adam said slowly, frowning. “And yet… if Uncle Henry were here and Aunt Bridget were in Ireland, no one in their right mind would regard the child as their own.”

“Exactly.”

It pleased her inordinately to be able to discuss the subject rationally with him. Rupert, she felt sure, would have dismissed her concerns at once, or would have formed his own conclusion and taken no notice of any counterpoint of hers. Adam, though, listened to her carefully. How much she had missed such discussions — the long, earnest debates with her uncle about the merits of this treatment or that for a particular patient. Or before that, with her father, who had been a great one for studying the weather. Many, many times they had passed an evening debating whether a change in the wind heralded rain or colder weather, and the implications for the vegetable patch or the orchard blossom. Even the local farmers had consulted him to see if it was safe to delay the harvest for another week or two.

“I wonder…” Adam said. “Is it possible that he had good reason to suppose the child was his? That they were reconciled for a while?”

“How would we know?” Annie said. “It was twenty or so years ago, and— Oh, but some of the servants were here then. Palcock, the coachman, was, and Dewey might have been under-gardener at the time.”

Adam jumped to his feet. “I shall enquire of them at once.”

Annie smiled and shook her head. “We shall enquire of them, cousin.”

With a bow, he acknowledged the amendment. They found Dewey busy in the herb garden, tidying up some overgrown sage and rosemary, but he was of no help to them, having trained at Lady Charlotte’s estate across the river, and only arrived at Willow Place a few years ago. Palcock was placidly polishing harness in the stables.

“Aye, I were here twen’y year ago,” he said, in answer to Adam’s question. “What you be wantin’ to know ’bout?”

Adam glanced at Annie, but she gestured to him to continue, although pleased that he had asked first.

“We wish to know something of Mr and Mrs Henry Huntly at that time,” he said cautiously. “Mrs Huntly was living in Ireland at that time, is that not so?”

“Aye, that she was, with a fella called Connell. Bad woman, she were.”

“Indeed. And Mr Huntly was settled here, was he? He did not travel about?”

“Not he. Liked to sit by his own fire, he did.”

“And Mrs Huntly — did she ever visit?”

The old coachman chuckled lasciviously. “Aye, just the once. He were that pleased to have her home, so he was. Couldn’t do enough for her. Bought her jewels and a fancy phaeton to drive herself about in, but after a couple’a month she upped and went back to Ireland again. Took the jewels with her and all. Never came back. He sold that phaeton within a week, and after that he never left the house till he were carried out in a box, poor man, ’cept for church.”

Adam gave the man a guinea for his information, and they left him to his polishing.

“There you are, Cousin Annie,” Adam said, with just a hint of smugness in his tone, as they returned to the hunting room. “James Huntly is indeed the true son of Uncle Henry and Aunt Bridget.”

“Yet she denies it,” Annie said, reaching for the letter again. “Here… ‘ His father is my very dear husband, Mr Connell, and let no one say otherwise for it is a scurrilous lie which I shall deny to my dying breath.’”

Adam shrugged. “I daresay she dislikes having the whole business raked up after all this time, and perhaps Mr Connell is unaware that the child was not his. And in truth, Annie, it hardly matters who fathered the poor child, for he is long dead and cannot trouble us.” He paused, and then laughed. “Ah! You are not satisfied, I can see. Now tell me, cousin dear, what is going on in that clever brain of yours. There is something bothering you still.”

Oh, the pleasure of being invited to explain! She gave a little shiver of delight, then smoothed her skirts. “There are several points which make me curious. Mrs Huntly attempted a reconciliation with her husband, but left after two months. Let us suppose that when she left she was with child. She went home to Ireland, was reunited with her lover, she was confined and the baby died. Did she tell her husband of the baby? If so, why does she now deny that he was the father? And if she did not, how did he know enough of it to add the child’s name and the day of his birth to the family Bible? And why—? But no, that is a foolish idea.”

“Tell me.”

“You will say I am being fanciful.”

Placing his hand ostentatiously on his heart, he cried, “I swear I will not do so. Tell me all your thoughts, and I promise to consider them without preconceptions.”

His theatricality made her laugh, but she saw the sincerity in his words, so she said, “Very well. Mrs Connell says that James died as an infant, yet she talks of him as if he is alive.” She waved the letter again. “Listen. ‘He is none of his handiwork. His father is my very dear husband.’ And then the line ‘James died in infancy’ is added afterwards, and the ink is a shade darker, as if the words were written at a different time. So my brain, which is not at all clever but dislikes oddities, wonders whether in fact James is still alive and at large somewhere hereabouts. Whether he has been to Willow Place, hiding himself in the boat house. And whether he met Rupert on the path from Wickstead, and shot him through the heart. And his mother knows it and is trying to divert us by telling us that he is dead. You see? I told you it was fanciful.”

“No,” he said slowly. “No, that makes perfect sense. There could be other interpretations — perhaps more likely ones — but it is a possibility. I think… no, I am certain that I should mention this again to Sir Leonard. Unless… do you wish to tell him yourself?”

“It would be best for you to do it,” she said, with unaccustomed bitterness. “After all, you are a man and he will listen to you, whereas he considers me a deluded and irrational creature.”

Adam smiled gently. “And in that he could not be more wrong.”

She could not help returning his smile. Such a joy being listened to and asked her opinion and regarded with respect, as a person worthy of a man’s attention. She had had her differences with Adam, and still disliked his tendency to withhold information from her, but on the whole she liked him very well. Had circumstances been different, she could easily have lost her heart to such a man.

If only Rupert had been more like Adam…

18: The Lawyer And The Captain

Annie was sufficiently reconciled with Adam to invite him and his brothers for dinner the following night. Perhaps she had not quite forgiven him for keeping her in the dark regarding the man she had seen in the gardens, but he had assured her that it was only a romantic tryst, not a threat, and not his secret to reveal. She must accept that, and not harbour resentment for a reserve which was honourably founded.

Perhaps her tolerance was due to other factors. Her mother had quietly taken over the management of the house. While never usurping Annie’s role as mistress or countermanding her orders, Mrs Dresden somehow managed to make everything run more smoothly. Everyone seemed more content, and that ease of spirits could not fail to transmit itself to Annie, too.

She had begun to receive condolence visits, too. Mrs Popham had never ceased her calls, but now she called more often, and after a week or two, others of the neighbourhood called to express their shock and sorrow, with varying degrees of sincerity, and to try, subtly or more overtly, to find out why Mr Huntly had been murdered. Lady Alicia Ransome displayed more animation than Annie had ever seen in her before. It seemed that a widow was vastly more interesting to her than a mere wife. Annie did not much like the prying curiosity her callers displayed or what she felt was excessive interest in the murder, but she was glad to feel that she might at last begin to make calls herself, when it was proper for her to do so.

Lady Charlotte Litherholm, now returned from the Duke of Falconbury’s estate, also came.

“My dear, so dreadful!” she wheezed, her plump face creased with distress. “Camilla and I were so very upset to hear of your tragedy. To lose your husband in the full bloom of your marital affection! Such a piteous end to all your hopes. Camilla has been crying unremittingly ever since we heard the news, have you not, Camilla?”

“Yes indeed, Lady Charlotte,” her companion whispered, dry-eyed. “Unremittingly.”

“I hope he has left you well provided for, my dear, for there is nothing sadder than a widow scrambling to maintain her place in society when she has not two pennies to rub together. Now, you will not be contemplating such matters for a considerable while yet, but I do trust that when you emerge from your grief, you will not rush too quickly into a second marriage. Take my advice and reflect very carefully upon it before you do. Society presses women to place themselves and their fortunes into the care of a man, but it is not in the least necessary. Look at how comfortably Camilla and I go on, with not a man to be seen anywhere! We do not feel the lack, do we, Camilla?”

“Oh, no, Lady Charlotte. Not in the least.”

Annie could not help but smile at this well-meant advice, and if she had Lady Charlotte’s fortune, and a nephew who was a duke, and happy to provide her with a substantial estate of her own, she might well be content never to marry, too. But she only said diplomatically, “Thank you for your kind advice, Lady Charlotte. I will consider my future most carefully, I assure you.”

Once or twice Annie’s mother had probed delicately on the subject, too. She was of the opinion that a husbandless woman was only half a person, for how else should a woman live except to be of service to a man? Her only purpose in life was to create a home where every domestic detail was perfectly managed, to raise children of whom their father could be proud, and to make her husband’s home life so comfortable that he might make his mark in the world with nothing else to worry him. When her husband had died, she had gratefully attached herself to Uncle Tom’s household, seeing her brother as an acceptable substitute for her care. Naturally she now began to look about for a second husband for Annie. And there was one name which sprang readily to her mind, especially as he was so often in the house supervising Jerome’s hunt.

“Mr Adam Huntly is such a charming young man, is he not, dear one?” she said, as they sat companionably with their sewing one day, just after Adam and Jerome had taken their leave.

“Very charming,” Annie said, adding dryly, “He charms all the ladies with equal facility.”

“Indeed he does! Such easy manners! Quite a delightful man! And so attentive to you in your time of need. When word first reached us of your tragic loss, it was the greatest comfort to know that you had a gentleman to support you and take care of any… unpleasantness.”

“Yes, he made all the arrangements for the coffin and the funeral,” Annie said, correctly divining the nature of the unpleasantness referred to. “He has been very helpful, searching for the will and taking care of outstanding bills.”

“A single man, and with a substantial independence, as I understand it. Quite three thousand a year, Mrs Popham told me, and no encumbrances. And just think if the two estates should be combined! Why, what a fine income he would have then! Five thousand a year, dear one. Is that not a happy thought?”

“Indeed it is, but he has not inherited yet, Mama, and may never do so.”

“Inherited? No, for you may have a son, and that would be wonderful, but even so—”

“And there is James Huntly, too,” Annie said quickly, hoping to deflect her mother from this unsettling train of thought.

“Oh, but he did not survive infancy. Judith told me that. So you see there is nothing to stop you joining the estates, and he likes you very well, I fancy.”

“Now, now, Mama, do not be matchmaking.”

“Oh, no, dear one! I hope I should never be so vulgar! Goodness, no. And naturally it cannot be thought of until you are quite out of black gloves. But one cannot help observing that it would be a most suitable match. Observing, dear one… no more than that, I assure you. The convenience of merging two adjoining estates, and such an agreeable man, and very attentive to you.”

“Oh, Mama!” Annie said, shaking her head in affectionate bemusement. “If you are looking to make a match, surely Judith would be a more appropriate choice. She and Adam have known each other for years, and get along tremendously.”

“Judith? Oh no, I do not think so. I should have thought—”

Annie never found out what her mother thought, for Sheffield came in at that moment.

“Beg pardon, madam, but there is a post-chaise approaching in something of a hurry.”

One of the advantages of a long, open drive was that visitors could be seen a good mile away from the house. Usually, this allowed ample time to reach the entrance hall before the arriving carriage had drawn up outside. Not on this occasion, however. The chaise was in such a rush that it was already outside the door, the horses lathered from exertion and the dishevelled travellers in the process of disembarking, by the time Annie had made her way there. It was two persons she had never seen before in her life. One was a man dressed in the height of London fashion, the other a very small man wearing a garish blue and yellow striped waistcoat and a sword.

“Madam!” cried the fashionable one. “We are arrived at last, as you see. I can only express my abject apologies for the delay, which is to be set entirely at my door. I must beg your forgiveness for I have failed in my duty!” he ended, with a melodramatic flourish and a deep bow.

Annie had no idea how to respond to this, so she said calmly, “I do not quite understand you, sir, but I can see that you have travelled a distance in great haste. Will you come inside and refresh yourself, and your companion too, and you may explain your business to me?”

“You are too kind… too indulgent. You must have been expecting me long since, and I should indeed have been here but I had no notion… not the least notion. I have been greatly remiss.”

“I assure you I have not been expecting you at all,” Annie said, shepherding the two men through the door and into the great hall. “I think your horses will not be able to travel further tonight, so you will—”

“Not expecting us? But this is Willow Place, is it not?”

“It is, sir.”

“And you are the bereaved Mrs Huntly?”

“I am indeed, sir. Is this about my late husband?”

“It is, it is! I am come, belatedly, about your entitlement, and very sorry I am that it is so long in reaching you, but I have been sadly misled, it seems, and yet I do not know how I might have avoided it, for one cannot accuse a lady of lying, you know. Indeed, it would be unspeakable, and we had no idea, not the least idea in the world.”

Annie laughed. “I wish I had the least idea what you are talking about. Ah, Mrs Cumber, please prepare two rooms, and tell Mrs Hewitt that we will be two extra for dinner. Who is left in the stables? Billy? Tell him to take the greatest care of the horses, for they looked to be exhausted. Gentlemen, will you—?”

“No, indeed, we cannot impose upon you, madam. There must be an inn nearby where we can obtain accommodation.”

“Not for some miles, I fear, for we are very remote here. Besides, the wind has shifted, so there will be rain soon. It is my pleasure as well as my Christian duty to offer shelter to strangers, whatever your business here.”

“You do not know why we are here?” the fashionable gentleman said. “You are Mrs Huntly?”

“I am, but there you have the advantage of me gentlemen.”

The small man chuckled. “What a bone-head you are, Willerton-Forbes! Did I not say you should write ahead?”

“But we could be here sooner than a letter, and—”

Annie exclaimed in surprise. “Mr Willerton-Forbes? Are you by any chance Lavinia’s brother-in-law?”

His face lit up. “You are expecting me!”

She shook her head. “We have been at cross-purposes, Mr Willerton-Forbes. I am Mrs Rupert Huntly. Your business is with my sister-in-law, Mrs Herbert Huntly. You are here to give her one thousand pounds from the Benefactor.”

“Yes!” he cried, his face lighting up. “At least… I do hope so. It is a little confusing. You see—”

“No, no!” Annie said, laughing. “Please, no more explanations! We dine early here, and you will want to unpack and change in good time. There will be ample opportunity to disentangle the business for us over dinner.”

The gentlemen protested, of course, but Annie would not withdraw her offer. Their horses were exhausted, and her own had not yet returned from taking Uncle Tom and Aunt Hester to Guildford. Mrs Dresden added her quiet voice to Annie’s and between the two of them they persuaded the two men up the stairs just before the dinner bell sounded. Mrs Cumber was already busy in one of the guest rooms, and amidst the bustle of luggage being brought in, and the housemaids rushing about with sheets and towels, Annie’s mother said to her in an undertone, “Shall you send for Mr Adam Huntly? Another gentleman at table would be most beneficial.”

Under other circumstances, Annie would have said stoutly that three women could manage to discuss a little business with two gentlemen over mutton and braised kidneys, but she could see the advantage of a male perspective, and their visitors might talk more freely to Adam over the port. Leaving her mother to settle the guests and acquaint Judith with developments, Annie penned a note to Adam and dispatched Billy, the groom, to convey it to Wickstead Manor.

Mr Willerton-Forbes and his friend, Captain Edgerton, formerly of the East India Company Army, brought a flavour of London to the peacock chamber. Annie had seen several men she regarded as gentlemen of fashion, but none could compare with the splendour of Mr Willerton-Forbes. His coat was cut with wide lapels and many buttons, his neckcloth was dazzlingly white, his shirt points were high enough to impede his movements, and his satin knee breeches and stockings clung tightly to his legs. A pair of gold fobs at his waist, a diamond tie pin and an ornate quizzing glass completed the ensemble. By comparison, Captain Edgerton’s peacock-blue coat and lemon waistcoat looked garish, although undoubtedly fashionable.

Adam appeared just after they had sat down to dinner, but as Sheffield had been informed of his possible arrival, a place was set for him without fuss and within a very few minutes his friendly manners had induced an ease in the company. At first, while Sheffield and Billy were in the room, the conversation was general, as Adam and Captain Edgerton competed to produce the most absurd stories to amuse the ladies, a contest the captain, with his background in the exotic East Indies, won handily. His tales of snakes and tigers and elephants seemed outlandish, but they were undeniably exciting and may even have been true. Judith was quite riveted, and Annie could see her mother listening carefully, so that the juiciest details might be transmitted in the next letter to Guildford.

Once the footmen had withdrawn, Mr Willerton-Forbes elucidated the reasons for his tardy appearance.

“My charge was to determine the next of kin of every deceased person from the Brig Minerva,” he said. “Once identified, that person was to have one thousand pounds bestowed upon them, in whatever form may be chosen. I was further charged to offer whatever assistance might be needed by the bereaved person. Investment advice, perhaps, or assistance with the purchase of a property, or the setting up of a trust fund. All of this was my obligation, and I have exerted every effort to comply with the exact terms laid upon me, to the utmost of my ability. None of this is as simple a matter as it may appear, but in the particular case in question, it did not seem unduly difficult. When I enquired about Mr Herbert Huntly, I was told that his mother lived near Dublin, and therefore to Kilcarlow, her present husband’s estate near Dublin, I repaired.”

He sighed, and took a sip of claret, then, with an even heavier sigh, a larger amount. Apart from Captain Edgerton, who was delicately peeling and slicing plums, everyone’s attention was focused on Mr Willerton-Forbes.

“Mrs Connell, as she now is, received me very graciously. Naturally, I enquired if Mr Herbert Huntly had been married, but she assured me he had not.”

“What!” Judith squeaked. “She denied my very existence? How despicable!”

“Indeed it is!” Mr Willerton-Forbes said with energy. “Despicable indeed! And I confess myself completely taken in. It did not occur to me for one moment that so respectable a lady would lie to me blatantly.”

“I wonder why she would tell such a falsehood,” Annie said, puzzled. “Are her circumstances such that the sum of one thousand pounds would be a great inducement to deception?”

“Not at all. She seemed most comfortably situated, to my mind,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “A fine house, and everything of the best. Not a great deal of land, perhaps, but she lives in some style. It is inexplicable, quite inexplicable. So you see, Mrs Huntly, we knew nothing of you at all.”

“But I wrote to you,” Judith said. “Lady Dillington helped me to compose the letter and Lord Dillington gave me your direction in London.”

Mr Willerton-Forbes stroked his chin, his expression a picture of embarrassment. “I daresay you did, but…” Another sigh, another sip of claret. “Let me explain the situation to you. When we first began to make known the intentions of the Benefactor to bestow a thousand pounds on the next of kin of every person lost in the sinking of the Brig Minerva, there were those who refused to believe in such generosity, and indeed, it is hard to credit, is it not? But then, when the first recipients had the money in their hands, there was… how shall I put this? Hmm, let us say that a number of unscrupulous persons saw a possibility of pecuniary advantage. We were besieged by those claiming a share of the largesse, and my office in London received a veritable deluge of letters. To my shame, I confess that I have not yet examined all of them. Your letter, my dear Mrs Huntly, is no doubt amongst them, opened by one of the overworked clerks and filed in a box in date order awaiting my attention. You may be sure that I shall be less dilatory in the matter when I return to London.”

“Oh, but you are here now,” Judith said gaily. “You need not worry about my letter any more.”

“But there may be others,” Annie said, before she could stop herself. “Oh… I beg your pardon, Mr Willerton-Forbes, I meant no criticism. You have been charged with an exacting task.”

“It is exacting,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said, turning to her with a smile. “That does not excuse my laxity, however, and as you so correctly point out, there may be other widows or orphaned children in desperate straits now because of it. No doubt the vast majority of those letters are spurious, but if there is even one legitimate case such as this one, it must be identified and the situation made right. That is my solemn duty, and I have failed, utterly failed.”

He shook his head despondently.

“You must not take it to heart,” Judith said gently. “I will not deny that a thousand pounds will be most welcome, but I have not been in desperate straits. My husband’s brother ensured that I and my daughters had a home.”

“That is Mr Rupert Huntly, I believe?” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “He inherited this property through the entail after his brother’s death. So Mrs Connell told us. He is away from home at this moment, I assume?”

There was a long silence. Annie took a sip of water, then carefully set the glass down on the table.

“My husband is dead, Mr Willerton-Forbes. Two weeks ago he left his Vestry meeting as usual to walk home, and somewhere on the footpath he met an unknown assailant who shot him twice through the heart.”

Mr Willerton-Forbes gave a tiny whimper of distress. “My dear lady!” he began, but Captain Edgerton dropped his piece of plum and held up one hand, eyes glittering with excitement.

“An unknown assailant? The murderer has not been apprehended? Ha! How fortuitous that we should arrive at your door in your hour of need, Mrs Huntly, for we have some considerable experience in such matters. Never fear, dear madam, for Mr Pettigrew Willerton-Forbes and Captain Michael Edgerton are here now, and all will be well.”

19: Reassurance And Guilt

Annie was not sure which amused her more, the captain’s excitement at the discovery that he had walked into the midst of a murder, or his unshakable conviction that he and his lawyer friend could do what Sir Leonard had not yet managed, and track down the culprit.

She suppressed her smile, however, and said politely, “You are very kind to take an interest, but the local magistrates, Sir Leonard Fairbrother and Squire Thornton, have been investigating the circumstances most diligently and have not yet found the murderer. Indeed, it is hard to imagine who might want to kill my husband.”

“If we but knew a little more of the situation…” the captain began eagerly, but Annie shook her head with a smile.

“You must hold me excused, Captain Edgerton. My husband’s death is yet too fresh for me to discuss it readily, but I am sure that Cousin Adam will be pleased to give you what little information is known to us. Ladies, shall we withdraw?”

They all rose, and Mr Willerton-Forbes opened the door. “Forgive my friend’s most inappropriate enthusiasm,” he said in a low voice as Annie made to pass through. “It arises purely from a wish to be of service to you at this difficult time, but we would not for the world have imposed our presence upon you if we had understood the situation.”

“If Captain Edgerton can identify my husband’s killer, sir, he will have my undying gratitude,” she said. “It would bring me great comfort to have an impartial mind brought to bear on the problem, for Sir Leonard’s efforts have not as yet borne fruit.”

He bowed low in acknowledgement, and she passed out of the room, even as Captain Edgerton rushed enthusiastically round the table to claim the seat beside Adam and learn more of the murder. Judith went off to check on her daughters, so Annie and her mother retreated to the peacock chamber alone.

“So reassuring, is it not, dear one?” her mother murmured.

“What do you find so reassuring, Mama?”

“Why, having gentlemen to depend upon,” she said, surprise in her tone. “You are very capable, Annie, and I greatly admire your resilience in the face of all the difficulties you have been required to deal with these past weeks, but there is no denying that it buoys one up to know that there are gentlemen taking care of all the unpleasant aspects of poor Mr Huntly’s death.”

“You do not find it reassuring that Sir Leonard is taking care of things?” Annie said, genuinely curious.

“Indeed it is, and Squire Thornton and Mr Adam Huntly have also been helpful. But Mr Willerton-Forbes and Captain Edgerton are of a different class altogether. London, dear one! So refined and sophisticated! One can see the difference immediately.”

“Can one?”

“Certainly! There is such a distinguished air about them. The manners, the cultivated mind, the courtliness! So agreeable to a lady. One so seldom sees it when one lives amongst the lower orders, like ourselves, for although your dear papa was a wonderful man, there was no denying that he was not exactly from the upper echelons of society. Even dear Lavinia — Lady Dillington, I should say — does not quite have that indefinable something that marks the illustrious highest ranks of our society. Lady Charlotte Litherholm — now there is true greatness! And I see something of that in Mr Willerton-Forbes.”

“And Captain Edgerton?”

Mrs Dresden could not quite bring herself to assign the flamboyant captain to the ranks of greatness, and for a moment she was confounded. She soon rallied, however, and said firmly, “The captain is an eccentric, perhaps, but if he is willing to add his efforts to those of Sir Leonard in order to apprehend the villainous murderer of poor Mr Huntly, then I for one shall not hear a word said against him. That poor man! Accosted as he walked home from church! How unspeakably evil the world is!”

She reached for her handkerchief, and settled down for a good cry. Annie was relieved when Judith returned and she could decently change the subject to something more cheerful.

Not surprisingly, the gentlemen were a long time making their way to the peacock chamber. They looked guiltily conspiratorial, and Annie wondered exactly what Adam had been saying. With a spark of anger, she realised that he might well have shared information with them that he would not deem suitable for her ears. Then she reminded herself that there were some unpleasant details she would not care to know. She must curb her resentment towards Adam, for who else had done more to help her? If he chose to keep some sordid aspects of her husband’s death from her, it was done with the highest motives, she was certain.

Mrs Dresden’s delicate sensibilities forbade any discussion of so unsavoury a subject as murder in the drawing room, so she at once drew Mr Willerton-Forbes into a lengthy discussion of his journey from London, the state of the roads and inns, and was his room to his satisfaction? He rose to the challenge, and after exhausting the experiences of travel, he became the polite guest and enquired about the house and the neighbourhood.

Annie could see that her mother needed no assistance, so she made her way to the window, where Adam and Captain Edgerton were conducting an animated yet low-voiced conversation. Adam broke off with a wide smile as soon as he noticed her.

“Ah, Cousin Annie! Just the person we need. Edgerton is keen to investigate Rupert’s murder, and has requested my aid in tracing his movements on the fatal day. I am perfectly willing to do it, but I would not for the world do anything which would cause you distress. You must tell me at once if such a scheme would not be acceptable to you.”

“It is hard to see what Captain Edgerton may discern that was not obvious to Sir Leonard Fairbrother and Squire Thornton, but he is welcome to try, with my goodwill. It is the most uncomfortable sensation to know that a man shot and killed my husband almost within sight of this house, and yet remains at large.”

“My dear lady, it must be disturbing indeed!” cried Captain Edgerton. “It is my earnest wish that my humble efforts can alleviate your concerns to some small degree.”

“You are very good, sir. Please feel free to seek whatever information would aid your quest.”

“May I speak to the servants?”

“By all means, and to anyone else you feel may be of use. Goodness, what is that noise?” They were standing close to the window, and as she spoke she realised that it must be rain beating against the panes. Lifting the curtains a little to peer out, she saw the windows awash with water. “It is pouring! Adam, you cannot go home in this weather. I shall tell Mrs Cumber—”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “It will pass off soon, and if not I am not too grand, I hope, to bed down in the hayloft for the night.”

“But it is no trouble, I assure you.”

“No trouble to you, but a great inconvenience for the servants.”

“May I offer a solution to this conundrum?” Captain Edgerton said with a smile. “I shall share with my friend, and you may take my bed, Huntly.”

“That would greatly inconvenience Mr Willerton-Forbes,” Adam protested. “But if you are minded to share with me, I might yet be preserved from a night in the straw.”

They continued to argue the point with great politeness for some time, and only the intervention of Mr Willerton-Forbes, who declared that he had once shared a bed with Captain Edgerton at an inn and would not repeat the experience for a dukedom, finally settled the matter.

Annie was restless that night. She tried to convince herself that it was only because of the rain rattling against the window panes, but deep inside she had to be honest — she was unsettled because Adam was in the house. And then she had the difficulty of explaining this peculiar response to herself. When she thought about it, she realised that, almost from the first moment she had known him, he had exerted a powerful effect on her spirits. Their earliest encounter, when he had taken her by surprise as she played at the instrument, had not been propitious, but his unfailing good humour had quickly won her round. He was a dreadful rattle, of course, but it was impossible to take offence at his teasing manner, which never stepped beyond the bounds of what was seemly. It had distressed her when they had fallen out, and pleased her greatly when their previously friendly accord had been restored. Now she was absurdly glad that he was sleeping in the second best guest room, and would be there for breakfast.

In this she was to be disappointed, for Adam and Captain Edgerton had risen with the dawn, Sheffield informed her, taken a few victuals with them and set off from the garden door on foot.

“How keen they are!” she said. “At least the rain has stopped, but it will be so wet underfoot, and every bush and tree dripping. They will be soaked through.”

“The gentlemen were very well shod, madam,” Sheffield said. “They wore heavy cloaks as well. I myself went to the Manor at first light to bring suitable clothing for Mr Huntly, so he is very well attired.”

“Nevertheless, tell the kitchen to be sure to have plenty of hot water ready for baths whenever they return.”

Mr Willerton-Forbes, happily, was not such an early riser, arriving late for breakfast and wading steadily through an improbable array of food for a man who was not at all plump. After breakfast, he asked to speak with Judith, but with Annie present too.

“Not that Mrs Huntly requires chaperonage,” he said, eyes twinkling, “but I must ask her a number of questions and she may find it reassuring to have another lady present.”

Annie invited him to use the hunting room for his interview, for that was the only downstairs room other than the buttery with a fire lit. He at once spotted Jerome’s many lists and diagrams spread over Rupert’s desk. Annie explained Jerome’s methodical search for the will.

“He has looked everywhere on the upper floors, so now he is working through the rooms on the ground floor,” she said. “Then it will be the cellars, the stables and the ice house, I suppose.”

“You are not optimistic of success, Mrs Huntly?”

“My husband was a very organised man, Mr Willerton-Forbes. I cannot believe he would have left his will in such a hard-to-find place. If it exists, this room is where it would be, for here is where he kept all his important papers, annotated and sorted and filed. It is not here, and therefore it does not exist. Or at least, it does not exist any longer, for we know he wrote a will shortly before his marriage. I am convinced that he has burnt it.”

“And yet… why would he do so? A man of such order as you describe, and trained as an attorney, I believe you said… he would understand very well the necessity for a will.”

“The estate is entailed and my settlement is secure, so perhaps he saw little need for a will.”

“There is always a need for a will,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said severely. “But perhaps it may yet turn up. I knew of one old gentleman who kept his will between the pages of a book.”

“Oh no!” Annie cried, gazing around at the shelves all around her. “Poor Jerome!”

“Fortunately, in that case the particular book was known, but it would be quite a chore in a room like this to examine every book. Master Jerome is very thorough,” he said, lifting a picture to examine it more closely. “A plan of the house, I see.”

“Yes, it usually hangs in the great hall, but Jerome has been examining it in some detail,” Annie said. “He will stare at the plan, then dash off somewhere, then return to repeat the exercise. He is looking for secret passages or a priest’s hole, I believe. It has been explained to him that such secret places would hardly be shown on the architect’s drawing, nor has anyone ever heard of such things here, but he will not be convinced. He spends a great deal of time tapping walls, in case one conceals a hidden place.”

“Ah, the optimism of the young,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said.

Judith arrived at that moment, so she and the lawyer took the chairs beside the fire for their discussion while Annie worked on her correspondence. When they had finished, and Judith had gone back to the nursery and Mr Willerton-Forbes to his room to write letters, Annie restlessly abandoned her own letters and went to the window. The hunting room was at the back of the house, with views over the garden towards the river. The sun was shining, the rain-washed clear air tempting her out of doors, and there was no Mr Huntly to frown disapprovingly at her abandonment of her usual routine. If Adam and the captain had returned, perhaps she would have stayed, but there was nothing to keep her indoors on such a fine day. It was the work of a few moments to fetch an old cloak and bonnet, and then she was free.

She walked, as so often, through the kitchen gardens, noting the progress of her herbs. The gardeners were not about, so she passed out through the arch at the far side of the walled garden and onto the path that wended its way through the shrubbery and into the wilderness. Here the bushes were heavy with raindrops still, and the air steamy from the heat of the sun. From there she crossed the deer pastures and thence in time came to the hazelnut grove on its small hill. There would have been a fine view looking back to the house from there, but it was obscured by overgrown brambles and dog roses.

If she had mentioned the idea to Mr Huntly perhaps he would have had all the brambles cleared away and a seat placed for her to enjoy the view, as he had done at the river. It was a happy memory to have of her husband and the kindliness he had sometimes shown her, yet she could not forget the way he had wrapped her tightly about with restrictions. She had always hoped that suffocating hold would loosen in time, but there had been no sign of it, rather the reverse. Would she have rebelled and been punished for it, or would she have become a timid little mouse, terrified to cross him? Equally hideous prospects. She could not help revelling in her freedom now, yet nor could she suppress the guilt that swept her when she thought thus of her husband.

If only he had been more like his cousin… She had once thought Adam too frivolous, but she had seen his serious side, too, and the unstinting kindness he had shown her was the greatest comfort. That was a happy memory, too — the unheralded arrival of her mother, aunt and uncle, and solely at Adam’s instigation. All her memories of Adam were happy ones, excepting only their one disagreement, but the scales were overwhelmingly weighted on the positive side. So many times he had rushed to her side when she needed him, or his lightness had lifted her spirits, or he had relieved her of an unwanted task. Even the thought of his generosity warmed her inside, so that she raised her head to the gentle rays of the sun filtering between the branches overhead, and smiled.

Before long, Annie came to the river, the willows rustling together like laundry maids gossiping. In a patch of sunshine butterflies clustered around late-flowering clumps of milk parsley and cranesbill. The river was high after the rain, rushing onwards between the banks, deep and fast-flowing. Annie breathed deeply, enjoying the respite from her darker cares. One day, far in the future, she would bring her child here to enjoy the river, to chase butterflies and to pick clouds of sweet-smelling riverbank flowers. The thought made her smile with delight as she walked. Her child! She would be a mother, as she had always wished.

She was unused to meeting anyone else there, so it was a surprise to find the under-gardener bending over the river-bank, a knife in his hand.

“Good morning, Davy. You are a long way from the gardens today.”

He turned sharply, an almost guilty look on his face. “Oh… madam… I… I didn’t know you came here at this time of day.”

“No, I usually take my walk later in the day. What are you doing?”

“Just… just cuttin’ a few reeds, madam.” He stood, showing her a few in his hand. Then, in a rush, he went on, “There’s a girl in the village weaves with them… baskets and such like. She asked me—”

“That is quite all right, Davy. We have plenty to spare, but I should not like you to neglect your other duties. Does Mr Dewey know where you are?”

“Oh, yes, madam. He sent me to pick blackberries. I just thought… since I was here…”

“Of course, but next time be sure to ask Mr Dewey’s permission to cut reeds. You will find plenty of ripe berries in the hazelnut copse.”

“Yes, madam. Thank you, madam.”

He picked up his basket and fled, making her smile ruefully. Davy was perhaps no more than fifteen or sixteen, and still young enough to be embarrassed about being caught in the most trivial misdemeanour. Still young enough, too, to be misled into trouble by the smile and pretty face of a village girl. She hoped he was reassured that he was not in imminent danger of being turned off without a character.

Annie walked a little way along the path until she reached her seat, still slightly damp from the rain. She had on her thick woollen cloak, so she sat and watched the river, and Lady Charlotte’s house in the distance, the chimneys smoking gently in the autumn sunshine, and reflected on her brief, troubled marriage. She would always be grateful to Mr Huntly for making her his wife, but she was relieved to be free of him. Now the future was hers to make, both for her child and for her own happiness.

And in a way that she found quite inexplicable, that brought her thoughts back to Adam.

20: Betrayal

As Annie walked back towards the kitchen garden she encountered Captain Edgerton, alone.

“Good morning, Captain. Have you lost my cousin?”

He made her a sweeping bow in his flamboyant way. “Not at all. He has merely returned to Wickstead Manor in order to bring Master Jerome here. Apparently there would be a riot of epic proportions if he neglected to fulfil this duty. Mrs Huntly, have you been out walking all alone? I do not wish to alarm you, but there is still a murderer at large.”

“You consider that there is still some risk?”

“Until the fellow is caught and his motives understood, there is always some risk. It would be prudent to take a companion on your walks for the present, until the investigation is complete and Sir Leonard is satisfied that there is no further cause for concern.”

“I understand. And have your own investigations this morning proved to be fruitful?”

He fell into step beside her and they walked through the arch into the walled garden. “Not as fruitful as they might have been, for although we could follow the route your husband must have taken on his last journey, we could not identify the place of attack.”

“Oh! Adam does not know?”

“He does not. He knew nothing of the event until the next day, by which time the… erm, the scene had been cleared. There is nothing now to suggest where it might have occurred. We identified three places that looked likely, places where an assailant might lurk out of sight awaiting his quarry, but we could not agree on the best one. I was all for the thick bushes near the Manor, but Huntly’s vote was for the point where the path veers towards the river.”

“Sir Leonard would be able to tell you, or perhaps Sheffield. I believe he was involved in recovering my husband’s body.”

“Then, if you have no objection, I shall apply to Sheffield.”

He rushed off enthusiastically to do so as soon as they reached the house. Annie went upstairs to remove her cloak and bonnet, and then returned downstairs. It was the hour when she had been accustomed to practise on the instrument, but it was still too early in her mourning for music, she felt. She was not minded for needlework, yet no more did the accounts appeal. She would read, she decided. Her uncle had brought her a treatise on diseases of the lungs which he thought might be of interest, and she had not yet cut the pages. Now she was in the right frame of mind for it.

She found Mr Willerton-Forbes in the hunting room, studying a book. “Ah! Mrs Huntly! I was just referring to your copy of Paterson for the times of the packet to Ireland, but I find that the Holyhead to Howth packet leaves every morning. That is good. I have written to my colleague Mr Neate, who is in Dublin at this very moment on some other business, and have charged him to go to Kilcarlow to meet Mrs Connell and find out from her just why she told me her son was unmarried. She lied to my face, Mrs Huntly, and I do not take kindly to that. She was not under oath, but nevertheless the question of next of kin is a legal matter, and honesty is required.”

“Is it possible that the marriage was not, in fact, legal?” Annie said tentatively.

“Ah,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said softly. “You are astute, madam. There is that possibility, it is true. I have seen Mrs Herbert Huntly’s marriage lines and I have written to the officiating clergyman to confirm the details. Mrs Huntly was underage, too, so there is the question of consent and also… Hmm, one does not like to suggest such a thing of a respectable widow, but the legitimacy of birth of both parties must be addressed. One can never take such things for granted.”

This line of thought reminded Annie of James Huntly, and here was the ideal opportunity to obtain a legal opinion from a lawyer. Accordingly, she showed him the family Bible, and also the letter from Mrs Connell stating that James was her husband’s child, and in any event was dead.

“How interesting!” the lawyer cried. “Families are so fascinating, do you not agree? Always more complicated than one might suppose. On the question of who fathered the boy, in English law it is irrelevant. Mr Henry Huntly was still legally married to his wife, and he acknowledged the child as his in the Bible, therefore he is a legitimate heir. The legality of the marriage has already been proved by the successful application of the entail to Mr Herbert Huntly and to your husband. Therefore the law would recognise James Huntly as an heir, were he still alive. But if you wish it, I shall amend my letter to Mr Neate and he will obtain the exact date of death for you, so that you may add it to the Bible.”

Annie accepted with gratitude. She did not mention her theory that James Huntly might be still alive and stalking her family with pistols, but to her surprise, Mr Willerton-Forbes himself bolstered the idea, frowning as he reread Mrs Connell’s letter.

“It is curious that this line about the child being dead is so obviously added later,” he said thoughtfully. “If the lady had so little compunction in lying to my face, I daresay she would not have hesitated to lie in writing, also. I wonder whether the boy did not in fact die in infancy, but is alive and well. And if so, he would be a very strong candidate for our murderer.”

~~~~~

They sat down eleven for dinner that evening. All the Huntly brothers were there, in return for their hospitality at Wickstead Manor, and Annie had recklessly invited Mr and Mrs Popham. It was too soon to be entertaining in the regular way, but feeding the clergyman and his wife would attract no censure, and Annie wished to show her gratitude for Mrs Popham’s tireless visiting. She had taken no notice of the convention for reciprocity in morning calls, and Annie had been very glad of her company, having no other callers. Before too long it would be permissible to send out her cards and begin making and receiving calls, and how she longed for that day! She loved Willow Place and all the beauty of the house and grounds, but it was a lonely place for a woman with few friends. She would welcome even the gentle round of visits that the local society afforded.

Adam seemed a little subdued that evening, not his usual joking self, and when he attempted a jest, it seemed forced. Happily the company’s need for amusement was filled by Captain Edgerton, who, by an unfortunate chance, was seated next to Jerome at table. The captain charitably sought to entertain the boy with some of his inexhaustible fund of exotic tales, but it was not enough for Jerome to sit and listen quietly. No, he wished to know the exact length of the snake and its width and why it took so long to digest its prey and the precise arrangement of colours on its skin. Or else he enquired with intense interest into the height of the elephant and the speed at which it was travelling and the precise curvature of its tusks. And then he was curious about the size of the tiger and how fast it was running. It was this latter point which sank the captain finally.

“You see, sir,” Jerome said earnestly, “if the tiger was as large as a small horse and moving as fast as you say, then I do not see that it could have been stopped. Every moving object has a thing called momentum which carries it forward, or so Mr Crick says. He teaches at my school, and he knows about these things. One may see how it works if one attempts to catch a cricket ball moving at great speed and one’s hand is pushed backwards very hard. Mr Crick says that the momentum of bodies depends on the quantum of their velocity multiplied by that of their matter, so if the tiger were very large and heavy, and leaping very fast, it could not be stopped, sir. Or so it seems to me.”

“But its head was blown off. That would stop it, would it not?” the captain said.

“It would certainly give it pause for thought,” Benedict said, to a ripple of laughter.

“No, it would not stop it,” Jerome said, ignoring his brother’s interruption. “Not once it was flying through the air and was as close to the gun as you say. I think perhaps you may be mistaken about some of the details of your story, Captain. Although it is a very good story, and you tell it very well,” he added politely.

The company looked expectantly at the captain. He opened his mouth, shut it again, frowned, then shook his head with a rueful laugh. “You are a very clever young man, and I believe you have bested me, Master Huntly. Nevertheless, there was a large tiger who did leap directly at the lady with the gun who—”

“A lady!” Jerome said disgustedly. “Now I know you are telling a plumper, Captain Edgerton. Ladies do not shoot tigers.”

“This one did,” the captain said, more confidently. “Tiger Blythe, everyone called her, and what a woman she was in those days! She is almost respectable nowadays, having married the brother of a marquess and settled in Yorkshire.”

“There are no tigers in Yorkshire,” Jerome said solemnly.

“True, although the marquess can become quite fierce if crossed, so I am informed.”

“I hope she does not shoot him, then,” Jerome said. “Are there any more of the fried artichokes, Edwin?”

Mr Popham, who was on Captain Edgerton’s other side, diplomatically asked a question about the food in India and rescued Captain Edgerton from the uncompromising interrogation of a twelve-year-old boy with a scientific bent.

After dinner, no one quite liked to propose cards in a house of mourning, so the party broke up early, the Pophams, Edwin and Jerome in Adam’s carriage while Adam and Benedict rode.

The next day being Sunday, Annie and her mother stayed quietly at home again, but Judith, her daughters and the visitors squeezed into the carriage to go to church. Only the females returned thus, however, Mr Willerton-Forbes and Captain Edgerton electing to walk back from Wickstead. Since they travelled along the path Mr Huntly had taken on the fateful day, and it took them almost two hours, Annie surmised that they were again searching for clues as to the place where the murder had taken place. They said nothing about it, however, returning with serious faces and going straight upstairs to change their clothes, being rather damp and dishevelled, as if they had been scrabbling about under dripping bushes. Later, clearly finding Sunday pursuits indoors too tame for him, the energetic captain went out again, for ‘a long walk beside your beautiful River Durran’. But when he returned, he could not say where in particular he had walked or what he had seen. He was no observer of nature.

Annie went early to her bed, although not from boredom. Quietude brought her ease, not restlessness, and even in a lively, chattering group she preferred to watch and listen and absorb the high spirits of the others more than to contribute herself. Sundays were always her favourite days, when everyone was as placid as she was, and there were no raised voices or clacking brooms or busyness.

When her father had been alive, there had been the soothing routine of the Sabbath — the household gathered to read the psalms, then Morning Prayers in church, enlivened by the sermon with which her father had been wrestling all week, followed by dinner with two roasts and wine to toast the Lord, and finally the evening silent but for Papa’s gentle snores. Willow Place had something of the same tranquillity now that Mr Huntly was not there to recite sermons all day long. She had not noticed at the time how much he had talked, even when they worked side by side at their desks, his voice interrupting her thoughts constantly. Now she could be herself again.

She slept deeply but woke suddenly in darkness, her heart racing. Something was wrong! What had woken her? But then a thumping sound made her smile. Only the window. Sliding out of bed and padding across the room, the rug smooth and soft under her bare toes, she discovered that the window had slipped off its latch, leaving the casement to bang with every twist of the wind. Reaching across, she opened it wide and secured it in place again, taking a long breath of cool air. She smiled to remember how Mr Huntly had rebuked her for the smallest exposure to the harmful effects of night air. How he would frown to see her now, standing beside an open window wearing only her nightgown! Yet the air was so fresh and invigorating, and not so cold at this season as to make her shiver.

A slight movement in the darkness outside caught her eye. Her insides twisted in sudden fear. Was it the murderer, returning for her this time? Who else would be out there in the pre-dawn darkness except someone bent on mischief? She stared out until her eyes watered with the effort, but the night was inky black, with no moon or stars to cast even the feeblest glow. Surely she must have been mistaken…

There is was again, something pale moving… no, not moving, that was just an illusion, she thought. But something was out there in the garden. Or someone.

A sudden beam of light shocked her. A lantern… someone had uncovered a lantern. It fell on a face, a man in a shirt and loose coat. It was the same man she had seen many times before. He almost looked familiar to her, but that might just be a trick of the odd light. It could hardly be a man she knew. So he was the murderer — he must be, for why else would he be here, lurking about at night? No honest man had any business to be creeping round in the darkness.

The light disappeared, the lantern hastily covered, no doubt. That, above all, told her that the man in the garden was up to no good, for anyone with a legitimate purpose to be out on such a dark night would light his way openly.

A second light, stronger, and falling on another face, another man who—

Adam!

She gasped as she recognised him. How could she not know him? His face was so familiar to her, so reassuring in its usual guise of warm, smiling friendship. But he was not her friend, rather he was her enemy. He was working with the murderer… he might even be the murderer himself! Dear God! How could she protect herself from a man who ran tame in the house, who was family?

Quickly she drew back from the window in case he should look up and see her. Her heart was thundering and she could hardly breathe. She paced across the room, across the rug and onto the cool wooden floor, then back again, her arms hugging herself as if to offer to tiny shred of comfort.

How could she have been so wrong about anyone? She had trusted him, and he had betrayed her. Either he was a murderer himself or he was working with the murderer. She could scarcely believe that her judgement had been so faulty. Once again she had been deceived by polished manners and a smooth exterior, knowing nothing of the man inside.

But wait… this was not how her father and her uncle had taught her. She needed to consider the problem rationally. Was it possible that there was a benign explanation for this?

She sat down at her dressing table to consider the question. What did she know for certain? The first man, the unknown man who looked oddly familiar, had been lurking around for many weeks, even before Rupert’s death. He had stood in the garden near the shrubbery in the early morning — it would have been June when she first saw him, so it must have been four or five o’clock. She jumped up to check the mantel clock — a quarter past five, so a similar time. He had not moved about, but simply stood and watched her window… no, she could not be certain he was watching her window. It could have been Rupert’s window… or any window, or none, she admitted punctiliously. He appeared to be watching the house, that was as much as she could say with assurance.

As for Adam… there had only been this one glimpse of him, but she had known him instantly. She could not be mistaken on the point. Nor did it matter that she had not seen him before, for once was enough. He was conspiring with the murderer— No, she must be honest. She did not know that either of them was connected to the murder. Nevertheless, all her suspicions were aroused.

But if not that, then why else were they loitering in the garden? Why had Adam pretended that he did not know the other man? Why had he pretended to find out about him, and then tell her that farrago of nonsense about romantic assignations? As if any rational man would be out at a quarter past five on an autumn morning for romantic reasons… and why was Adam there, in that case? The whole story was a tissue of lies.

Oh, Adam! Her friend, whom she had trusted… whom she had so badly wanted to trust, and he was nothing but a deceiver. Her first impression of him as a man of glib words and no substance was, after all, the true one. He had betrayed her.

She laid her head on the uncaring polished wood of the dressing table and wept.

21: An Afternoon Walk

As soon as the first ragged shards of dawn showed between the clouds, Annie sent for Betty. For the first time, the slight discomfort she now felt in the mornings manifested in violent sickness, but despite Betty’s strongly worded advice to return to bed, she insisted on dressing. Then she went slowly, reluctantly down to the hunting room, lit a candelabrum and sat down at her desk. The fire had been laid but not yet lit, but a few shivers suited her despairing mood.

This was not something she could ignore. There was only one way to resolve the issue, and that was to address it head on. Accordingly, she pulled out a sheet of paper, trimmed a pen and began to write. She was not minded to hedge her words about with sweeteners, so even though her letters wavered more than usual, what emerged was blunt.

‘Cousin Adam, I saw you in the garden this morning with the other suspicious man. Please come at once to explain yourself. Annie Huntly.’

Then she sent Billy off to deliver it to Wickstead Manor, while she paced about the room awaiting his answer. Would he come? Probably he would, and she had given him time to prepare one of his glib reassurances. If he were back at home after his night-time excursion, it would take him perhaps half an hour to dress, then he would have to saddle his horse and ride over to Willow Place. An hour, at the best. Perhaps longer. She prepared herself for a long wait, but she could settle to nothing else until she had seen him, so she paced. Up and down the room, up and down, her hands clenched together with painful tightness.

He was there in three quarters of an hour, his hair disordered and his neckcloth a hasty knot. He must have entered the house from the stables, for there was no Sheffield to announce him. The anguish in his face was unmistakable.

“Annie, I cannot—”

“You lied to me!” she cried, her distress boiling over into outrage. “You lied to me!”

“No! Never! Annie, I have never, ever lied to you.” He had stopped just inside the door, but as he spoke he moved forwards towards her, then, as if holding himself in check, stopped, his hands held out in mute appeal.

“You did! You told me you knew nothing of the strange man I saw, but you were with him last night. You said—”

“I never said I did not know him.”

That gave her pause. “What? But… you did not tell me that you did know him. You promised to investigate and then you told me some nonsense about a romantic affair. It was all lies.”

“Annie, I swear to you upon my honour that I have never once lied to you. It is true that I have not always told you everything, and I am sorry for it, but I could not.”

He held his arms wide from his body, palms outward, and all her instincts told her that he was speaking the truth. Yet her instincts had betrayed her before. She dared not trust them now.

“I do not believe you. Why were you sneaking about in the grounds this morning with a stranger? What possible connotation can be placed upon such actions?”

He licked his lips, a hunted expression on his face. “You have trusted me up to this point, so can you not trust me just a little longer? We mean you no harm, I swear it.”

“I cannot believe a word you say.”

“It is the absolute truth, as God is my witness. Annie, you must believe me — I would never, ever harm you, and I have never told you a lie, not once.”

“But you have not been open with me,” she cried. “You sometimes seem so confiding, so respectful of me, and yet you shut me out. How can I trust you when you will not trust me?”

“Oh Annie, if you only knew how much I want to!” His voice cracked, and he closed his eyes almost as if he were in pain. “It cuts me like a knife to keep you in the dark, but it has all been done for the best of intentions.”

“Best of intentions! Ha!” she said scornfully. “That is treating me like a child.” She turned away from him in disgust. “Go away, Adam. Go away and never come back.”

His howl of torment brought her spinning round to face him again.

“Annie, for God’s sake, do not send me away from you! You must know— I could not— Please, I beg you…Please…” He uttered something like a sob, taking a step towards her, but she would never be swayed by his words again. In a low growl, utterly unlike his usual light tone, he went on, “I would die if I could not see you.”

She stared at him, bewildered. What was he saying? A bubble of something rose inside her, warm and joyful. Hope… that was what it was. And yet, she could not accept anything he said, not any more.

His face changed, and he seemed to collapse in upon himself. He rubbed his forehead, eyes closed, and she was struck by how tired he looked. No wonder, if he had been wandering about Willow Place at night.

“Oh, Annie,” he said wearily. “I am trying to protect you — we all are. It seemed best to tell you nothing about it, not after the shock of Rupert’s death, and your condition. We are taking shifts to patrol the grounds and watch the house, day and night. I assumed at first that the murder was just an encounter with ruffians… that Rupert was unlucky. But then the letter came from Aunt Connell and you suggested that James Huntly might be still alive and… that was a worrying thought. Captain Edgerton has been very helpful in organising us properly, finding likely points of entry and so on. He discovered, too, that the boat house has been used again recently, and not by anyone from the house, so you see—”

“The boat house!” She stopped, unwilling to concede an inch, yet it was plausible, oh so plausible. The desperation in his expression tore at her very soul — he looked like a man who had lost everything he cared about, his face riven by grief. More softly, she said, “You were protecting me?”

He nodded, heaved a breath, tried to speak, failed. He shook his head, his arms hanging limply by his side. She had never seen him so deflated and lost.

“Who is he? That man I have seen… you know him, so who is he?”

“John Ransome, my bailiff.”

As soon as he spoke the name, she recognised him. She had only seen him at church and that one time he had acted as footman at Adam’s house, but he it was whom she had seen in the garden.

Without waiting for her to speak, Adam rushed on, “He has been in love with Judith for… years, I suppose. Ever since Cousin Herbert died, John has been coming here at night to see Judith. She goes to the attic room above yours and waves to him. They dare not do more, not while she is still in mourning for her husband, for she is terrified of losing her reputation, but as soon as her year is up, they will marry. I break a promise by telling you this, but I cannot withhold anything from you. I know you will respect the secret.”

All Annie’s anger was draining away. He had not lied to her, he had wanted only to protect her… the relief! He was still her friend… but she was in danger! She and her child were in terrible danger! She was overwhelmed with a suffocating wave of dread, robbing her of the power of speech. Staggering backwards, she collapsed onto a sofa, breaking into noisy sobs.

He did not hesitate. At once he was beside her, his arms around her. She turned her face into his coat and cried piteously for a long time. All her shapeless fears rose up to drown her, and she could not think, could not compose herself, could not stop the hot tears from pouring unchecked down her face. She cried and he held her tight in blessed silence.

After a while, she was aware that her tears had lessened, and Adam was murmuring above her head. He was not saying anything meaningful, merely soothing nothings, a gentle rumble that inexplicably calmed her.

She twisted her head to look at him. His face was so close to hers! So close that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek, could hear every ragged intake of air. Could see his eyes, so blue, like deep pools filled with sorrow and hunger…

Somehow, and she could not say how it happened, they were kissing. Such sweetness in his kiss! Rupert’s kisses had been greedy and demanding, but Adam’s were soft and gentle and warm, filled with affection. With love, she realised, belatedly. He loved her. She had known that, of course, even if she had tried to deny the truth of it. Cecilia had revealed it, and her mother had hinted at it, oh so subtly. And Rupert had known! He had been jealous, of course, and that was why he had forbidden Adam the house.

Wrenching away from her with a cry, Adam jumped to his feet and threw himself across the room, his face filled with anguish.

“Oh God! Annie, I… forgive me, I… Oh, dear God, what have I done? I will leave at once!”

“No!” she cried jumping to her feet. It was an impulsive response, but she knew what it meant. “Do not go. Please.”

He stood, an arrested expression on his face. His hands, held up as if to ward her off, lowered. His breathing was rough, but when he spoke, his voice was low and controlled. “What would you have me do? I am yours to command.”

The answer rose unbidden in her mind. “Hold me. Please… hold me.”

He took a step forward, unsure. Then another and another. Slowly, he came to her, opened his arms, wrapped her in his embrace.

It was like coming home. After the turbulence of the last few months, finally she was safe and secure and loved, truly loved for herself and not as some kind of precious creature to be shut away from the world. She was tall enough, she discovered, that her head rested most comfortably on his shoulder. He said nothing, but his breathing was rapid and he shook very slightly. Or perhaps she was the one shaking, it was hard to say.

The clock struck the hour. Was it really only eight o’clock? She lifted her head. He was smiling at her! Very tentatively, she stretched out one hand and touched his face, the cheek rough and unshaven. He closed his eyes momentarily, but the smile widened.

“You do not object to me touching you?” she said softly.

The eyes opened wide. “How could I possibly object to so wonderful a gesture?”

“Rupert did,” she said, with a spurt of bitterness. “He never held me, never allowed me to show him any affection.”

“Then he was a fool,” Adam said quietly. “He never understood what a treasure he held in his hand. If you were mine—” He stopped, the breathing becoming uneven again. Then, slowly, he said, “Forgive me. That was presumptuous.”

“I cannot make you any promises,” she said, her hand still on his bristly cheek. “I hardly know how I feel at this moment, still less how I may feel in a year’s time, except that… I am grateful. I needed to be held.”

“You needed tenderness,” he said. “To be allowed to grow, not smothered with adoration.”

“Rupert said I was like a rosebud, tightly furled. He wished to keep me that way for ever.”

“Whereas I would love to see you unfurl those beautiful petals,” he said, smiling down at her.

“I should like that, too,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “But first, I must mourn my husband and await my confinement. Then, perhaps, I might unfurl my petals.”

“I shall look forward to it,” he said. “And until that day, I shall be your protector, your friend, your shoulder to rest your head upon. My arms are always available to hold you. All I ask is that you do not send me away from you.”

“That you may depend upon,” she said.

~~~~~

For days, Annie walked about in a glow of contentment. She knew she should not, with her husband only three weeks dead, and she hoped it was not obvious to the world, but she could not suppress her joy. Adam loved her! He was her true friend and protector, and he loved her. He had not lied to her, he had never lied to her, and for some unfathomable reason that mattered more than anything.

She did not attempt to examine her own feelings closely. To admit that she loved Adam would be a betrayal of the worst kind to Rupert. He had not been a perfect husband to her, far from it, but he had done his best. She was not even sure if love was what she felt. So she had said to Adam, and it was true enough. Her education at the hands of her father and later, her uncle, had taught her never to make assumptions and always to keep to the facts. Whether it was the weather or healing remedies or her own heart, she would not presume to draw conclusions until she had more evidence. Adam raised her spirits and made her feel at ease with the world, chasing away her megrims and worries, and that was enough for now. A shoulder to rest her head upon, and arms to hold her. And lips to kiss her gently, but she would not think about that. Not yet. Next spring, when she held her child in her arms, God willing… then she would think about kissing and the condition of her heart.

There were more immediate worries, however, like a murderer still at large. The rational part of her mind told her that the likelihood of James Huntly being both still alive and bent on murder was vanishingly small, but someone had killed Rupert, and until the reasons for that were known, there was no certainty.

For three days, therefore, she obediently followed Captain Edgerton’s instructions not to walk in the park alone. Since it rained steadily every day and the wind was from the east, this was no hardship. She stayed indoors and caught up with her correspondence, worked her way through the pile of books she had selected from the more interesting shelves of the hunting room, and watched the progress of Jerome’s search for the missing will as he worked steadily through the principal rooms of the house. He had deliberately left the hunting room till last, since Adam had already searched it rather thoroughly, and the many hundreds of books to be examined was dispiriting, but each day he drew nearer to that prospect.

“Sorry to interrupt, Cousin Annie,” he would say cheerfully in his ringing voice as he burst in upon her once more, Edwin just behind him, to check his lists, or to cross off another room.

Sometimes Adam would appear in their wake, raising a rueful eyebrow at his brothers’ antics, and Annie would share a secret smile with him that warmed her inside.

But then the rain stopped, the sun emerged and Annie gazed wistfully out of the window at the shimmering rain-speckled greenery. In that strange way he had of divining her changes of mood, Adam said, “Is this not your usual time for a walk?”

“It is, and I would like nothing better than to stroll along the river on such a wonderful day, but Captain Edgerton has forbidden me from walking alone.”

“Ah, that is sensible. Is there no one willing to accompany you?”

She laughed. “Mama is no walker! A stroll to the hot houses to pick grapes exhausts her. Judith would go, perhaps, but she thinks Isobel is feverish, and I can hardly take the servants away from their duties to trail around the estate after me.”

“What excellent news! I have been looking for some excuse to drag Jerome and Edwin out of the house before they grow so pale and wilted from lack of sunshine that they fade away altogether. We shall all go for a walk beside the river.”

It took some time to convince Jerome of the benefit of leaving the house when there was a search to be completed, and it was only when Annie suggested that brisk exercise was conducive to improving the workings of the brain that he was persuaded to accede.

“Is that true?” Adam said in an undertone, as they finally left the house. “That walking helps the operation of the brain?”

“Well, it helps mine,” she said seriously. “If ever I have a tricky problem to address, I take a brisk walk and very often by the time I return to the house, I know how best to proceed.”

“What a useful theory. I shall remember that when next I need to tear him away from some compelling project or other. Now Benedict is too much the other way. Can you come up with an opposing theory, do you suppose, such that I may convince him that an occasional day at home will improve his riding skills?”

“Of course,” she said at once. “Everything must be in balance. Exercise must be balanced by rest, and mental exercise by physical exertion. The man-made wonders of art and created objects must be balanced by the beauties of nature.” She waved a hand towards the sinuous line of trees marking the river’s edge, their end-of-summer dark greens just tinged with the first hint of autumn gold. Ahead of them, where Jerome and Edwin were chattering animatedly, a pair of rabbits flushed from the long grass raced for shelter. Far above, a buzzard circled lazily in a rain-washed sky of palest blue.

“The beauties of nature… you are a philosopher, Cousin Annie.”

That made her smile, and shake her head. “Not in the least, but who could look at all this and remain unmoved? I love this place! The pleasure grounds, the walled garden, the park, the river… there is beauty in all of it, and to see it, to walk through it and be a part of it makes me feel whole, somehow. At one with the world.”

“Is it only the estate which has this effect on you, or is the house part of it also?”

“I love the house, too, but in a different way. There is a worldly pleasure in being mistress of such an establishment, and there is much about it to admire, but it does not feel like my house. It is a Huntly house, filled with the choices of… is it three generations of Huntlys now? There is not a chair or rug or painting anywhere that I selected. Not even a single book! Nor do I feel able to make any changes, not until I know whether I am to stay here. I am a tenant, a temporary resident, no more than that.” Edwin and Jerome, far ahead, vanished from sight into the bushes lining the river. She laughed suddenly. “If you intended your brothers as chaperons, Cousin Adam, I believe the scheme is a failure.”

A long pause. “Does that worry you?”

“Not at all.” She turned her head to look at him, seeing the slightly strained expression in his face. “It pleases me that there is no awkwardness between us after… what happened.”

“It pleases me too,” he said, but his voice was low and tense. He stopped abruptly, hands on hips and head low. “I think I must go away. I… I cannot do this, Annie. I cannot go on day after day, pretending, being distantly polite to you. How can we meet publicly as no more than friends when I hope for so much more from you? All I want to do is to take you in my arms and kiss you, and it is driving me to the point of madness. Help me, Annie! Tell me to go away, for God’s sake, before I do something we will both regret.”

“If I were to do so, would you go away?”

“Of course! I want nothing more than your happiness, you must believe me, and I am determined not to press you, but it is so difficult when—”

“When?”

“When I love you so much!” In a whisper, he added, “I cannot bear it. Help me, Annie, I beg of you.”

22: A Seat Beside The River

All Annie’s careful plans to put off any romantic thoughts until the spring were lost in the face of Adam’s impassioned plea. She had to face the truth of it — he loved her deeply, and it would be cruel to keep him dangling. Yet she could not commit herself, not yet. Love was too difficult, and her own feelings too confusing.

To give herself time to consider her answer, she said, “There is a seat not far from here where we may talk.”

“A seat? Is there?” But he willingly turned and headed in the direction she indicated.

“There used to be a fallen tree with a trunk of a very convenient width to sit upon. When he saw that I liked the spot, Rupert had the tree trunk removed and a wooden seat placed there.”

“Oh.”

“He was very kind, in some ways,” she said cautiously. How inept of her to raise the subject of Rupert with Adam at such a time! Yet it could hardly be ignored. He must not be forgotten or never spoken of, as if he had never existed.

To her relief, Adam said, “He was. He loved you very well, in his own way. Did you—?” He stopped with an exclamation of annoyance. “Forgive me. I should not ask such impertinent questions.”

“I hope you may ask me anything you wish to know,” she said. “I will not answer if the question makes me uncomfortable.”

“Then… oh, this is a lovely place!”

They were come to the seat with its tranquil view between the willows towards Durran House, Lady Charlotte’s home. Somewhere in the distance, Jerome’s high voice and Edwin’s lower one could be heard. There was a splash, followed by a shriek, and with slow flaps a heron took off and flew low over the water, settling a little further upstream. The river was high after the rain, but there were no rocks or rapids here to slow its progress, so the water sped swiftly and silently towards its meeting with the Avon at Salisbury.

They sat, Annie at one end of the seat and Adam at the other.

“What were you going to ask me?”

“Only… did you love him, Annie? You must have had some affection for him, or you would scarcely have married him.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise, but then she laughed. “Perhaps only a man could think so. I was six and twenty years old, and had never received a single offer of marriage. Oh, a few had thought about it, I am sure, and one or two even went to Papa, but nothing ever came of it. I have never laid claim to beauty or wit or accomplishments, and my only portion will be Mama’s three thousand pounds after her death. It is not a great inducement for a man, is it? And then Rupert came along, a respectable man, a gentleman, with a fine house and two thousand a year… how on earth could I possibly refuse him? Affection had nothing to do with it. I did not dislike him, and so I accepted him.”

He exhaled slowly, then shook his head, bemused. “I had assumed — in fact, he implied as much himself — that there was some long-standing arrangement between you, an understanding from years ago.”

“If he said so, then he lied, or was mistaken, perhaps, for there was no understanding. He wished to marry me eight years ago, but he had not the income to support a wife then and Papa would not permit him to pay his addresses to me. Even if he had, I am not at all sure that I would have accepted him, not then. What seems so eminently suitable at six and twenty is not always so appealing at eighteen. At that age, I still felt I had… possibilities. Something would turn up, it seemed to me. Oh, the optimism of youth! After he left, I cannot say that I thought about him at all. Did he imagine I stayed single for his sake? Poor, deluded man! I should have married in a heartbeat if anyone had ever asked me.”

Adam laughed, and for the first time the anxiety creases on his forehead softened. “I had no idea!” he said, still chuckling. “When he told us in April that he was to marry, he—”

“April! He said that in April?”

“Why, yes. What of it?”

“He presumed a great deal, then, for he did not call upon me until May.”

“It was definitely April,” Adam said. “He was here in early March, when Herbert’s body was finally brought back from Cornwall — and what a business that was! But still, Rupert was here for a few days for the burial and the reading of the will. Then he went away again, back to Grantham, we all supposed. He returned in April, told everyone he was about to be married and ordered all the rooms and furniture rearranged. The next time he appeared was in June, with you. And you knew nothing of it until May?”

“Not a thing. He called one Wednesday without a word of warning, and by the following Tuesday we were betrothed. He had a friend in Guildford, so I suppose he must have known that I was still unwed, still living under my uncle’s shelter. He would have guessed that I could not refuse him. Still, one likes to be asked before the furniture is rearranged.”

Adam laughed. “How presumptuous of him. But thank you, Annie.”

“Whatever for?” she said, turning to him with a questioning tilt of the head.

“For talking me down from the boughs. You are of such a practical nature, that even my agitation cannot be sustained. However, I should still like to know if you wish me to go away.”

“Wish it? No, I do not wish it. But equally, I do not want to make your life uncomfortable.” She stopped, hesitating, but she had always found that honesty was the best way forward in difficulties such as this. “Adam, I said that I could make you no promises, and that is true. Who can say what may happen before my year of mourning is over? But I will tell you this, if it will bring you comfort. I have never wanted anything in my life except one thing — to be married, to be a wife and mother, to have my own family about me. I grew up in such a happy house. My parents had a deep affection for each other, and for me, but I was the only child and I felt the lack of brothers and sisters almost as much as my mother did. Poor Mama! She lamented her failure, as she saw it, for years, and so did I. How I should have loved to be part of a big, happy brood. I envy you yours, however troublesome they may be.”

In the distance more shrieks and splashes marked the location of Jerome and Edwin. She laughed, and went on, “When Mama and I went to Uncle Tom’s house, I saw just how wonderful a large family could be. They have five children now, and there may yet be more, who knows. I should like very much to have such a family. And that means another husband. When I am finally out of black gloves, I am sure that I will be looking about me for another husband and if you are here, waiting…”

“Ahhh,” he said, a soft sigh that was almost inaudible. “And yet… I would not have you marry me simply because I am a gentleman with a fine house and a good income.”

“If it should come to a question of marriage,” she said carefully, for she was anxious not to say anything which would give him false hope, or bind her irrevocably, “there is far more to you than that. You are not a stranger to me, as Rupert was. But such a discussion is for the future, I think.”

“You are right,” he said quickly, but he seemed downhearted by her non-committal words, and lapsed into brooding silence.

To distract him, she said, “Is there any news from Sir Leonard? He has been here several times to talk to the servants, but not lately. Has he abandoned his enquiries?”

Adam’s face relaxed a little at the more neutral subject. “I believe not. I asked him that very question at church on Sunday, but he gave only the vaguest of answers. When I invited him to dinner, as I do every month without fail, he refused it, and I am not sure what to make of that, for such a thing has never been known before. He is one of my most faithful guests. But perhaps he feels that he must keep his distance from anyone touched by the tragedy until he has resolved the matter in his own mind. He is still asking questions around Wickstead, that is all I know.”

“At the Manor, or in the village?” Annie said.

“Both. One must assume that he has his suspicions about someone from the area, and it makes sense, since Rupert was returning from the church when he was attacked. But still, one wonders what he hopes to find after more than three weeks. He is too secretive by far, if you want my opinion. Captain Edgerton asked me if I would help him to further his own investigation by introducing him to the coroner and this army fellow, Major Corbett, who inspected the wounds from the gunshot. He has spoken to the coroner, who would tell him nothing but what is known generally, but only Sir Leonard knows the major, and he refuses to allow Captain Edgerton to talk to him.”

“I have his card,” Annie said thoughtfully. “He is from Salisbury, I believe, so he should be easy enough to find, and if I write a letter to him explaining that Captain Edgerton has my authority to investigate my husband’s death…?”

“That might do the trick,” Adam said, with a flash of his usual sunny smile. “How clever you are! Oh, look, here are my two ragamuffins. Is there any water left in the river, Jerome, or is it all clinging to your person? If I had known you meant to swim, I should have brought towels.”

“We have not been swimming,” Jerome said with dignity. “We were racing stick boats, and they needed a certain amount of encouragement. We had to flap at them with bigger sticks and the water got spread about rather.”

“Whatever am I to do with them?” Adam said to Annie, laughing and shaking his head.

“Did you never get wet when you were a boy?” Annie said with a smile.

“Naturally I did, but I had the manners not to appear before a lady soaked to the skin.”

“It is only Cousin Annie, and she will not mind, will you, Annie?” Jerome said cheerfully.

“I shall not mind a bit, so long as you find dry clothes and a warm fire before very long. I shall mind a great deal if you take a chill from this little game.”

“Oh, we will not take a chill, or if we do, you can physic us. Come on, Edwin, let us find out where the heron went.”

“No herons,” Adam said firmly. “Not until you are out of those wet things. Go home and change, both of you.”

“But—”

“No argument. Off you go.”

“Race you!” Edwin said, and within seconds they were gone, bashing their way through the undergrowth so that birds screeched upwards in alarm, and the poor heron, disrupted once more, flapped his slow way downstream again.

For a while Annie and Adam sat on in silence, while the sounds of the two boys disappeared into the distance and the river returned to its afternoon somnolence. For herself, she felt it was a comfortable silence, as between friends, but she could not be sure that Adam felt the same way. He sat at the far end of the seat, elbows on knees, head down, lost in thought. The contrast with Rupert was striking. Her husband had liked to watch her — always he had watched her, with an unnervingly intense scrutiny. Adam, though, did not. Yet both claimed to love her. And that in itself was strange, that two men, so very different, should fall in love with the same woman.

Frowning, she turned her head a fraction to gaze at the water sailing past. She was caught up in an odd sensation, as if the water were still and she herself were moving, rushing off to some unknown future. Which she was, of course. Only four months ago, her life had been spiralling down into permanent spinsterhood, to become one of those myriad women every town could boast — industrious, respectable women, always bustling about on good works or family business, perpetually at the beck and call of others. And now, she found herself with not one but two men who loved her, and—

“What is so puzzling as to bring a frown to that smooth forehead of yours?” Adam said. It was akin to magic, that way he always knew when her mood shifted, even without looking at her, just as country folk could detect a change in the weather by some sixth sense that owed nothing to science or learning.

As always, she had to be honest. “I was wondering what it is about me that causes not one, but two men to single me out. There is nothing special about me in the slightest, and I am not fishing for compliments here, so do not think it, but I cannot account for it.”

He smiled gently. “Ah, love! It is mysterious, is it not? You look at yourself in the mirror, Annie, and think ‘Who could possibly fall in love with me?’ whereas I look in the mirror and think ‘Who could possibly not fall in love with me?’ And there is the difference between us.”

His lightness made her laugh. “I was used to think you too frivolous, Adam, but you always lift my spirits. You lift everyone’s spirits, in whatever company you find yourself, and that is a rare gift indeed.”

“Do I?” he said, his face lightening at once. “Do I lift your spirits?” She nodded, and he sat back with a smile of satisfaction, folding his arms. “Ah, how much I have hoped that was so! You were always so quiet, so subdued that I wanted more than anything to make you laugh. How pleased I was when I managed to raise a smile from you! And then Rupert would catch your eye, or make some repressive remark, and you would subside again. I wanted to see the lively Annie, but you kept her well out of sight most of the time.”

“Lively? Me? You must be mistaken!” she said, laughing. “I am placid by nature.”

“Now there you are quite wrong,” he said, more seriously. “Do you remember the first time we met? Of course you do, for I came upon you quite unannounced and you were very cross with me. But I was so keen to see the fabled former Miss Dresden.”

“Fabled!” she said in astonishment. “But I am perfectly ordinary!”

“I would not quite agree with you there, but let it pass. Rupert had told us all about you, and he made it seem as if you were spectacularly extraordinary. Your purity and goodness and other fine qualities were too magnificent and abundant to be enumerated, and Rupert’s vocabulary fell woefully short. In the end, the words ‘perfection personified’ were employed, as I recall.”

“Goodness! It must have been a sad disappointment to meet the reality.”

He laughed. “Naturally, I could not wait to meet such a paragon. And there you were, seated at the instrument, industriously working away, dutifully repeating the piece until you got it just so, your face a picture of intense concentration, for all the world like a schoolroom miss, not a happy bride. I confess, I wondered rather at that point just what Rupert saw in you that drove him to such elegiac heights of hyperbole. But then… oh, then you saw me and your eyes flashed and you rang such a peal over me! Then I understood the meaning of perfection personified.”

She shook her head at such nonsense. “Perfection is a waspish woman, is it?”

“Perfection is a woman with spirit! Someone who will speak her mind and stand up to maltreatment, as you did even to Rupert that day, do you remember? You were very cross to have had no forewarning of my existence, and rightly so. But after that… every time I saw you, I found you a little more subdued, tucked a little further into your submissive shell and it grieved me beyond measure. I had seen the lively Annie, you see, and every time I visited you, I tried to draw her out. My efforts became too outrageous for Rupert to tolerate and in the end he banished me, which was probably for the best. If someone had not already taken pistols to Rupert, I should inevitably have called him out.”

“Now it is you who is guilty of hyperbole, Adam. I trust you would have done no such thing, for you would have been quite in the wrong.”

“I know,” he said quietly, leaning forward again and gazing at his hands. “No one has the right to come between a man and his wife, no matter how great the provocation, but I would have done it anyway. I hated what he was doing to you, Annie. To take a beautiful, vibrant woman and push her down and down so far that it seems she might never get up again… it is wicked! He was an evil man.”

Beautiful and vibrant! She had never considered herself in that light before.

“No,” she said softly. “Not evil, merely… misguided, perhaps. He genuinely believed his way was best.”

Adam jumped up, and took a few paces towards the river. Hands on hips and head lowered, he took several deep breaths before spinning round to face her again. “I beg your pardon,” he said, and it was obvious that the words cost him some effort. “I should not speak so of your husband.”

She heard the anguish in his voice. He was a man of such sensibility! He was not calm and controlled as Rupert had been, and as she herself was. Yet his pain aroused such feelings of protectiveness. If she could possibly spare him this hurt, then she must do so. Annie had not the words to comfort him, but she knew what he needed, the same comfort he had given her when she was in distress. He needed to be held.

Without hesitation, she rose and went towards him, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head on his shoulder. His arms reached around her and he pulled her tightly to him.

“Oh, Annie!” he whispered into her ear, the words muffled by her bonnet.

And because she could not help it, she turned her face to his and reached up to kiss him.

Oh, the joy of his lips on hers! This time, there was more passion, more urgency in the pressure of his lips, but the same sweetness and gentle affection. This time, there was no abrupt parting, only a slow separation, with smiles and soft laughter and warmth.

“Do not go away,” she murmured. “If you can bear it, please stay.”

“How can we meet and not betray what has passed between us?” he whispered, kissing her forehead and nose and cheeks and then, as delicately as butterfly wings, her lips. “People will gossip.”

“Let them. We are already subjects for speculation. Judith is watching us… even Mama. If they look at us and wonder, you may be sure that everyone else will, too.”

“I would not have your reputation smeared by the idle words of scandalmongers.”

“Papa always said that those who spread rumours stain their own hearts more than the characters of those they malign.”

He chuckled. “Your papa sounds like an interesting man, and I should have loved to have met him, but I am not sure I agree with him on that point. A woman’s reputation is too fragile to—”

“Shh!” she said, placing one finger on his lips. “I do not care what people might say of me. Whatever the future may hold for us, I need you, Adam. I should be so lost without you.”

“Then that settles it,” he said. “I shall stay, and be whatever you want me to be, but always your friend.”

“Thank you,” was all she could say, and his arms tightened around her, so that she felt protected and cherished and utterly safe.

The distant sound of hoof beats drew them back to reality.

“Visitors,” she said resignedly. But there was no heat in her words. For the moment, she was entirely at peace with the world.

They made their way back to the house, and entered through the garden door. It was the first time Annie had used it, but Adam was familiar with all the servants’ parts of the house. As they approached the great hall, raised voices could be heard, one loud, one quieter, but both male. Sheffield was refusing admittance to the visitor.

“Mrs Huntly is not at home,” he said firmly.

As they opened the door to the great hall, Annie was surprised to see Sir Leonard there, red-faced and belligerent, with Squire Thornton twisting his hat uncomfortably in his hands.

“Sir Leonard? Squire. What an unexpected pleasure,” Annie said, slightly puzzled.

“Ha! You! I might have known it!” Sir Leonard said, catching sight of Adam. “But this is very convenient. I have been looking everywhere for you, Huntly.”

“Well, here I am, but if it is business—”

“Business? No. Not unless you call murder business.”

“This is about the murder?” Adam said. “Then perhaps we should discuss it elsewhere, so that—”

“We will discuss it in Salisbury gaol,” Sir Leonard said, lifting his chin.

“The gaol?” Adam said eagerly. “Then you have found the murderer?”

“Indeed we have, and I am looking at him. Thought you had got away with it, I daresay, but we have the proof. Your cousin died facing Wickstead, you see.”

“Facing Wickstead. I cannot see—”

“Which means he was followed. His attacker was behind him, having followed him from Wickstead. Which means that you murdered Mr Rupert Huntly.”

“No!” Annie cried. “That is impossible.”

“My advice to you, Mrs Huntly, is to say nothing at all,” Sir Leonard said. “No one wishes to drag you into the business, you may be sure, but dragged in you will be if you try to defend Huntly. I am arresting him, whether you like it or not, and he will be brought to court and eventually to the hangman. If you interfere, you cannot make things better for him, but you can make things considerably worse for yourself. Shall we go, Huntly? Your cell awaits you.”

23: A Crisis And A Hypothesis

The front door shut with a heavy thump. Booted feet crunched on the gravel outside and then died away as Adam, Sir Leonard and Squire Thornton made their way to the stables. The great hall fell into silence. Sheffield turned a shocked face to Annie, awaiting her orders, as the ancestors gazed impassively down from the walls.

Annie was angry. Not the intense flare of rage she had felt when she had thought that Adam had betrayed her. Nor the sullen resentment she had sometimes felt towards her husband. This was a low but steady fury, like that of a well-built fire — constant but well-controlled, and utterly unquenchable. Her mind was calm and clear.

She took a deep breath. “Where are Mr Willerton-Forbes and Captain Edgerton, Sheffield?”

“Mr Willerton-Forbes went into Salisbury first thing, madam. He intimated that he would be back in good time for dinner. Captain Edgerton is in the cellars at present.”

“In the—? Well, I daresay he has a good reason. Please ask him to come to the hunting room at once, and Mr Willerton-Forbes whenever he should return. Also, please find my mother and Mrs Herbert Huntly, and ask them also to come to the hunting room.”

“Mrs Dresden may be taking her afternoon nap, madam.”

“So she may. Then she must be woken, I fear. Tell Billy that I shall need him to ride into Salisbury to take some letters to the post office that cannot wait for the carter tomorrow. Do you happen to know where Mrs Elkington lives, Sheffield?”

“Just the far side of Salisbury, madam. Mr Elkington has the living at Bursham St John.”

“Do you think Billy would be able to ride there today?”

“Easily, madam. He will be back before dark.”

“Good. Tell all the other servants — outdoor as well as indoor — to gather here in the hall at…” She glanced at the clock embedded in the stone fireplace. “In one hour, say. I wish to speak to everyone.”

Sheffield bowed, and disappeared to attend to her instructions. Annie went briskly through to the hunting room, laid out paper, pens and ink and began her letters. Benedict first, to tell him the dreadful news and suggest the three brothers come to stay at Willow Place for the moment. Cecilia, with the offer of the carriage tomorrow. Uncle Tom, as head of her family. Lavinia, because one never knew when it might be useful to bring a title to bear on the case. Not Aunts Dempster and Connell, though. It was not her place to write to Adam’s kin, so that could wait for Cecilia or Benedict. And finally, with steely determination, the letter of introduction to Major Corbett, the expert in wounds from guns. It was now a matter of urgency for Captain Edgerton to talk to him.

The captain arrived before she had finished her first letter, but he seemed to know what had happened and said nothing, apart from, “It is preposterous, of course.” Only when she had finished writing did he ask precisely what Sir Leonard had said.

“He was facing Wickstead?” he said in astonished tones, when she explained. “Sir Leonard is saying that your husband must have been followed, therefore it must have been Huntly? I have seldom heard such an outrageous piece of illogic. It will never stand in court, you know. Any half decent barrister will tear the idea to shreds, and Willerton-Forbes is very much more than half decent.”

“Mr Willerton-Forbes will speak for him? That would be such a relief.”

“I am certain that he will. This is the most abominable injustice, and Pettigrew detests injustice with every fibre of his being.”

“You believe, then, that Adam is innocent?”

“I am as sure as I can be that he had nothing to do with your husband’s murder. He had no idea where it had taken place, for one thing. We scratched about for hours to settle on the exact spot, but could not. Besides, it is not in his character. I could see him getting into fisticuffs during an argument, and I could see him calling a man out, but to sneak about with pistols and shoot his own cousin in broad daylight? No, never. Adam Huntly is a man of hot blood, not cold. This was a carefully planned crime, and that has the ring of vengeance about it. Pettigrew has a man in Grantham trying to find something in your husband’s history to account for it.”

Annie’s mother came in just then, and had to have everything explained to her in the gentlest terms. Annie had expected tears, a spasm, perhaps, but Mrs Dresden was too shocked to make any response at all. She grew paler and paler, her eyes wider and wider, but she spoke not a word.

Billy came in to collect the letters, and Annie gave him her instructions with one eye constantly on her mother, in case she should erupt into an hysterical fit. But she remained silent and immobile. Captain Edgerton tried to persuade her to drink a little brandy, but she gave no sign of hearing him or seeing the glass before her.

At length Judith arrived, still in her bonnet and pelisse, and carrying her flower-cutting knife. “Whatever is it?” Seeing Mrs Dresden she added, “Oh… not bad news? Your uncle? Or aunt?”

“No, no. Everyone is well, but… Adam has been arrested for Rupert’s murder.”

Judith shrieked. Then she shrieked again and again, until Annie’s ears were ringing. Tears she could cope with, and Aunt Hester’s flusterings, or genuine illness, but she had no patience with such demented noise.

“Stop it, Judith! How is this helping? Oh, Mrs Cumber, thank goodness! Take her away, for pity’s sake!”

Sheffield and Mrs Cumber led Judith, still screaming, out of the room and Captain Edgerton shut the door sharply behind them. Gradually the din receded into the distance and peace reigned.

Annie flopped down at her desk again, head in hands. “I should not have shouted at her,” she said, as guilt gnawed at her.

“If the housekeeper had not taken her away, I should certainly have slapped her,” Captain Edgerton said. “You were quite right, such behaviour is… unhelpful. Mrs Huntly, your mama is more restful company, but I am anxious for her all the same. Perhaps the physician…?”

By the time Billy had been intercepted, and a note to Mr Grey added to his saddlebag, and Mrs Dresden had been taken unresisting upstairs, Mr Willerton-Forbes had returned and it was necessary to go over everything again. Then the Wickstead Manor carriage arrived bearing three white-faced young men and a quantity of luggage, and there were rooms to be assigned and the kitchen to be informed and a great bustle and confusion. And somehow, almost before Annie was aware, it was the hour appointed for her to address the servants.

They were all there, the senior ones serious, the younger round-eyed and pale. Dewey and Davy, the gardeners, and Palcock, the coachman, stood a little apart, slightly embarrassed to find themselves indoors and in the formal part of the house at all. Davy gazed up in awe at the high ceiling and the unsmiling portraits on the walls. The indoor servants clustered together, Edith, the kitchen maid, twisting her apron nervously. Only Dawn, the nursery maid attending Judith, and Betty, caring for Annie’s mother, were missing. Mr Willerton-Forbes and Captain Edgerton stood behind Annie, and she was grateful for their unspoken support. Everyone watched her in silence.

“You will have heard the news, I am sure,” Annie began, her voice clear and firm. “Sir Leonard has arrested Mr Adam Huntly for the murder of his cousin. I need not tell you that he is innocent of this heinous crime, and this will, in time, be proved to be so. Mr Willerton-Forbes and Captain Edgerton, who have already been investigating the matter at my request, will continue to do so, and I do not doubt their ultimate success. However, we must all do our part to assist them and help to restore the Huntly name to the unblemished condition it formerly enjoyed. If any of you, therefore, know anything of relevance to the case, whether to demonstrate the innocence of Mr Adam Huntly or to suggest who the true culprit might be, you must speak out. If you suspect that another person may know something, you must speak out. To fail to do so, to allow an innocent man to face the gallows, is a great wickedness in the eyes of God.”

“It is also a crime in the eyes of the law,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “Such a perversion of justice carries the highest penalty.”

“Indeed,” Annie said. “If you have information to convey, therefore, you may speak privately to me, or to Mr Willerton-Forbes or Captain Edgerton, or to Mrs Cumber or to Sheffield, as you prefer. But do not keep silent, I implore you. You all know Mr Adam Huntly, and you know him to be incapable of such a crime. We must do everything to ensure that justice prevails.”

Captain Edgerton took a step forward. “I would have everyone remember that there is still a murderer at large. No one should walk about the estate alone, under any circumstances. This villain has pistols, remember.”

Dinner was a subdued affair. Mrs Hewitt had not had time to prepare any extra dishes, but it hardly mattered, since Judith and Mrs Dresden kept to their rooms and the rest ate very little. Only Mr Willerton-Forbes and the captain could be said to have done justice to the cook’s efforts. Jerome and Edwin were uncharacteristically silent, Edwin looking on the verge of tears. Benedict, however, as the present head of the depleted family, rose to the occasion rather well, plying the lawyer with questions about the legal procedures that Adam would now face, questions which Mr Willerton-Forbes answered with unfailing patience.

“There is no cause for panic, however,” he said. “For so serious a crime as this, the case must be heard by the Assizes, which will not be back in Salisbury until Lent of next year. Your brother is safe until then, even if uncomfortably situated.”

When he fell into silence, Annie said, “Mr Willerton-Forbes, what may be done now to help Adam? It does not seem to me that the case against him is strong, but it may sound convincing to a jury.”

“Juries are reluctant to convict wealthy gentlemen without convincing proof, especially where the result may be a hanging,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “You are correct to say that the case is not strong, but there is a great deal that is… suggestive, let us say. Did you know that he had quarrelled with your husband at the Vestry meeting that day? Or that he went home briefly, but went out again at once? He owned a pair of duelling pistols, and knew how to use them. He was not seen again until shortly before dinner. There is the undeniable fact that he stood to inherit Willow Place after his cousin’s death.”

“Possibly,” Annie said. “It has never been certain.”

“Indeed, but to a jury, that will carry some weight. And then…” He paused and glanced at Annie. “May I speak perfectly frankly, Mrs Huntly?”

“Of course. This is not the time to prevaricate.”

“It is suspected in some quarters that Mr Huntly has a strong attachment to you. Moreover, it is well known, for he made no secret of it, that he disapproved of your husband’s manner towards you. Those two factors combined may suggest a strong motive for murder in the minds of those who did not know of Mr Adam Huntly’s good character.”

Annie considered that dispassionately. No single factor was enough, but added together they made a strong argument for Adam’s guilt. “So how do we proceed?” she said. “Is it possible to prove his innocence? To find someone who saw him that day after the Vestry meeting, for instance? Where did he go to?”

“He says he cannot remember,” Captain Edgerton said. “He wandered about beyond his own knowing. That, too, will sound improbable to a jury. It is my opinion that if he had been seen by anyone who recognised him, that person would have spoken out by now. No, our best hope remains, as it always was, to find the true culprit and it is my opinion that he will be found in Grantham, where the late Mr Huntly spent so many years and conducted business as an attorney. There is no indication that he has made any enemies since his arrival in Wiltshire, but in Grantham we may have greater success.”

“You think then that he got on the wrong side of someone there? But why? How?” Annie shook her head in bemusement. “A wronged business associate would have recourse in law, surely? And why wait until he had moved away from the area to exact revenge?”

“These are good points,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said, “and until we know more of the circumstances, we cannot begin to guess at the reasons. However, I have people working on my behalf in Grantham to—”

“What people?” Benedict said. “Are these people you can trust, sir?”

“One of them is my own father,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said mildly. “I believe him to be trustworthy, Huntly.”

“Your father!” Benedict said, his face lighting up with sudden amusement. For an instant he looked so like Adam that Annie’s breath caught in her throat.

“My father is the Earl of Morpeth,” the lawyer said, with just a hint of pride. “He happened to be in the area, so I requested his assistance. Sometimes a title may loosen tongues more than a plain Mister. He is — or rather, was — a lawyer himself, so he understands the workings of legal matters. He is asking openly about Mr Rupert Huntly, the society he moved in and the work in which he was engaged, although he has as yet had no success in finding a disagreement or a single dissatisfied client. I also have someone working more surreptitiously in Grantham. He is a friend of the Willow Place attorney, Mr Wakeman, who has been very helpful to us.  I have been in Salisbury today talking to that gentleman, and he gave me some information that makes me see the late Mr Huntly in a rather different light. Mr Huntly was attempting to renegotiate some leases on tenant properties in a manner of which Mr Wakeman disapproved. Nothing illegal, but rather underhanded, in his opinion. He was able to deflect Mr Huntly from his purpose, happily. From Grantham, there is as yet nothing that might incite a man to murder, sadly. However, we have by no means given up hope of a significant finding. The answer lies there and not here, I am convinced of that.”

“Someone bearing a grudge against him,” Annie said slowly. “It could be so. Not even in business, necessarily, but some personal disagreement… money owed, or a friendship blighted. Some long-standing dispute seen as a betrayal when he left Grantham. That seems plausible. And what of James Huntly?”

“I have not yet heard from Mr Neate in Ireland,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said.

“When do you expect to hear?” Benedict said eagerly. “The Irish packets are very uncertain, are they not?”

“At this time of year, the Irish Sea is relatively benevolent,” the lawyer said. “A letter may be sent and a reply received in a few days… a week, perhaps. However, it may take Neate longer than that to find all the information we require. He is a lawyer like myself, but he has the happy knack of being able to move unobtrusively through the lower ranks of society.”

“And this is something you are unable to do, Pettigrew?” Captain Edgerton said, with a gesture that encompassed the lawyer’s magnificent waistcoat, immaculately snowy neckcloth and fashionable coat.

“It is something I prefer not to do,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said with a smile. “Neate is very accomplished in the art of subtly extracting information from ostlers and tap boys and grooms, so by all means let us take advantage of it. He will have the information we require soon enough. Do you have an especial interest in his findings, Mr Benedict, or is your enquiry a general one?”

“He has a theory!” Edwin said brightly. “A very clever one.”

“Hypothesis,” Jerome said. “Not a theory, a hypothesis.”

“Same thing,” Edwin said with a shrug.

“Not the same at all. A hypothesis is untested, a theory is proved. So Mr Crick says, and furthermore—”

“Enough, obnoxious child,” Benedict said affectionately. “Let it be a hypothesis or whatever you want, but for my part, I am inclined to consider this unknown James Huntly as a very dubious character.”

“On what grounds?” Mr Willerton-Forbes said mildly. “Being unknown to one’s family is not yet a crime.”

“Not a crime, but very suspicious, surely? But I have other grounds for suspicion, or at least… it is merely a theory. Hypothesis.”

“By all means let us hear it,” the lawyer said, eyes twinkling. “I am very fond of a well thought out theory. Or hypothesis.”

Benedict smiled, again reminding Annie forcibly of Adam. “Very well,” he said, sitting back in the chair. Like his brother, he relished being the focus of all eyes. “Let us suppose that James Huntly died in infancy. That was not perhaps of much moment. He was the third son, after all. Uncle Henry died and Cousin Herbert inherited, and that was not of much moment, either, because he had married Judith, and would likely have sons, and in any event, there was still Cousin Rupert. But then Herbert died leaving no son, and Rupert was still unwed and suddenly there is an opportunity. Or rather, there would have been an opportunity, if only James were not dead. If there were a living James Huntly, he would now be the heir presumptive, with only Rupert between him and Willow Place. But who was to know that James had died? Few people knew he had ever lived, let alone his place in the Huntly family. So perhaps someone saw an opportunity. Perhaps someone came here and murdered Rupert, and is even now watching Annie to see if there might be a son. And when all is done, he will come here and claim Willow Place for his own, and no one any the wiser.”

“Interesting,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said thoughtfully.

“I like that idea very much,” Captain Edgerton said. “Not a soul would suspect. A very clever scheme.”

“But Mrs Connell has told us that James is dead,” Annie said. “That alone would throw suspicion on any such claim on Willow Place. If it were attempted, Mrs Connell would be obliged either to retract her previous statement that he was dead or else to expose the fraud.”

Benedict deflated at once. “You are right,” he said disconsolately. “His mother would have to be party to the scheme or it would fail instantly, and if she were party to it, she would not have told us that James was dead. And it seemed so plausible, too.”

“It is still plausible,” Captain Edgerton said firmly. “Or at least, a stranger with a claim on the estate is always a possibility to be aware of. We need as many ideas as our minds may contrive just now, so do not be downhearted.”

“Indeed,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “And as well as ideas, we will continue to investigate. Michael, you will go to see this Major Corbett tomorrow?”

“I will,” the captain said. “He may have nothing new for us, but it is important to know all that he can tell us. Shall you come with me, Pettigrew?”

“No, for tomorrow Mr Benedict and I will visit Mr Adam in Salisbury gaol, and ensure that he is in good heart.”

“May we come?” Jerome and Edwin said, almost in unison.

“I have a more important task for you two,” the lawyer said. “If my theory — hypothesis — is correct that the answer to this riddle lies in Grantham, then it may be that there is some clue in the missing will. A debt settled, perhaps, or an apology rendered. A man may oftentimes resolve his earthly difficulties after his death in that way. If it is something which reflects badly on the late Mr Huntly, that may be the reason why it was hidden. He might not wish it to be found accidentally. So your search for the will, gentlemen, is now more important than ever.”

“You may depend on us,” Edwin said, sitting up a little taller.

“Cousin Annie, may I start on the hunting room next?” Jerome said.

“Of course,” she said.

“May we go now, to make plans?”

She nodded, and Jerome and Edwin raced for the door.

“But what of me, Mr Willerton-Forbes? Is there anything I may do to Adam’s benefit? I feel so helpless.”

“My dear Mrs Huntly,” the lawyer said, laying one hand on her arm. “You need only continue to do exactly as you are doing, which is to be calm and rational, take care of Adam’s brothers and hold the family together until we can rescue Mr Adam from his present predicament.”

“And shall you be able rescue him?”

He hesitated. “You have my word that everything possible will be done to ensure it.”

“But you cannot guarantee it.”

“No. I cannot.”

“Is there a chance he may hang?”

A longer hesitation. “We must be realistic, Mrs Huntly. The signs are not good.”

24: The Path To Wickstead

As soon as she decently could after dinner, Annie went upstairs to see how Judith and her mother went on. Judith was weepy but otherwise under better control, apologising for her outbreak of hysterical behaviour.

“Do not apologise,” Annie said at once. “It was a perfectly natural reaction.”

More natural than her own extraordinary calmness, she felt. Tears and screaming and even her mother’s shocked immobility were the normal responses for a female of sensibility, but then Annie had never been over-endowed with that quality. Only once in her life had she swooned when faced with news of an upsetting nature, and she was still rather ashamed of such a reaction. However much she told herself that she had had a very trying day, and the news of her husband’s murder was broken in the roughest manner possible, she still felt that she should not have fainted away, like some overwrought society chit. She was too sensible for such antics.

Her mother was asleep.

“Mr Grey gave her laudanum, madam,” Betty said. “I’m sure she’ll be more herself in the morning.”

“Let us hope so,” Annie said sombrely.

“She ever been like this before, madam? Mr Grey asked, but I couldn’t say. Maybe she had a turn when Mr Dresden passed away?”

“No, nothing like this. She was distraught, of course, but not… not frozen like this. You go to bed, Betty. I shall sit with her tonight.”

“Oh, madam, you need your rest!” Betty said.

“I shall get plenty of rest in the chair. I might even doze a little, but if I were to go to my own bed, I should only worry about her and not sleep a wink.”

“Very well, madam, but ring if you need me. Edith’s going to sleep in the kitchen tonight, so she’ll hear the bell. There’s more laudanum on the dressing table, in case she wakes fretful, but not before two o’clock, Mr Grey said, and only three drops in water and make sure she drinks it all. Oh, but you know that, of course.”

“I know how to administer laudanum,” Annie said with a smile. “Off you go, Betty.”

Betty went. Annie checked her mother’s pulse, and looked for any sign of fever. Satisfied, she tended the fire, pushed a chair and footstool together, found a blanket and then settled down to keep watch over her sleeping mother. Perhaps it was selfish of her, but she preferred silence to her mother’s usual tears. The tears would come, of that she was sure, whenever the initial shock of Adam’s arrest had worn off. Odd that she was more distressed by that than the murder, which had elicited only hand-wringing and the usual floods of tears. But perhaps to her mind it was more scandalous. A murder could happen to anybody unlucky enough to fall into the path of footpads or Romanies — Mama was profoundly hostile towards the poor Romanies, who were sure to be blamed by her for every crime large or small in the neighbourhood. But an arrest! A trial! A family member in court, and perhaps to be hanged! It was unspeakable to her delicate sensibilities.

Annie was glad to be of more robust temperament. To be overwhelmed by every little setback would render her helpless indeed, and she had no intention of being helpless. She must be strong! She would not allow herself to give way to despair, not while there was still hope of Adam’s release. Dear Adam, locked away in some horrid cell… was he awake and thinking of her at that moment? Was he remembering their words that afternoon, and their gentle kiss? Was he missing her as much as she missed him? Was he cheerful and optimistic, or deep in despondency?

If only there were some way she could help him! But what could she do? Mr Willerton-Forbes and Captain Edgerton were the ones busily working to prove Adam’s innocence. Even Jerome and Edwin had an important task to do. All Annie could do was to sit and wait.

“Henry?” A quavering voice from the bed tipped Annie out of her morose, self-absorbed state.

“Mama? How are you feeling?”

“Where is Henry?”

“Papa is… not here, Mama. May I bring you something? A little water?”

“Water…”

Annie slid an arm beneath her mother’s shoulders to raise her while she drank. How light she was. Goodness, but she was getting thin and frail! There was nothing of her, yet she was barely fifty. She had always eaten like a bird, but she would waste away altogether if she were not careful. Annie made a mental note to tell Mrs Hewitt to thicken the soups a little.

“Thank you, Martha,” Mrs Dresden said. Martha? Who was Martha?

“It is Annie, Mama. Are you comfortable? Would you like the pillows rearranged?”

But her mother’s eyes had closed. She was already asleep again.

Annie retreated to her chair, unaccustomed tears welling in her eyes. The rational part of her brain told her that it was just the laudanum confusing Mama, that she would be better in the morning, she would be well again, but the child still lurking inside was not rational. She remembered her terror when she had realised that Papa was dying, but then she had still had Mama. Dearest Mama, who had been her unfailing guide and supporter through her whole life, protecting and gently steering her. Her father, too, of course, and Uncle Tom, but her mother had been the pattern on which she had modelled herself. If she should lose her, too, and not to the arms of God but in some living death… How would she manage? Without her mother’s gentle surety, she was lost and alone. No mother, no father, no uncle and aunt, no husband… and no Adam.

Her heart turned over in fear. Yet Adam would be restored to her… surely he would. All she had to do was to wait and be strong, and if there were no one else for her to depend upon, well, then, she would just have to depend on herself. What was it Mr Willerton-Forbes had said? That she should ‘hold the family together’. Yes, she could do that. She could be strong for Adam and for her mother and for herself. And for her child. She could be strong enough for a whole family.

~~~~~

Annie’s mother was unchanged by morning, so once she had been dressed and given a cup of tea, which she drank without protest, Annie left Betty to watch her and went downstairs. She had dozed a little in the night, but her eyes were heavy and grainy, as if they were full of sand. She felt too nauseous even to drink her morning tea, but it could not be helped. She had too much to do to worry about it, and the anger still burning in her, low but constant, gave her strength.

Mr Willerton-Forbes, Captain Edgerton and Benedict departed early for Salisbury in Annie’s carriage, which would then go on to Bursham St John to collect Cecilia. Annie went to the hunting room. Jerome and Edwin were already there, methodically working through the books, one shelf at a time, Edwin up the ladder and Jerome below leafing through the pages of each book, then passing it back to be reshelved.

Seeing Annie open her writing box, Edwin said, “Do we disturb you, Cousin Annie?”

“Not at all,” she said. “I could write my letters elsewhere if that were the case. Please carry on and do not mind me.”

“We will be as quiet as mice,” Edwin said solemnly.

Annie had to smile at the thought of Jerome staying silent for more than two minutes at a time, but in this she misjudged him, for he was unusually subdued. Adam’s arrest had the power to quell even the irrepressible Jerome.

Pulling out a sheet of paper, Annie began her letters. A note to Mr Popham to ask him to call, for perhaps he had some influence on Sir Leonard. Another note to Mr Grey, asking him to visit Mama again as soon as may be. Then a longer letter to Uncle Tom — two whole sheets, not crossed, to explain events in more detail and to ask his advice about Mama’s state of mind. She could not recall any similar case, but he might know of a remedy more efficacious than Mr Grey’s bleeding and laudanum.

Breakfast was not the usual pleasant meal. Judith toyed with her food and sniffed, handkerchief in hand, constantly on the verge of tears. The older girls were sullen and Isobel, always attuned to her mother’s moods, grizzled and wriggled and threw food everywhere, as the nursery maid tried valiantly to coax her to good humour, or at least to stay in her chair.

“Oh, take her away, Dawn!” Judith said fretfully. “I cannot bear the noise, not when I am so unwell. Take them all away. Let us have some peace.”

Dawn scooped Isobel into her arms, who, having protested at being asked to stay still, now protested even more strongly at being removed. As she disappeared back to the nursery, fists pounding Dawn’s back, the two older girls chasing behind, her screams could be heard echoing all the way through the house.

Annie set herself the task of eating from at least three dishes, including a little meat. She preferred bread and pastries so early in the day, but Mama always said that babies needed flesh to grow healthy and strong, and so she nibbled reluctantly at a little ham.

When the footman came in with a fresh pot of tea, she said, “Sheffield, I have some letters for Billy to take as soon as he can get the mare saddled, and I shall want you to accompany me when I go out after breakfast. You will need ordinary clothes, not your livery.”

“Very well, madam. May I go and change now?”

She nodded her agreement, and poured herself another cup of tea. How refreshing tea was! She had so disliked chocolate in the mornings, so heavy that it sat inside her like lead.

“How can you be so calm?” Judith cried. “Anyone would think nothing had happened! There you sit, eating your breakfast, giving your orders as if it were just another day, while Adam languishes in gaol, Annie! He is accused of murder! He could be hanged any day now!”

“No, he is quite safe until the Lent Assizes,” Annie said, setting her teacup down before her shaking hands allowed the liquid to spill.

“Quite safe?” Judith cried, jumping to her feet. “Quite safe? How can you say so? You have no proper feelings, do you? Whether he lives or dies, it is immaterial to you, so long as your letters go off as usual and your meals are on the table. You care nothing for him, nothing at all, you wicked, unnatural creature. There is not an iota of emotion in you, none!”

The anger deep inside Annie flared into sudden heat, white and raging. “How dare you!” she said, her voice low but filled with fury. “You have no idea what I feel, none, so do not presume to censure me. Do you want to help Adam? Then stop this constant weeping, and set yourself to do something useful. He needs practical aid, not hand-wringing.”

Judith’s jaw dropped, then she flounced out of the room in a flurry of muslin.

“Very good, Cousin Annie,” Edwin said, buttering his fourth piece of toast.

“Where are you going with Sheffield?” Jerome said.

“To see the place where my husband was shot,” she said, tamping down her simmering anger.

“Captain Edgerton has already looked at it. Do you think he missed something significant?”

“That is unlikely,” Annie said. “However, every additional pair of eyes is valuable, and I should like to see the place for myself.”

It was not very far, she found. No more than ten minutes, according to her pocket watch, from the garden door to the spot where Sheffield stopped.

“This is it, madam. He lay just over there.”

“Where exactly?”

He took a few paces. “His head was here, and his feet… were just here.”

“And he was on his back?”

“Yes. His feet were slightly apart, and one arm was thrown back a little.”

“Sheffield, this is presumptuous of me, and I know the ground is muddy, but—”

“Of course, madam.”

And without the slightest hesitation, he lay down on the cold, wet ground, and assumed the pose of a dead man. Annie walked all round him, fixing everything in her mind.

“Was there a great deal of blood?” she said.

“Not really. A dark patch just here…” He gestured over the chest. “Not much to see otherwise.”

“It was dark when you came out to collect him, was it not? Not easy to see anything, I imagine.”

“True, madam, but there were plenty of torches and…” He stopped, and Annie thought he looked rather guilty.

“And?” she said gently.

“Billy and I came out the next day, just to have a look. There wasn’t much to see by then. A few dark stains that could have been blood or maybe not. A lot of boot prints and trampling.”

“Hmm.” Annie walked round him again.

A voice hailing her broke her concentration. “What an excellent idea!” Captain Edgerton said, striding up to where Sheffield lay. “You are a splendid fellow, Sheffield, to do such a thing.”

“Happy to oblige, sir.”

“Why, Captain Edgerton!” Annie said, pleased. “I had thought you out for the day.”

“The major was not at home. Gone away to London,” he said glumly. “I daresay he would not have given us anything new but I should have liked to talk to him anyway. I impressed upon his wife the importance of the case. Having no other business in Salisbury, I hired a horse and returned here directly. The helpful Master Jerome told me where you had gone. But how ashamed I am not to have thought of this! Was it your idea, Mrs Huntly? I thought so. What an admirable woman you are!” He walked all around the prone Sheffield, just as Annie had done. “And this was exactly how he was found? Hmm… interesting. Mrs Huntly, now that we both have this information safe in our minds, might I suggest that Sheffield be released back to his duties? Wait a moment, my good fellow. There.” He placed a large stone just where Sheffield’s head had lain, and two more to mark the position of his feet, before pushing a coin into the footman’s hand and sending him on his way.

“You can see, no doubt, why Sir Leonard supposed that Adam might have done this?”

“Indeed,” Annie said. “Rupert would have been walking away from Wickstead… which is directly behind those trees. I can see the smoke rising, so it must be no more than half a mile away. The murderer walked out from the village, hid in these bushes here, waited until Rupert had gone by and then hailed him. He turned around so that he was facing towards his assailant and… bang.”

“Well… bang bang, if we are being precise. Two shots. The fellow was very well prepared.”

“Yes, we must certainly be precise,” Annie said seriously. “What are those chimneys over there? Oh! It must be Wickstead Manor. So close!”

“The loop of the river brings it very close, it is true. This section of the river bank is Manor land, and look here…” He walked a little way further towards Wickstead. “Do you see this cross path? It leads from the Manor directly to the river bank, where there is a small jetty. Apparently it was used in years past for fishing, but has fallen into disuse. The family currently prefers to fish near to the bridge in Wickstead. I have wondered if perhaps the murderer arrived here by boat. It would be more discreet than walking through the village. Float downstream from Wickstead, tie up at the jetty, which is quite hidden from the path, and await Mr Huntly in the middle of those bushes. Then afterwards row back to Wickstead, where no doubt a horse was discreetly tied up somewhere.”

“I would come the other way,” Annie said thoughtfully. “Row upstream first, then afterwards the current would carry the boat swiftly away to safety.”

“Excellent point. There is a bridge downstream, where the lane to Durran House crosses the river. It is a very secluded spot, so a waiting horse, or even a carriage, would not be noticed. Yes… row upstream from there, and then use the current to escape afterwards. Or the boat house!” he said excitedly. “He was hiding in the boat house, the boat discreetly hidden. For days, he must have watched and waited for his opportunity. On the day, he has only to row to this point, kill Mr Huntly, then allow the river to sweep him back to the bridge.”

“Or all the way to Salisbury, where he would be just another stranger catching one of the stages or the mail,” Annie said sombrely. “It will be very hard to track down such a person. Even if he were remembered, who would know him, if he is not from around here? And I think Mr Willerton-Forbes is correct in thinking the origins of this matter lie in Grantham.” She turned again to face the chimneys of Wickstead Manor, smoke rising gently in the autumn sunshine. “Adam went home after the meeting, but went out again immediately. I wonder why?”

“Well…” Captain Edgerton looked awkwardly at the ground. “I did not wish to say anything in front of the young Huntlys, and it is not something that Adam would ever reveal in court, but in fact he walked along the other side of the river.”

“Why is that such a secret?”

“Because he hoped to see you. There is a spot where you were accustomed to sit with Mr Huntly at a certain hour of the day, and  there are some bushes on Lady Charlotte’s land from which he could see you and remain unobserved. Naturally, he cannot say so in public.”

“So he would go to the gallows rather than mention me? That is foolishness indeed, and I trust you will tell him so, Captain.”

“I will ensure that he knows your sentiments, Mrs Huntly, but he is a gentleman and will never drag a lady’s name into a public hearing. It would be reported in the newspapers, and consider how unpleasant that would be!”

“It would be far more unpleasant if he were to be hanged,” she said acidly. “Well, if he will do nothing to help himself, we must get him released by our efforts alone. We must find my husband’s murderer, Captain Edgerton. However impossible it seems, there must be a way. There must be.”

25: Cutting Reeds

The rest of the day was filled with callers and bustle, so that Annie had not a moment to herself. Mr and Mrs Popham called in early response to her note, shocked and distressed.

“Sir Leonard has always been sure that the murderer was a member of the family, Mrs Huntly, and now that he has settled on Mr Adam, no argument will change his mind,” Mr Popham said sadly. “I have remonstrated with him, and so has Squire Thornton, but he is quite immovable on the point. I am sure it was merely a footpad, some ruffian who just happened to be passing. No one at Wickstead would ever turn to murder, of that I am convinced, and I hope I know my flock well by now. There are one or two who are not as regular in their habits as one might wish, or are somewhat lax in the matter of tithes, but they are all honest, God-fearing folk at heart, every last one of them, and the Huntlys have always set the highest standards for their neighbours to follow. A shining example.”

“Oh yes, a shining example,” Mrs Popham said, her round face full of distress.

They trooped off to see Annie’s mother, the one to recite prayers over her, and the other to read to her, and Annie hoped rather than believed that such kindness would do her some good.

Mr Grey came as well, but was reassuring in his conviction that Mrs Dresden would emerge from her immobility in due course.

“It is a not unnatural response to a situation too overwhelming for a lady of your mother’s delicate sensibilities,” he said. “Do not alarm yourself unduly, Mrs Huntly. Your mother will be entirely herself again before too long. I will return this evening to see her settled for the night.”

“To dose her with laudanum, I suppose,” Annie said.

“It is a useful restorative,” he said mildly. “At least she will sleep well.”

“Except that when she wakes, she asks for her dead husband, and someone called Martha, of whom I have never heard.”

“Hmm. I shall reduce her dosage a little, perhaps, but it is still the best general remedy for illnesses of this nature, given her strong aversion to bleeding.”

“Have you much experience with illnesses of this nature, Mr Grey?”

He had the grace to look a touch chagrined. “It is a most unusual case. Do you wish to obtain the services of a different physician, Mrs Huntly? I can recommend a colleague who—”

“No, no. I meant no aspersion on your skill, I assure you. At least she is not suffering, but if only there were something one could do! ”

“Indeed, but time will cure her, of that you may be certain.”

Annie smiled and nodded and let him leave convinced of her faith in him. In a day or two, she would have a reply from Uncle Tom, and then she would have a better idea of how to proceed.

Cecilia arrived in a welter of bombazine and black feathers, for she seemed to feel that only full mourning adequately addressed the situation. In all the flurry of tears and hugs and rapid questions, she was somehow got upstairs and divested of cloak and bonnet, and then back down again to the peacock chamber, still talking, where Sheffield was already laying out tea and macaroons.

She had brought her husband with her this time, and the vicar of Bursham St John turned out to be rather a surprise. Annie had grown up surrounded by clergymen who were uniformly gentle, spiritual souls, like her father. Even if not actually elderly, they had an old-fashioned air about them. Mr Elkington was not in the least old-fashioned or spiritual, being a large young man with a handsome countenance and a pleasingly proportioned figure. He had a decidedly fashionable air and the sort of panache that would not be out of place in London or Bath. The room seemed a little smaller when he was in it. When he spoke, which was not often, for his wife talked enough for both of them, his voice was well-modulated. Her mother would have responded to such a man at once, Annie realised, with a burst of sadness.

The rest of the day passed in masculine planning and legal discussions, and feminine tears, in neither of which Annie felt herself able to participate. As soon as she could after dinner, she escaped to her mother’s room, to read to her from one of her many books of sermons until Mr Grey came and administered her laudanum. Once her mother was asleep and the physician had departed, Annie made up her informal bed, settled down to watch her mother and promptly fell asleep herself.

~~~~~

The next day, her guests scattered on various undertakings. Captain Edgerton disappeared to investigate the river at various points downstream of the murder spot. The Elkingtons went off in the carriage with Benedict and Mr Willerton-Forbes to see Adam in Salisbury gaol, laden with various comestibles from Mrs Hewitt and several bottles of claret. He had very comfortable accommodation, Benedict had assured her, and was not at all downhearted. Even Edwin and Jerome were out, having obtained permission to examine Willow Place more thoroughly from the outside. Annie was not quite sure what they might learn from that, but she was rather glad to have the hunting room to herself for a while.

After dealing with a few letters, she began a record of all that had occurred before and after her husband’s death. She did not truly expect to discover some previously unsuspected clue to the murderer’s identity by this exercise, but Uncle Tom had always encouraged her to record her findings, and so it seemed natural to do so now, even for something as different from her usual reporting of simples and syrups, of quantities made up and improvements detected. However, she was constantly interrupted by one thing or another, by Mr Grey, or callers from the neighbourhood, and once by Squire Thornton to assure her that he had no thought of Adam’s guilt at all, but Sir Leonard was adamant it could be no other, and what could he do?

“You could tell him he is mistaken, Squire,” she said robustly. “I shall count it very much against you if you allow my poor cousin to appear at the Assizes for a murder he did not commit. Very much against you.”

And the Squire twisted his hat and stammered and mumbled, like a kitchen boy caught raiding the larder.

In the middle of the afternoon, Mrs Cumber came in.

“Beg pardon for interrupting you, madam, but Davy has permission from Mr Dewey to cut reeds at the river. He thought if you wished to go for your usual walk, he could accompany you, since the captain is so insistent on you not going out alone.”

“That is very thoughtful of Davy,” Annie said, surprised and pleased. After a whole day spent at her desk, with only brief interludes given over to visitors or looking in on her mother, the prospect of a walk in the fresh air was appealing. “Please tell him I will meet him at the garden door just as soon as I have fetched my bonnet.”

There was a cool breeze blowing, but not enough to deter Annie from her walk. She set off with determination, Davy loping along behind her with his basket. He was a fine, tall lad and his work in the garden had given him a well-muscled figure. It was no wonder he was already attracting the notice of girls from the village.

“How old are you now, Davy?” she said as they strode along the path through the pleasure grounds.

“Sixteen last month, madam,” he said.

“You would look well in livery. Would you like to help Sheffield and Billy in the dining room sometimes?”

“That’d be grand, madam! I’d like that, if you think I could do it right.”

She smiled encouragingly. “You are quick to learn, and keen to better yourself, I make no doubt. I will speak to Sheffield about it.”

“Thank you, madam. You’re very kind to me.” But he seemed almost embarrassed, as if unused to attention from the mistress of the house.

When they reached the park, Annie stopped. “Where do you want to cut your reeds, Davy? Do you have a particular spot in mind? I can find a place to sit anywhere nearby.”

“There’s a good patch just near that new seat, madam.”

“That would work very well, then. I can sit and contemplate the river, and you can cut your reeds. She must be a charming young lady, I think.”

Davy stumbled momentarily and dropped his basket. When he had picked it up, his face was bright red. How sensitive he was about his young lady! Annie was smitten with guilt.

“I should not tease you about her, Davy. I beg your pardon.”

“Who, madam?”

“Why, the young lady you mentioned, the one in the village who weaves baskets. Is that not the reason for all this reed-cutting?”

“Oh… oh, yes, madam. I’d forgot I told you about her.” He gave a sudden laugh, but she thought he was still uncomfortable with the subject, so she said no more.

When they came to the river, he said, “There! That’s a good patch, just there. I’ll get plenty from that.”

Annie stopped uncertainly. “The seat is out of sight from here. Perhaps I should just stay here with you. Captain Edgerton is most insistent that none of us should be alone.”

“It’s not far, madam, and you only need call me and I’ll come running.”

She hesitated. It was true that the seat was not far away, only around the next patch of bushes, in fact. It was absurd to imagine that a murderer would return a month later and be wandering the grounds at that precise moment. And yet… she could not afford to take risks, not now that she had a child to consider.

“Come with me to the seat,” she said impulsively to Davy. “Then you may leave me there while you cut your reeds.”

Obediently he rose, and walked beside her the short distance along the riverbank until the seat came into view. There was no one in sight and nothing at all untoward about the place, and Annie was immediately ashamed of her groundless fears. Sending Davy off to his task, she sat down on the seat and watched the river. The water was lower today, the current less obvious. A party of ducks floated past, and across the river two moorhens bobbed about. It was such a tranquil scene, yet she could not enjoy it, not when Adam was locked away in Salisbury gaol. Only two days ago, they had sat on that very seat talking of the future, kissing… Did the memory of that kiss warm his heart in his miserable cell, or did it make his confinement even harder to bear? She could not—

A sudden movement caught her eye, a flash of burgundy. Annie’s heart raced, and she jumped to her feet in sudden terror. But it was only a woman, expensively dressed in velvets and furs, walking along the riverside path. The stranger stopped abruptly, raising kid gloves to her throat.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to startle you. Sit down again, won’t you?”

Her voice was neither well modulated nor educated, but she was as pretty a creature as Annie had ever seen, as small and dainty as a doll. She was not dressed in the first stare of fashion like Lavinia, but her clothes were well made, if unusual, her coat fitted with many pockets, just like a man’s redingote. The practical side of Annie’s nature thought it ingenious, and much more use than the tiny little reticule that women were supposed to carry. But there was nothing threatening about her, so Annie smiled.

“Have you walked out from Wickstead? I am afraid you have gone astray, for this is private land.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, with a dimpled smile. “This is Willow Place, isn’t it? I’ve heard so much about it.” She came a little further along the path, so that she was only a few paces from the seat, then she turned to face the river. “It’s even prettier than I’d imagined. How lucky you are to live here.”

“I am,” Annie said cautiously. “Do you live in Wickstead?”

“No, no. I live a long way from here. A long way.” She laughed, a merry tinkle like a stream burbling over rocks. “I have a small garden, but nothing like this. I have chickens, too. Do you have chickens?”

“The gardener’s wife keeps chickens and ducks, I believe.”

“Oh, ducks too? Then you will have plenty of eggs, and meat as well, no doubt. How fortunate you are. I like a duck egg myself, lightly poached, although I am not over fond of the meat. Too much fat on a duck for my taste. And there is a gamekeeper here, too, I understand? So you will never be short of pheasant or partridge. I get some game occasionally from my neighbours, but it must be a fine thing to have your own.”

Annie was bemused by this artless chatter. Her mother, she knew, would have had a delicate way of depressing the pretensions of such a woman, who, despite her expensive clothes, was not gentry, but Annie had never acquired the knack of it. She had so recently risen to the ranks of landed gentry herself that she had not the heart to snub the stranger. Besides, it would be an amusing tale to tell Adam when he returned.

So when the woman in velvet turned and smiled at Annie and said, in her charming way, “May I sit for a while? I’d like to rest for a few minutes before I leave,” Annie smiled in return and sat down herself, gesturing to her unexpected visitor to sit too.

The woman sat beside her, a little nearer than was polite, but Annie said nothing. Close up, she was tiny, truly a doll-like woman, and a head shorter than Annie, at least.

“I see why you enjoy this view,” the woman said, for all the world as if she knew Annie intimately. “It’s very restful, isn’t it? The willows, the river flowing past, and that big house across the other side. Who lives there?”

“The Lady Charlotte Litherholm,” Annie said. “She is aunt to the Duke of Falconbury of Valmont.”

“Well! What grand neighbours you have! Do you go there for your dinner sometimes?”

“Oh, no, indeed not. Lady Charlotte does not entertain.” Then, because she was curious, she went on, “Are you staying somewhere nearby? For I cannot imagine you have travelled from your home today, if it is so far away.”

“I am staying nearby, yes.” She laughed again, and Annie had the uncomfortable feeling that she was laughing at her, although she could not have said why she felt that.

“In Wickstead?” Annie persisted, but the stranger only laughed again. “You see, I am trying to understand how you can know so much about Willow Place if you live so far away.”

“Why, Rupert told me.”

“Rupert?” she cried in astonishment. “You were a friend of his?” And perhaps this woman, as unexpected as she was, could tell them something of Rupert’s former life, and maybe even knew why someone would kill him. Annie felt a surge of interest in this odd little creature.

“Why, certainly. I have known him for years. He told me all about this place, and about you, Annie. Miss Annie Dresden that was, and Mrs Rupert Huntly now. Oh yes, he told me all about you. Somehow, I thought you’d be different. He called you an angel, and naturally I thought you must be perfect in every way.”

“Certainly not that!” Annie said. “I am quite an ordinary person.”

“Yes, you are,” the woman said. “Taller than I’d expected, but otherwise perfectly ordinary.” She gave a bark of laughter at her own supposed wit, and the thought flashed into Annie’s mind that perhaps she was not right in the head. There was something very peculiar about her manner, and indeed her very presence there, even though she claimed to be a friend of Rupert’s.

That was something that made Annie uneasy. An old friend, someone Rupert had known years ago, and here she was and perhaps completely unaware of all that had happened in the last month.

“I wonder if…” she began, then stopped. It was so difficult! She knew nothing about this woman, not even her name. “Forgive me for not knowing you, but my husband never mentioned a female acquaintance.”

This time she did not laugh. “I daresay he didn’t. A man don’t mention other women to his wife.”

Other women. She was not sure what to make of that. “You may not be aware…” she began tentatively.

The other woman tilted her head. “Yes?”

“Perhaps you do not know…” Annie ploughed on, steeling herself for the reaction to her words. “You may not have heard that… I am very sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Rupert is dead. “

To Annie’s astonishment, she laughed again. “Oh yes, I know. Naturally I know.”

“You know?”

“Of course. How could I not know?”

Annie frowned, unable to make sense of this.

“I know he is dead because I killed him. I shot him twice through the heart and left him to die, the treacherous, lying Devil.”

26: A Boat On The River

The world spun around Annie. For an instant she thought she might be about to faint, but then she told herself sternly that only foolish women swooned or screamed hysterically and she was not foolish. Besides, as the practical side of her reasserted itself, there was no point in fainting dead away with no one by to help her except this peculiar woman who claimed to have killed Rupert.

“Oh, don’t worry, I mean you no harm,” the woman said, as calmly as if she were discussing the weather. “My quarrel was only with Rupert, be sure of that. I don’t hold it against you, not at all, but if I couldn’t have him, no one else was going to, that’s for sure.”

“You wanted to marry him?” Annie said tentatively, beginning to recover her composure.

“Aye, and who had a better right?”

“So… you had expectations, and then he married me? So you—” Annie could not finish that thought. ‘So you murdered my husband,’ were not easy words to say.

“So I killed him? Yes. For six years he had what he wanted from me, and I waited patiently. He couldn’t afford to marry, he said, and it’s true, he never had money to spare. He never spent a penny on himself, for his clothes were always threadbare. But then he came into his brother’s inheritance. At last, I thought! I’ll be a wife and a lady and live comfortable, as I should, and Heaven help anyone who looks down his superior nose at me. But then he came to see me, all excited. He was getting married, he said, and wasn’t it wonderful, he would finally have his angel, and so he wouldn’t be coming to see me again.”

Annie was still pondering the meaning of ‘He had what he wanted from me’, so she said nothing, but the woman seemed to require no answer, only an audience for her story.

“I wanted you to know,” she went on, as Annie stared at her pretty face and tried to make sense of it. “I wanted you to understand that it’s finished now, so you needn’t worry that anyone’s going to take a pop at you. And you needn’t worry about me, neither. I’m set up, thanks to Rupert. Not that he ever gave me a penny piece himself,” she said, with a spurt of bitterness. “Not him! He saved it all for you, didn’t he? Four thousand pounds he had put by, he told me, and it all went to you. But that was no blame to you, so I don’t bear you no grudge. You’re pretty, too, and you look to be a gentle girl, and a proper lady, not like me, so I can see the attraction, believe me. But he should have married me, by rights.”

“But that is shocking!” Annie said. “To be betrothed for six years, and then—”

“Well now, it wasn’t quite as formal as that. There was no betrothal, at least, nothing official. But I always assumed… Well, that just goes to show, doesn’t it? Maybe you gentry folks have the right of it after all. Never give them anything until you’ve stood up before the parson. You see, I thought we had an understanding and he’d marry me whenever he could afford it, but he thought I was just his mistress.”

Annie gave a squeak of shock at this point. His mistress! And she had never suspected it. Not that a man would tell his wife such a thing, but such arrangements were generally known, and he should have said as much to Uncle Tom, at least. Besides, there might be complications.

“Do you have children?” Annie said. And then, struck by a sudden thought, she added, “He might have left you something in his will. We have not yet found it.”

She laughed again. “Well, aren’t you a kindly soul, to be thinking of such a thing? No, I don’t expect it and I don’t need it, neither. Like I said, I’m set up. My own house, and a tidy income, enough to live on comfortably and see my two boys established when their time comes. That was Rupert’s doing, the house. I was a nurse, you see, looking after rich old folks near their end. I always hoped one of them would change his will to leave me something, and so it happened. That was how I met Rupert, when he was called in to change the will. Lovely old biddy she was, and left me the lot. But the relatives came crawling out of the woodwork after she died and challenged the will in court so I lost it all. But then Rupert found me another one — a kindly old gent away out in the countryside, and no living kin. And six months later, he obligingly died and left me everything and this time no one challenged it, so it’s mine. Lovely house it is, too. So that was very convenient for Rupert. He could come and see me whenever he wanted, and it was all very discreet. No one suspected a thing, which was just how he wanted it. Terribly private man he was, always the same. You must have found that, too.”

Annie found herself quite unable to speak. This woman was like no one she had ever encountered before, and the stream of revelations overwhelmed her. She felt as if she had fallen into some strange underworld where everything looked the same but was bizarrely different. Her life had been so orderly until Rupert had returned! At that instant she would have given everything to go back to that moment in the cellar of Uncle Tom’s house, counting bottles, and have her future unroll from that point in a different direction.

The woman stood up abruptly, and Annie sprang up, too, recalling with a spear of alarm that this was a self-confessed murderer beside her. This woman, so expensively dressed, so composed, had come here with pistols in her pockets and murder in her heart. Perhaps even now she had those pistols with her, tucked away in the capacious pockets of her coat.

“It’s time I was gone,” the woman said. “You won’t see me again, don’t you worry about that. Enjoy your view, Annie.”

“Wait!” Annie cried. “Rupert’s cousin is held in gaol even now for Rupert’s murder, but you have the power to free him.”

“What, you want me to confess my guilt to the judge? I don’t think so.”

“But he could hang!”

She smirked then. “Ah, you care about this cousin, don’t you? More than you cared about Rupert.”

“I never loved Rupert,” Annie said. “You could have had him with my good will, if I had known about you. What he did was wrong, and what you did was wrong too, but none of that can be undone. But Adam is a good man who has never harmed a soul, and it is wicked to let him hang for a crime he did not commit. At least sign a statement confessing, and then disappear if you must but—”

“No,” she said coldly. “What a fool I am to be worrying about you! Just goes to show, don’t it? You don’t deserve no sympathy. You took Rupert from me when you cared nothing for him. I’d loved him for years and waited patiently for him, but you… you just wanted all this. A big house, plenty of money… what a fine lady you are! Just another money-grabbing nobody! But you love this cousin, so now you’ll know how I felt when someone I loved was taken away from me. I hope he hangs, this cousin. And I hope you burn in Hell, Annie Dresden.”

She turned away in a flurry of burgundy velvet, and she had vanished down the path and out of sight before Annie had caught her breath.

“Wait!” she cried, in sudden fear. She had had the murderer standing before her, and now she was escaping. Annie raced after her, catching her sleeve momentarily on a bramble. Angrily she ripped it free and ran on. Emerging from the concealing bushes onto a clear stretch of path, she saw the woman ahead of her.

“Wait! Wait!” she shouted, but the woman took no notice. Even as Annie rushed up to the spot where she stood, she stepped into a boat tied up there, lifted the restraining rope looped over a low pole and pushed hard. The boat drifted away from the pole and then the current caught it and hurried it away downstream. The woman waved one triumphant hand before the boat was swept out of sight.

Annie could have wept with frustration. What a dreadful mess she had made of it! To have the real murderer in front of her, and yet gain nothing by it. She had no idea who she was — not so much as a name, still less a direction — and Adam was still locked away with no hope of release.

“Madam?”

Annie spun round, disoriented. “Oh… oh, Davy! Do you know who that woman was?”

“What woman, madam?”

“The one who was here just now, in a red coat. She sat on the seat with me, and then she got in a boat and went off down the river. Surely you must have seen that!”

“I didn’t see no one, madam, and no boat, but I was head down in the reeds. I wouldn’t have seen nothin’”

Annie stamped her foot in frustration. But at least there was one undeniable truth — she now knew who had murdered Rupert. She would be able to tell Sir Leonard, and Adam would be released.

“Back to the house!” she said, setting off at speed almost before the words were out of her mouth. She tore back across the park, Davy striding along in her wake.

A note was hastily written and Billy dispatched to Sir Leonard, with instructions to find him wherever he might be. Then Annie paced back and forth in the hunting room, waiting.

He came promptly, which was a relief. “You have fresh information, Mrs Huntly?” he said. “Your man said you know something to exonerate Mr Adam, and if so I should very much like to hear it.”

“I know who the murderer is,” she said.

“Ah. And who is the fellow?”

“It is a woman.” Sir Leonard’s eyebrows rose. “I… I do not know her name, for she did not give it, but she told me all about her connection to my husband. It is a sad story, and she was badly treated, although that does not excuse her behaviour in the least. Please, sit, Sir Leonard. May I offer you a glass of Madeira? Or tea?”

“Madeira, I thank you. So tell me how you come to know all this, Mrs Huntly.”

She poured Madeira for him, and then sat down and calmly told him the tale. She had had sufficient time to compose herself and get the details straight in her mind, so she started with her walk to the river with Davy, then the appearance of the stranger as she sat on her seat. She related all the history that she had been told, not evading the sordid details, although she blushed a little as she talked about a mistress and the two bastard children. Nor did she forget the deviously acquired inheritance.

Sir Leonard listened gravely, his face impassive. He was not an ill-natured man, but it could not be denied that a little more flexibility in attitude would not go amiss. Annie did not entirely blame him for arresting Adam, but it did not seem to her that he had properly considered any alternatives. Now at last he must give up all thought of Adam as the murderer.

When she had finished, he sat in silence, frowning in thought. He reached for the Madeira glass, found it empty, set it down again. Annie refilled it and he took another sip, regarding her over the rim of the glass. Why did he not speak?

“So now you may release Adam, Sir Leonard,” she said. “Now that the real murderer is known, you have no reason to hold on to him.”

“Do you recall my advice to you, Mrs Huntly?” he said.

“Advice?”

“When I came here to arrest Mr Adam, I warned you not to interfere. To say nothing at all. You should have heeded that advice, madam.”

“But… I am not sure what you are saying, Sir Leonard. Do you expect me to learn facts of this magnitude and not relate them to you?”

“You were alone, of course, when you met this woman.”

“I… yes, but Davy was nearby. What has that to say to anything?”

“And did he hear or see this woman? No, he did not. No one saw or heard a thing. Except for you, Mrs Huntly. There you were, sitting on this seat beside the river, and this mysterious woman appears from nowhere and confesses to murder and then vanishes just as mysteriously as she arrived. And how convenient that she gives no name or any information that might identify her.”

Annie stood up, obliging him to haul himself to his feet too. “Are you calling me a liar, Sir Leonard?” she said coldly. “I am not accustomed to such insult from a gentleman.”

“You are fond of young Adam, are you not?” he said, and his face bore some trace of sympathy. “No, you need not answer such a question. He is a personable young man, very charming, very amusing, with manners calculated to delight any young lady, even one married to another man. Now, now, do not bridle up at me, for I impute no evil to your behaviour, none at all. I have asked many people about the nature of your dealings with Adam and there is not one who has a word to say against you. It is agreed that you enjoy his company, but there is no hint of anything more… more vicious. So whatever drove an otherwise blameless young man to murder, it was not a scheme cooked up between the two of you.”

“That is—!” Annie was so indignant that she could not find words strong enough to express it.

“Say nothing, I implore you!” he said hastily. “As I have said all along, your best course is to not interfere, in any way, because if you are dragged into the business, it will be beyond my powers to get you out again. No jury will believe that you knew nothing of it, and then you will be hanged or transported and we none of us want that. Believe me when I say that it is the last thing I want. But young Adam? I cannot save him.”

“But he is innocent!” she cried. “You must know him to be incapable of murder.”

“Which of us is truly incapable of black deeds, when it comes to it?” he said sombrely. “I would have agreed with you… I did agree with you, but the facts are against him. He quarrelled with your husband at the Vestry meeting, then went straight home, up to his room where he keeps a pair of duelling pistols. Then out again, and no one can say for certain where he went after that. Even he cannot — or will not. So he could easily have waylaid your husband and killed him, Mrs Huntly. And, quite apart from the Vestry quarrel, he had several reasons to wish Huntly dead. You are one reason, and then there is the estate… a fine estate, and a very tempting inducement. By killing Huntly, Adam secures both you and the inheritance at one stroke.”

“That is not true! If I have a son—”

“Adam will marry you and be his guardian, and have full control of the estate for one and twenty years.”

“There is also James Huntly.”

“Who is dead. You cannot save Adam, Mrs Huntly, and I must beg you to try no further ploys of this nature. I shall not count this against you, for as a female you cannot be expected to fully appreciate the consequences of your misguided efforts, nor will I relate this to my fellow magistrates, but you must promise me not to repeat it.”

Annie burned with the injustice of it, but her mind was clear. “Sir Leonard, you must do as you see fit, if you can reconcile that with your conscience. For myself, I know — I have always known — beyond all doubt that Adam is innocent of this dreadful crime, and therefore the only promise I shall make to you is this — that I shall not rest until I have proved it. I shall find this woman, whoever she is, and I shall see her brought to justice. I know that she is real, and not a figment of my imagination, because I saw her with my own eyes. She sat, no further from me than you are now, and told me openly that she had killed my husband. Whoever she is, wherever she lives, she is real and there must be a way to find her. And I will, I promise you that. I will not let Adam hang for a murder he did not commit.”

“Fine words,” Sir Leonard muttered. He shook his head sadly as he took his leave, and Annie was left steaming with rage at his obstinacy.

“I will find her, I will,” she said, over and over again as she paced about the hunting room.

But she had not the least idea how to go about it.

27: Saturday Night And Sunday Morning

Annie seethed with rage. To know the identity of her husband’s killer and yet to be disbelieved on such a point! To be told, as if she were a child, that she could not understand the consequences of her actions! It was insulting and offensive. She was not sure that she could forgive Sir Leonard. Even if she could prove Adam’s innocence and set him free, no amount of apology could recompense him for his days and nights shut up in Salisbury gaol.

She sent Sheffield scurrying about to locate Mr Willerton-Forbes and Captain Edgerton. The captain was the first to appear. A brief summary of events was enough to send him hurrying away to the stables for a horse, bound on a fast ride downstream to look for the boat and the place where the murderess had come ashore. Mr Willerton-Forbes arrived next, and then Benedict, then Edwin and Jerome, and finally Judith, rather flushed and breathing rapidly, as if she had been running. For each new arrival, Annie repeated her story until she knew every detail by heart. No one told her she was imagining things or making it up.

“Will Adam come home now?” Jerome said, with the straightforwardness of his twelve years.

“Not yet,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said gently. “He must be brought before the magistrate on Monday, and unless we can find good evidence of this woman by then, I fear your brother will be sent to the Assizes. But then we will have some time to find her, and when we do, your brother will be released.”

Jerome nodded. “Good. What is for dinner tonight?”

“Oh… dinner…” Annie glanced at the clock. It wanted but twenty minutes to five. “I did not hear the dressing bell. Shall we wait for the captain, Mr Willerton-Forbes?”

The lawyer laughed. “When Michael is chasing clues, he forgets what day it is, never mind what hour. If we wait, we might not eat until midnight and we cannot distress the estimable Mrs Hewitt so. A good cook is an invaluable treasure.”

“If it is turkey, I shall save him a leg,” Jerome said solemnly. “He likes the dark meat best.”

“That is very thoughtful of you, Master Jerome,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said gravely.

The advantage of having only one course for dinner, Annie found, was that the servants could be dismissed immediately, leaving the company to discuss Annie’s strange encounter to their heart’s content. At first she said nothing, as the lawyer and Adam’s three brothers aired their own thoughts on the tale. Mr Willerton-Forbes was confident that the woman could be found.

“It will take time, but it can be done.”

“But how, sir?” Benedict said. “We have no name, no direction… not even a county! She could be anywhere in England.”

“I think not. Consider what we know — that she met Mr Rupert Huntly during the course of his work as an attorney, which was in Grantham. He made a will for an elderly woman she was nursing. Later, the will was contested, which would have been widely reported. So, all we need to do is to ask the senior partner at the firm of attorneys where Mr Huntly plied his trade. They will certainly remember the case, and we will have a name for this woman.”

“But that will not tell us where she is now,” Benedict said.

“Indeed it will not, and if, as Mrs Huntly said, her present position was one which Mr Huntly found for her, it is possible that his fellow attorneys knew nothing of it. But we will pursue that course as far as we can. Once we have a name, and with Mrs Huntly’s excellent description, we may be able to ask more directly. The will wherein she came by her house would have been a matter of public record, and it must be somewhere not too far from Grantham. We will find her, of that I am very confident. She made a mistake by coming here, that much is certain.” The lawyer turned to Annie. “You are very quiet, Mrs Huntly. Do you have anything to add to our deliberations?”

“On where she is? No, nothing, for I agree with all your conclusions. However, I have been pondering how she contrived her visit today.”

“She arrived by boat, presumably?” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “Since she departed by that means, it is logical that she arrived thus also.”

“Oh yes, but from which direction? And where did the boat come from?”

Mr Willerton-Forbes opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again with a frown. “It was not her boat, you mean? No, of course it was not, and it seems unlikely that she hired it legitimately from someone who might well remember such an unusual customer.”

“I do not see her stealing it herself, either,” Annie said. “Nor could she have rowed it any distance. She was tiny! She only came up to my shoulder, and the current is strong. I believe she must have had an accomplice, and then there is the question of how she got here from wherever she lives. By the stage? Again, she is too memorable. A pretty young woman in red velvet and a very fetching cap would be remembered by every man she passed.”

“She could have been in disguise,” Jerome said eagerly. “Wearing male clothing, she would pass for a boy.”

“Then she must have carried her own clothes in a bag of some sort, and abandoned the others somewhere, for I saw nothing in the boat with her,” Annie said.

“We will look for them,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said, “and also for someone missing a boat.”

“Oh!” Judith said. “The Turners’ boat went missing a few weeks ago, and turned up caught in the shallows just beyond the Durran House bridge. They have the farm just beyond Wickstead, and they keep a small boat for fishing. Not that they use it often, so they had no idea how long it had been missing. Perhaps that was how this woman murdered Rupert — steal the boat, float downstream to the right point, tie up and do… what she set out to do, then use the boat to escape. And perhaps she did exactly the same today.”

Captain Edgerton returned just then, his face alight with excitement.

“Did you find her?” Jerome cried.

The captain looked a little crestfallen. “The lady in red? Unfortunately not, but I did find much of interest, which I shall tell you all about as soon as I have changed.”

“We do not mind your informality, Captain,” Annie said with a smile. “Please join us at once. Jerome has preserved the best of each dish for you. Everything is keeping warm on the burners on the sideboard.”

With Jerome’s enthusiastic help, the captain heaped his plate with food, but when he sat down, he took only a sip or two of wine before imparting his news.

“I have found the place where she came ashore,” he said. “Just down at the Durran House bridge the river widens and the current is more moderate. There is a small jetty in a little bay — the ideal place for her to abandon the boat. Just beside it is a sheltered lane hidden from the road by trees, and I found evidence there of a wheeled vehicle and two horses, which had stood for some time.”

“What sort of wheeled vehicle, Michael?”

The captain’s hunger drew him to his plate for a while, and the company waited impatiently for his answer.

“Mm, excellent pheasant. My compliments to Mrs Hewitt, and my thanks to you, Master Jerome.” He executed a little bow. “As to the vehicle, my guess would be a small carriage. Four wheels, I think, rather than two. There were two sets of boot prints around the area — a coachman and groom, perhaps.”

“So they waited there for our mysterious lady, who floated down the river to meet them and was carried away to safety,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said musingly. “And so the boat was tied up there?”

“No, there was no boat. I suspect that after she had disembarked, she untied it and let it drift on downstream,” Captain Edgerton said.

“Then it would end up in the shallows as the Turners’ boat was,” Benedict said. “It would be set down to mishap — the securing rope badly tied, say, and no one any the wiser. But where did the carriage come from? A hired chaise?”

“That would be too risky,” Annie said. “She is too distinctive a person not to be noticed, and it would not just be a coachman and groom — there would be the innkeeper, the ostler, any passing customers. A coaching inn is a busy place, not conducive to clandestine arrangements. No, I think it was her own carriage and her own loyal servants.”

“They would need more than loyalty to be party to a murder,” Captain Edgerton said. “It would take a lot of money to bribe even the most loyal of servants to turn a blind eye to that.”

“They would not necessarily know,” Annie said. “Let us suppose that they live near Grantham, and that all they were required to do was to drop their mistress off and then collect her later — perhaps days later, if she was sleeping in the boat house. Once they had all returned to Grantham, a murder in Wiltshire would not necessarily trigger any warning bells.”

“It was reported in all the newspapers,” Benedict said.

“They might not be able to read,” Jerome said. “Lots of servants cannot read or write.”

“And if the house is isolated, they might not hear any news,” Annie said. “What I cannot understand, though, is why she came here again and told me all about herself. She has surely given us enough information to find her. All she had to do was to stay away and we should never have suspected her existence. What could induce her to take such a risk?”

Mr Willerton-Forbes smiled. “Now that, my dear Mrs Huntly, is a very easy question to answer. She wanted to see you, to meet you face to face and talk to you.”

“She must have seen me sometimes when she was watching the house in preparation for her dreadful deed.”

“In the distance, and wearing a bonnet, no doubt, and that was not enough for her. She was a spurned woman, so burning up with jealousy that she killed the man who had betrayed her. Yet even that could not extinguish the flames entirely. She needed to see you, to be close enough to touch you and talk to you. She needed to understand your superiority, and why he chose you above her.”

“Then I must have been a sad disappointment to her. She is far prettier than I ever was, and livelier, too. I am very dull by comparison and have no claim to superiority.”

“On the contrary, my dear lady,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “You are a respectable, God-fearing, virtuous woman, worthy to be the wife of a gentleman, and she was not.”

To Annie, that still sounded terribly dull. Not that she would ever have wanted to be a mistress or a swindler of elderly rich gentlefolk or a murderer, but her whole life had been confined to Guildford and now Willow Place. Apart from an annual visit to London with Uncle Tom for his supplies, a brief stay with Lavinia shortly after her marriage and her own honeymoon in Bath, she had never travelled or seen anything of the world. Nor had she made any mark on it, such that people would remember her. She had created nothing and destroyed nothing. Her name would never be talked about in tap rooms or read about in the newspapers. She was neither famous nor infamous, and when she died, only those few who had known her would remember her face and her deeds.

“We must all be thankful that this woman had no ill intent towards you,” Captain Edgerton said. “I blame myself for offering you such inadequate protection that she was able to enter these grounds unseen.”

“You could not watch the whole river,” Annie said gently.

“No, but I should have been with you. The gardener’s boy is not capable of defending you.”

“No one could possibly defend me against her. If she had wanted to kill me, she could have done so a dozen times over. She means me no harm.”

“Not today, perhaps, but she may yet change her mind on that,” the captain said grimly. “I must urge you to stay within doors until this woman is safely locked up, Mrs Huntly.”

“But—”

“If not for your own sake, then for that of your child.”

Her child… that was one legacy she would leave behind her, God willing. Yes, for the sake of her child, she could accept some privation. If she made no other mark on the world, that would be a gift to posterity as great as any other.

~~~~~

The next day was Sunday, yet Captain Edgerton was up at first light, eager to continue his investigations. Annie spent an hour updating her record of everything related to the murder. She had a great deal to add, with all that had befallen her the previous day. She made sure to detail everything, from Davy’s offer to accompany her to Sir Leonard’s rejection of her story. She wrote down as much as she could recall of the actual words the woman had used. One phrase caught her eye — ‘You’re taller than I’d expected,’ she had said. Yet she must surely have seen Annie as she watched the household and plotted her vile deed.

It was odd, but there was no time to consider the matter then, for there was church to be considered. Annie had decided that she would heed the captain’s cautions and stay at home with her mother. The three Huntly boys, Cecilia and her husband, and most of the servants had already left on foot, and Annie waited in the great hall with Judith, her daughters and Mr Willerton-Forbes for the carriage to come round when Captain Edgerton returned.

“There are signs of recent occupation in the boat house,” the captain said triumphantly. “There are new candles since I last checked, and an empty wine bottle. It seems our anonymous murderer spent at least one night there before meeting you yesterday, Mrs Huntly. I have not yet located the boat she used, but that is my next objective.”

“It is the Sabbath, Captain,” Annie said gently. “Perhaps this could wait until tomorrow?”

“Oh… the better the day, the better the deed, as my Colonel used to say whenever anyone protested at a Sunday commission. However, if you will give me five minutes to don a clean pair of boots, I will be respectable enough for Wickstead parish church, and perhaps after the service there may be an opportunity to talk to Mr Turner and enquire if he has mislaid his boat again lately.”

His enthusiasm made Annie smile ruefully. She saw them away in the carriage, then went upstairs to her mother’s room. She was dressed and sitting in a chair, a soft smile on her face, as if she were lost in a pleasant dream. And perhaps she was… Annie hoped she was.

“Good morning, Mama. How are you today? You will be pleased to hear that the sun is shining, although the wind is easterly and it is not terribly warm. I believe it is shifting direction, so we may have rain later.”

Her mother sat, unresponsive, her hands unnaturally still. Annie could not remember a time when her mother’s hands had been immobile. She was always sewing, or clutching a handkerchief. If they went out, it would be her reticule she clutched, the fingers working constantly. Such stillness was more disturbing than anything else.

Annie pulled up a chair and took her mother’s hand in hers. Stroking it gently, she said, “Oh, Mama… please come back to me… I need you…” Her voice wobbled dangerously. Whatever would she do without her mother to help her? Who else would support her so unreservedly? Who else remembered Papa and the life they had once had?

For an instant she felt utterly adrift. Rupert had torn her away from her family, and she had not yet had time to put down new roots in Wiltshire. She barely knew her neighbours and Judith… she had had hopes of Judith, but somehow their promising start had not grown into friendship. Rupert had come between them initially, and she knew now that Judith had her own plans, her own new life with John Ransome.

And then there was Adam. Her heart ached for him, for his lightness of spirit that could always make her smile, and his gentle kisses. Whether that was love or loneliness, she could not say, but something about him drew her powerfully. Or perhaps it was that he was part of a large happy family, and she yearned to be a part of it too.

She felt her spirits lowering with every moment. Taking a deep breath, she said briskly, “It is Sunday, Mama. Should you like to read through the service? Where is your Prayer Book? Here it is, right beside you. Shall I begin? ‘If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us:  But if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us, in sundry places, to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness…’”

The familiar words washed over her, filling her with peace. Mrs Dresden might be unmoved, but Annie could not be. She recited, almost from memory, although turning the pages of the Prayer Book at the proper times. Eventually she came to the place where the sermon should be.

“What shall I do, Mama? Would you care for a sermon?”

She moved to the small table where several books were piled up neatly, but none were suitable. Then she thought to check the small cabinet next to the bed. There, beside the Bible, lay a book she recognised at once — her father’s sermons. After his death, when they had moved to Uncle Tom’s house, her mother had read and reread the treasured pages so many times that Uncle Tom had had them properly bound for her. Here were all Papa’s sermons, written in his own neat hand. Nothing could be more appropriate.

She sat down again beside her mother and began to read.

‘Nevertheless I tell you the truth; it is expedient for you that I go away: for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you; but if I depart, I will send him unto you. John 16:7. The saints of God may very justly reckon their losses among their greatest gains. The adversities of believers minister much to their prosperity. Although we know this, yet through the infirmity of the flesh we tremble at soul-enriching afflictions…’

Almost she could hear her father’s voice as she read the words, could see him standing in the pulpit, hands gesturing as he spoke, could see his clear, dark eyes — eyes so like her own — gazing benignly down at his rapt congregation. He was such an excellent preacher, a clergyman with a true calling to the church and not one for whom it was only a scheme for advancement. For a moment, wretchedness filled her heart. If only he had not died so soon! If only they had not been forced from their home! If only… if only…

She took a deep breath and admonished herself for her foolishness. How idiotic to be overcome with grief after so long! She had so much to be thankful for, she reminded herself sternly, forcing herself to read on. And slowly, as she read her father’s words and absorbed his quiet, steady faith, her voice strengthened and she was calm again.

‘God has given two great gifts to his people: the first is his Son for us; the second is his Spirit to us. After he had given his Son for us, to become incarnate, to work righteousness, and to offer an atonement—’

“‘That gift had been fully bestowed’,” her mother said, her voice a mere thread, “‘and there remained no more to be conferred in that respect.’”

“Mama? Oh, Mama!”

“Why have you stopped, Annie? Read on, dear one, read on. I do so love this sermon. One of your poor, dear father’s best, I think. If only he had lived just a little longer, he would have made such a name for himself. Oh dear! Where is my handkerchief?”

Smiling, Annie handed her mother her own handkerchief and helped her to mop the tears. Her mother had returned.

28: Considering Pistols

Annie assisted her mother down the stairs and settled her in the peacock chamber. Then, over tea and Bath buns, she told her all that had happened since the news of Adam’s arrest had had such a catastrophic effect on her. Or rather, she tried to tell her, but Mrs Dresden could not be brought to accept that she had been rendered virtually unconscious for three entire days. Consequently, the dramatic events of the intervening period confused her so much that Annie was forced to give it up.

She had lapsed into frustrated silence, while her mother, her mind still on the sermon, murmured gently about the manifold virtues of her late husband, when Annie heard the distant sound of approaching hoof beats. Knowing that all the servants were at church, she left her mother to her cogitations, and went to the great hall. Her hand was actually on the ring that opened the door when she remembered Adam’s advice to check who the visitor might be first. For who would come to call on a Sunday?

Clambering onto the wooden settle, she peered out of the window at the man outside, just as the bell jangled. His horse stood a few yards away, pawing the ground and tossing its head. She was no judge of horseflesh, but she thought it was rather a fine animal. But his rider, frowning and gazing all around as if someone might miraculously appear, was a man she recognised. Major Corbett, the man brought in to examine Rupert’s wounds, who had declared that he had been shot at close quarters.

Scrambling down from the settle, she rushed to open the door. “Major Corbett! Do come in, although I fear that everyone else is at church.”

The frown lifted. “Ah… Morning Prayers, of course. I should have realised. But Captain Edgerton’s message was most insistent that the matter was urgent, and I thought…”

“How kind of you to come out on a Sunday! You are most welcome, Major. I am afraid the groom—”

“—is at church. Yes, of course. Merely direct me to the stable, and I shall take care of my horse myself.”

Not liking to leave her mother alone, when he returned from the stable Annie led him into the peacock chamber, where he fell upon the remaining Bath buns as if he had not eaten for weeks, while Annie related all that had happened in the last few days.

“Adam Huntly?” he said, with a deep frown, as she told him about the arrest. “Hmm. I would not have thought it of him. He seemed an open sort of fellow.”

When Annie began to describe her meeting with the woman, the major abandoned the Bath buns, listening intently.

“Is it possible?” she said. “That a woman would be able to shoot in that way? I have never heard of a woman handling a gun, or wanting to.”

“It is unusual, certainly, but I have known several women who could shoot as well as a man. I even taught two sisters. Their father planned to take them travelling to wild parts, and wished them to be able to defend themselves. He bought them each a pair of very dainty little pistols, small enough to be concealed in a reticule or muff.”

“Was Rupert killed by small pistols of that type?”

“No, the ball was of a size used in standard duelling pistols.”

“Would that be essential for a woman, a pistol of the smaller size?” Annie said. “For this woman was very small and perhaps firing a man’s pistol would be beyond her strength.”

“Interesting question,” the major said. “I confess, I had not previously considered the possibility that the murderer was a woman. In fact—”

He was interrupted by a babble of voices from the great hall. Moments later, the door burst open and Jerome’s excited face appeared.

“Cousin Annie, you missed a famous sermon! Mr Popham was so angry, there was never anything like it. ‘Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’ Luke Chapter Six. And he looked directly at Sir Leonard as he spoke.”

“Sir Leonard looked fit to burst!” Edwin said, peering over his brother’s shoulder. “The rest of the sermon was about righteousness in judgement… I forget the text, now.”

“Leviticus?” Annie said. “‘In righteousness shalt thou judge thy neighbour.’ Was that the one?”

“It was!” Jerome said. Then, catching sight of the major, he said, “Oh, a visitor. Who are you?”

“Manners, you obnoxious child!” Benedict said, rumpling Jerome’s hair. “You are an affront to civilised society. Pray forgive my unruly brother, Cousin Annie. Mrs Dresden! Good morning, madam. So happy to see you up and about again. Jerome, Edwin, make your bows to Mrs Dresden.”

Annie smiled at the brothers affectionately, and as the rest of the church party arrived, she performed the introductions, and steered everyone gently to the buttery for a late breakfast, where the younger Huntly brothers regaled the company with the full details of the sermon. Mr Popham tended more to the soporific style of preaching, and Annie was rather sorry to have missed him in his magnificent wrath, rebuking Sir Leonard from the pulpit for arresting Adam on such flimsy grounds. It would not change Sir Leonard’s mind, but the vocal support of the church in the case was most welcome.

Amongst the ladies, Mrs Dresden’s sudden recovery was exclaimed upon as a great wonder, and after breakfast she was borne away triumphantly by Judith and Cecilia to visit the nursery, where her advice was sought for a difficult tooth of Isobel’s.

The men drifted away to the hunting room, and Annie followed, being far more interested in pistols at that moment than Isobel’s tooth. Major Corbett had brought all the notes he had taken as he examined Rupert’s body, and Captain Edgerton examined the papers with professional interest, while Mr Willerton-Forbes, Benedict and Cecilia’s husband interjected questions of their own.

Annie sat quietly listening to them, impressed by the major’s attention to detail. He had measured every conceivable length and angle, and all noted down in a neat script, with several pages of his thoughts and conclusions after more leisurely consideration. Edwin and Jerome sat together in a corner, saying nothing but just as fascinated as Annie in the intricacies of murder. It was not gruesome, she discovered, when discussed in so impartial and scientific a way.

The major had also brought a pair of duelling pistols with him, of a size that he considered likely to have been used by the murderer. Mindful of Annie’s questions on whether a woman could have handled such a weapon, he asked her to hold the two guns, to determine whether her fingers could have fired them. They were heavy, she found, but they were so well made that she had no difficulty in holding them steady or positioning her fingers in the correct places.

“How much practice would be required to achieve competence with such devices?” she said, as she handed them to Jerome to try with his smaller fingers.

“Not much for close quarters work, as with Mr Huntly’s killing,” the major said. “If the pistol were already loaded, I could teach you in five minutes. It is the cleaning and loading that is the greater skill.”

“The lady would have had to acquire the weapons, too,” Mr Elkington said. “Once she had set her mind to commit murder and settled the method, she would have needed to buy the pair and the necessary ammunition, and then learn the proper safe use of them, as well as practising shooting. Given her background, it is unlikely that she already had such items to hand, or the necessary skill.”

“She inherited her present home from a gentleman, so he might well have had a pair of pistols,” Annie said. “Any gamekeeper would have the knowledge to instruct her in their use.”

“Possibly,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “Nevertheless, it is something we might enquire about around Grantham, whether a lady bought pistols, or wished to learn how to use them.”

They moved on to discuss how the murder had occurred, examining Captain Edgerton’s sketch of the location. Annie and Jerome resumed their seats, watching and listening, while Edwin admiringly caressed the discarded pistols.

When the gentlemen began to consider how the murder had been planned, Annie listened intently. It was a question to which she herself would like answers. It was clear that the crime had been long in the planning, and when the perpetrator had been thought to be a man, she could well imagine an unsavoury character lurking about the estate, sleeping rough in the boat house and waiting for his moment. But the woman she had met was harder to fit into such a picture. Although she was not exactly a lady, despite the trappings of wealth, neither was she the sort of low-class woman who would sneak about unnoticed.

“I do not quite see how this woman could have known that her victim would pass along the riverside at that exact time,” Major Corbett said. “These meetings were irregular, I believe you said, Captain, and Mr Huntly never walked along that path at any other time. He took the carriage to church, for the convenience of the ladies, and on his pleasure walks within the estate, he was accompanied by Mrs Huntly. Yet on the one occasion when he walks to Wickstead, and is quite alone, the murderer is lying in wait.”

“There is no difficulty there,” Captain Edgerton said. “We know that the murderer spent some time hidden within the estate, sleeping in the boat house, which is not in use and therefore a safe hiding place. She would then have been able to emerge at will to secretly observe the comings and goings of the household. She would have had every opportunity to discover the times of the Vestry meetings.”

Annie frowned at this summary. It was as she herself had once thought, but now she was not so sure. “No…” she said quietly. “No, I do not think so.”

They all turned to look at her.

“Go on,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said.

“The woman I saw yesterday was too clean, too unrumpled to have slept in the boat house overnight.”

“Not on this occasion, perhaps, but—” Captain Edgerton began.

“Not at any time,” Annie said with growing confidence. “She is not a person who sleeps in disused boat houses, Captain, nor can I see her hiding behind bushes for days or weeks on end to watch everyone coming and going. When I first told Adam about the blankets and candles in the boat house, he said that anyone wandering about the estate would surely be noticed, sooner or later. I did not give his words the weight they deserved at the time, but now I believe he was right. And consider, too, that one would need to be close enough to overhear conversations in order to know of the Vestry meetings.” Annie smiled suddenly. “I have just remembered — she said something odd yesterday, that I was taller than she had expected. She had never seen me before! No, I do not believe that this woman lurked about the estate or slept in the boat house at all. After all, there was no food there, no equipment for cooking, no spare clothes, nothing to suggest anyone living there.”

“But the blankets?” the captain said. “Candles, an empty wine bottle? Someone has been using the boat house secretly.”

The major laughed. “This is surely not related to the murder, Edgerton. Blankets and wine? Can you think of no less sinister explanation for those?”

“Oh…” The captain looked abashed. “I take your point. But this woman could still have been watching the house, perhaps staying at an inn nearby.”

“Michael, we asked at every inn within a ten mile radius and—”

“I know, I know,” he said. “No strangers, nothing unusual. But if no one hid away in the boat house or watched the house, how then did the murderess know where Huntly would be?”

“Someone told her,” Annie said quietly.

Captain Edgerton’s intake of breath was audible. “A local? Someone from Wickstead? Or… Good God, not one of the servants?”

“It must have been,” Annie said. And she knew exactly who it was. “Davy.”

“The gardener’s boy? But—?” The captain’s face changed from puzzlement to a fierce certainty. “Of course! She came yesterday with the specific intention of seeing you, Mrs Huntly, and someone had to ensure that you were by the river at the right time. We must talk to him at once.”

Without another word, he strode out of the room, while the rest of the men talked in low voices. Jerome quietly moved his chair nearer to Annie’s desk, where the major’s notes had been left, and spread the papers out to examine them.

When he was brought in, Davy looked nervous, twisting his hat in his hands, and looking anxiously at the men clustered to one side of the room. “Madam?”

“Davy, tell us about the woman I saw at the river yesterday,” Annie said.

“I didn’t see no woman, madam.”

“But you know about her, because she paid you to ensure I was there at the right time.”

He gave a little laugh, but his assurance was undented. “Nobody paid me, madam.”

“Davy, that woman killed Mr Huntly, and she—”

“No!” he cried, eyes opening wide. “No, she never! She’s a kind lady who…” He stopped, biting his lip, realising that he had admitted his involvement.

“She killed Mr Huntly, and you helped her to do it, Davy. That is a very serious matter.”

“It is a crime,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said gently. “Anyone who helps a murderer could be hanged.”

“I… No, I… She said… she told me… there was nothin’ about killin’ in what she said. Just to see the river, she said… and today she wanted to see you, madam, that were all, honest. I never knew nothin’ about anythin’ else, and that’s the truth, as God’s my witness.”

“How did you meet her, Davy?” Captain Edgerton said.

“I were pickin’ wild strawberries down near the gate by the bridge… you know the one, the lane that goes out to Durran House. She were outside the gate, and she called me over and asked if I could let her in so she could see the river. Well, I don’t have the key, but I climbed over to talk to her. She seemed so friendly, like. She had a flask of gin and we shared that. Then she asked if I could get a boat for her… just borrow it, she said. I was to leave it tied up just upriver from Wickstead, a little way off the Bath road, so she could go downstream with the current. She’d leave it at the Durran House bridge, she said, but she never did, so I don’t know what happened to it. And then on Friday, it were my half day when I go and see my ma at Wilton, she were there and told me to get another boat and then to bring you out to the seat, madam, and to say I never saw nothin’, but I swear I knew nothin’ about her doin’ no murder and I think you must be mistook on that, madam, because my lady’s very kind and wouldn’t hurt no one.”

“She told me herself that she killed Mr Huntly,” Annie said, “so I think we must believe her, would you not agree?”

“Oh, madam, please don’t let them hang me! My ma would be that upset, so she would.”

“It is not within my power to determine your fate,” Annie said sadly. “You have been very foolish, Davy, but the law must deal with you now.”

Davy wept and protested his innocence, but he was handed over to Sheffield, to be kept locked up until Sir Leonard Fairbrother could talk to him.

“Well, Pettigrew?” Captain Edgerton. “Is it enough, do you think? Surely Fairbrother must now admit that he has arrested the wrong person.”

“Yes, we must take the fellow to court tomorrow. His testimony will support Mrs Huntly’s story and must surely convince Sir Leonard.”

“He will not believe it,” Annie said. “He believes that I invented this woman to save Adam from the hangman, and he will think the same of Davy. He is in my employ, after all, and may be supposed to be open to bribery out of loyalty to the Huntly family. It helps, but it is not enough.”

“Then we shall just have to find this woman and bring her to justice,” Captain Edgerton said.

“But that could take months!” Benedict cried.

“Nevertheless, it can and will be done,” the captain said.

Jerome coughed. “May I ask a question on trajectories, Major Corbett?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Jerome!” Benedict said. “No one wants your stupid questions. This is serious!”

“No, let him speak,” Annie said. “He has such an original way of looking at things, that there is no knowing whether he might not spark an idea and send everyone’s thoughts in a new direction.”

“Thank you, Cousin Annie,” Jerome said gravely. “I only wished to understand the angle at which the shots from the pistols entered the body, because—”

“Morbid child,” Benedict muttered.

“—it seems to me that there was a distinct angle.”

“Indeed there was,” the major said. “That is not at all unusual.”

“And the pistols were about two feet away from Cousin Rupert.”

“Quite correct. That is what my investigations show.”

“So at what height would the pistols be held normally?”

“Really, Jerome, what has that to say to anything?” Benedict said, impatiently. “Adam is in prison and all you care about is measurements.”

“Measurements are important!” Jerome said in offended tones.

“Indeed they are, very important,” Major Corbett said. “I confess, I am not sure I understand where these particular measurements are leading us.”

“But I do!” Annie cried, jumping up. “Rupert was tall, and his killer was very short. If we can prove that—”

“Ah, I see it!” the major said, his face alight with enthusiasm. “The angle… the distance… the relative heights. It can all be calculated!”

“You will need to explain to the less intellectual amongst us,” Benedict said, but his face had lost some of its tension.

“It can be demonstrated,” Annie said. “Major, you are the tallest here, will you play the rôle of my husband? Jerome, you are the shortest, you will have to be the murderer, and stand two feet away. Take the pistols… Now, Captain, how should he hold them?”

“At such close quarters, I should say… thus. About shoulder height. Yes, it would have to be.” He deftly arranged Jerome’s arms. “But I do not see…?”

“It is a triangle,” Jerome said.

“And a simple one to solve,” the major said, reaching for paper and fishing in his pocket for a pencil. He scratched away rapidly, then looked up at them triumphantly.

“Five feet, give or take a couple of inches. The murderess was five feet tall.”

“That must be enough, surely,” Benedict said hopefully.

“It is enough,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said, almost purring with satisfaction. “It does not prove who murdered Rupert Huntly, but it proves beyond all doubt that Mr Adam Huntly did not.”

“Well done, Jerome!” Benedict said. “I shall never make fun of your bizarre questions again.”

“I bet you will. You always do.”

“That is most unfair! I do not.”

Annie laughed and shook her head. “Stop it, both of you. No quarrelling today, I absolutely forbid it. If you have nothing more productive to do, there are still a lot of books to be examined for a missing will.”

“I have an idea about that,” Jerome said. “May I take the plan of the house outside for a while?”

“By all means, since your ideas seem to be working well today.”

“Lucky guess,” muttered Benedict.

“It was not!”

“Enough!” Annie said, laughing. “No wonder Adam says you torment him.”

“Will he be home tomorrow?” Jerome said eagerly.

“I believe he will,” she said.

29: Missing

Adam arrived at Willow Place before noon, for Sir Leonard had heard his case before any others. Annie’s carriage also decanted Mr Willerton-Forbes, Captain Edgerton and Mr Elkington, while Benedict and Major Corbett rode alongside. The entire household gathered in the great hall to welcome the newly-released prisoner. The servants cheered him, Mrs Dresden, Cecilia and Judith  twittered around him, the men slapped him on the back, and Judith’s daughters, according the festival atmosphere its proper observance, raced round and round screaming.

Annie stood a little distance away, watching with quiet satisfaction. Adam looked pale and rather rumpled, but otherwise unchanged. Once, as a gap arose in the crowd milling about him, his eyes met hers and she thought she detected an added warmth in them, but then his face disappeared again behind his many well-wishers. Gradually he was led, protesting rather, towards the stairs.

“I need to go home and have a bath,” he said. “I am hardly fit for company.”

“No need,” Edwin said. “There is a room for you here, and Sheffield and I brought your clothes from the Manor. We are all staying here, and Cousin Annie does not mind if we stay longer. ”

They all turned hopeful faces to her, and again Adam’s eyes met hers.

“Please stay,” she said. “Mrs Hewitt is killing the fatted calf for you, so you must not disappoint her.”

“Deer!” Edwin said. “Fatted deer. We know how you love venison, so you see, you must stay here, at least for tonight.”

“Well, that settles it,” he said, with his mischievous grin. “The venison seals the deal, but for one night only, brother. We must not impose on Cousin Annie any longer, not when we have a perfectly good house of our own just a mile away and there are so many of us. But where is my youngest troublemaker?”

Having no trouble interpreting this remark, Edwin said, “Jerome is looking for the will again. I expect he is so engrossed in plans that he has not noticed your arrival.”

“I will look for him later, but first — a bath! Followed by clean clothes, a decent fire and good company. Ah, it is good to be home again!”

No one pointed out that this was Annie’s home, not his, but she noticed his words and they made her glow a little inside. Yet there was pain, too. Was it foolish of her to have hoped for something more from him? Not a kiss, of course, but a touch… he could have taken her hand, or even stood a little closer to her. Only that one brief glance reassured her, somewhat tenuously, that he still felt the same as on that glorious day at the river. Then she felt guilty for needing such reassurance, with her husband so lately in his grave. It was too confusing.

~~~~~

Before Adam had completed his ablutions the visitors began to arrive to offer congratulations and, in Mr Popham’s case, to claim some of the credit for his release.

“I prayed for guidance, Mrs Huntly,” he said proudly, as they waited in the peacock chamber for Adam to reappear, “and the Good Lord popped the relevant texts into my head and inspired me. I held nothing back, I assure you, and I believe Sir Leonard had cause to reconsider his attitude. I do believe he reconsidered.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs Popham said. “Indeed, he did reconsider, I am sure of it.”

“He was most thoughtful after the sermon,” the vicar said.

“Indeed he was! Most thoughtful,” said his wife.

“I am very sorry to have missed it,” Annie said. “It sounds quite splendid, and we are all grateful for your words.”

“The Lord’s words, Mrs Huntly,” he said, with a satisfied smile. “I am merely the conduit.”

“Exactly what my poor, dear husband used to say,” Mrs Dresden said. “Often and often he said it. ‘I am merely a conduit,’ he said. Or it might have been vehicle, I am not very sure. But one or the other. Alas, my poor Henry! He was a great preacher, too, just like you, Mr Popham, or he would have been if he had lived a little longer. He planned to publish his sermons, you see. Perhaps you could publish yours, Mr Popham.”

“Oh, what a wonderful idea!” Mrs Popham said. “You must ask the bishop when next you are in Salisbury.”

“The bishop… Well now, I am not sure…” he murmured, but his eyes gleamed.

The day passed in a whirl. It was not until they were gathering in the peacock chamber before dinner that Adam said, “Where is Jerome? I have not seen him all day.”

“He is probably still in the hunting room,” Edwin said. “Let me fetch him.” He vanished almost before the words were out of his mouth, but he returned a few minutes later, frowning. “I cannot find him,” he said. “He is not in the hunting room, and he is not in our room upstairs, either.”

“He will turn up in good time for dinner, you may be sure,” Adam said easily.

But he did not, and although they decided not to wait for him, the meal passed uneasily. As soon as the food was served, Annie sent Sheffield and Billy off to search the house. By the time they had finished the meal, the dreadful suspicion was a certainty — Jerome was not anywhere in the house, the stables or the cellars. Even the ice house had been examined, but there was no sign of him.

“Edwin, have you any idea where he might have gone?” Adam said.

He shook his head. “He took the floor plan of the house outside to look at something, but I think it was not helpful, for the plan is back in the hunting room now.”

“We must get up a search party,” Captain Edgerton said at once. “He may have met with some accident.”

“It is already dark, and this is a large estate,” Adam said.

“With torches and calling as we go, we can cover a great deal of ground.”

“If he is lying unconscious somewhere, he will not hear you and you may miss him in the dark.”

“Surely it is worth a try?” the captain said.

Adam chewed his lip uncertainly. “I do not know… I cannot think… Annie, what is your opinion?”

“There may be a simpler explanation. Perhaps someone should check the Manor, in case he went home for something. Benedict could do that. Captain Edgerton’s idea is a good one, too, because if Jerome has simply fallen somewhere and twisted an ankle, he will be easily found. The captain may take some of the servants to help him.”

As the captain gathered his search party together and the room emptied a little, Adam’s lips lifted into a little smile. “Thank you, Cousin Annie. Your ability to think in a crisis is a great comfort. You have assigned tasks to the others, but what would you have me do?”

“You and Edwin can help me, for I am going to examine the floor plan and Jerome’s notes, and see if I can work out what he was up to. That might help us to guess where he has gone and why he has not returned.”

“You truly think he has met with an accident?” Adam said, fretfully. “He is a great one for exploring, but he is not one to take undue risks.”

“He has a great curiosity and that may lead him into inadvertent danger,” she said. “However, it seems to me most likely that he is still about the house, somewhere. The roof… could he get onto the roof?”

“We checked the roof weeks ago, when we found the stairs in the attics,” Edwin said. “There was nothing of interest there.”

“What about chimneys? Did Jerome ever consider examining the chimneys?”

“We talked about it, but he had a great fear of becoming stuck and someone lighting a fire below him. We did look into the big hearth in the great hall, but we merely held a torch inside to see if any bricks were loose. Or rather, Jerome did. He insisted I stand guard in case any of the servants decided to light the fire.”

“You see?” Adam said eagerly. “He is very sensible.”

“He is,” Annie said, with a smile. “He would not intentionally put himself at risk. Nevertheless, I think it a certainty that a mishap has befallen him, for I have never known him to miss a meal before. Let us go through to the hunting room and look at this plan of the house.”

“What about us?” Judith said, indicating Cecilia as well as herself. “We can help, too.”

Annie looked at them, then at her mother’s anxious face, her handkerchief clutched in her hand. How such upsets distressed her! “I would be glad if you would sit with Mama, since I cannot do so myself,” she said. “Your cheerful company would do much to reassure her.”

“Of course,” Judith said at once. “But if there is anything we may do—”

“I shall be sure to ask, but I do not think there is much to be done beyond searching, as Captain Edgerton is doing, and trying to deduce Jerome’s likely location, as I shall be doing.”

They nodded, Judith relieved, Annie thought, to be given some excuse not to go chasing about in the dark. Cecilia chewed her lip thoughtfully, but said no more as Annie, Adam and Edwin made their way to the hunting room. Adam at once flopped into a chair, head hanging low. After the misery of several days in prison and then his triumphant return, he was now sunk in misery again. Poor Adam! He could not but feel Jerome’s disappearance greatly. She felt it herself, but there was also the same calmness she always felt in a crisis. There were always measures to be tried, no matter how desperate the situation. Jerome had encountered trouble, that much was clear, but there was hope of a safe recovery.

Annie lit all the candles to drive away the gloom. She could not recall being in the hunting room at night before, and everything looked different. The curtains and shutters were still open, the morning’s fire no more than ashes. She bent down at the hearth and stretched her hand out.

“Cold,” she said. “Jerome has not been here for some hours.”

“Would Sheffield not see that the fire was maintained?” Adam said, looking up.

“Not after noon, for I am usually finished in here by then. If Jerome had been here after that hour, he would have put more wood on the fire himself, and he has not. Here is the plan of the house, the ground and upper floors.” She picked it up from where it lay, beside the neatly arranged papers, lists and scribbled notes spread all over the huge desk. Gazing at the plan, she said, “Edwin, do you know what in particular interested your brother?”

“I do not. We have examined the interior rather thoroughly, and on Saturday we walked all round the outside of the house, but he found nothing.”

“Did he spend more time examining one part rather than another? Or one floor more than another?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“Did he seem interested in any room in particular?”

Edwin shook his head, and the anguish in his eyes made him look younger than his sixteen years. He was as tall as a man and he dressed like a gentleman, but tonight fear for his brother brought the boy in him to the surface.

“Do not despair,” Annie said quietly. “We will find him, never fear. Now, show me his most recent notes amongst all these papers. Is there anything that he might have written today, or yesterday, perhaps?”

“What are you doing?” Cecilia’s voice sounded shrill in the quiet atmosphere of the candle-lit room.

Annie looked up with a frown. “We are trying to work out where Jerome may have gone, as I explained.”

“How does this help?” she cried, her words echoing harshly as she gestured towards the papers scattered on the desk. “He would hardly write down where he was going, and I am certain there is nothing on that plan of the house that was not there last week, or last century, come to that. If there is one room in the house where it may be said with absolute surety that he is not hiding, it is this one.”

“We cannot say anything with absolute surety,” Annie said quietly.

“Look about you,” Cecilia said. “Which bookcase is concealing him, do you suppose? Is he under the desk?” She peered beneath it. “No, he is not. Is he under this desk? Again, no. What about this cupboard. No Jerome.” She strode about the room, throwing open drawers and cupboards and peering inside them. “Is he up the chimney? I believe not. He is not here. So why are you looking here?”

“We are not necessarily looking for Jerome in this room,” Annie said patiently. “There may be a clue amongst his papers, however. Edwin, have you found any recent notes?”

“This is new,” he said, pointing to a page with some numbers. “The rest… all these pages are from days ago, but this… I have not seen this before. There is no explanation, just numbers and a few words.”

“His hand is difficult for me to make out. What does it say?”

“Hmm… that word might be ‘small’ but I cannot read the rest.”

“You are right, it is ‘small’, but—”

“How can you do this?” Cecilia said in a small voice, as tears trickled down her face. “How can you be so… so impassive? But I suppose it is not your brother who is missing, so you have not the same feelings on the matter.”

“Annie cares just as much for Jerome as any of us,” Adam said sharply.

“Perhaps she does, but she hides it well behind all this activity.”

“It is true,” Annie said slowly, “that I have not been endowed with so much sensibility as is usual in our sex. It is in my nature to appear composed no matter how great the exigency. When distressed, I turn to rational thought for comfort rather than tears or lamentations. But in this particular case, that may be a benefit to us. Jerome is of a logical, scientific bent. He, too, follows rational thought, and so, if he has left any clues at all as to his deductive reasoning, it may be that I, whose mind is not dissimilar, may be able to follow the same path and arrive at the same conclusion.”

“Deductive reasoning! Rational thought! Such cold words, Annie. Where is your fire, your passion?”

“Neither fire nor passion is of the least use to Jerome!” Annie cried, her temper rising. “Nor are tears and argument. Only cool heads and calm thought and measured courses of action will bring him home. Cry if you wish, and rail at me as much as you like, but please, give me leave to think.”

Cecilia looked so shocked that Annie guessed she had mortally offended her, but it could not be helped, and at least she was reduced to outraged silence. She turned back to the strange numbers Jerome had written but they meant nothing to her. What did ‘small’ mean? And what on the house plan had drawn his attention?

The others whispered together, but she paid no heed. She thought there was a chink of glass and the sound of liquid being poured — a glass of something to soothe their fears.

She took the paper and the plan to her own desk, moved a candelabrum nearer, then drew out a fresh sheet of paper. Perhaps if she copied whatever she could make out of Jerome’s writing, it would begin to make sense. If only he had taken a little more trouble over his writing, and ensured there was enough ink on his pen! Several of his letters — or perhaps they were numbers, it was hard to tell — were so faint they were practically unreadable. But gradually as she peered at them several more words emerged from the scribble — ‘in’ and ‘out’ and ‘3 ft’.

“Three feet!” she said triumphantly. “Something is three feet. But what?”

“What does that mean?” Edwin said eagerly.

“I wish I knew! And what do these mean, do you suppose? ‘HR’ and ‘Small P’ and ‘Tap Rm’. The tap room? Oh, that must be the tapestry room.”

“And ‘HR’ is the hunting room — this room,” Edwin said excitedly. “But what is ‘Small P’? It is underlined, too.”

“The small pantry? Privy chamber? Parlour?” Cecilia suggested.

“Oh, parlour… the little parlour, yes, but why?” Annie said, frowning in thought. “The tapestry room, the little parlour, the hunting room… the three rooms in this wing of the house.”

“Shall we have a look at it?” Adam said, his face alight with hope. “Since Jerome is not in any of the cupboards in this room, he might be in one in a different room.”

It was the first glimmer of humour from him, and as such Annie cherished it. Adam’s ability to lift everyone’s spirits was such a powerful force that she felt bereft when he was too downhearted to jest and tease.

They passed through the tapestry room to the little parlour, but the most cursory glance around it sank any idea of finding Jerome. It was indeed a small room, and poorly furnished. There were no cupboards, no closets, not even a cabinet large enough to conceal an agile boy. A scattering of small tables and chairs, and a single sofa beside the empty hearth were all it contained, with a few indifferent paintings on the papered walls. Although Adam and Edwin lifted the rugs, and examined the floorboards, there was no sign of a hiding place.

Annie stood with her back to the windows, facing the door. “Jerome noticed something odd about this room. What can it be?”

“What is it used for?” Cecilia said. “A morning room? Or a small sitting room? It has not the same spacious proportions of the other rooms in the house, and juts out from the rest of the house. Was it added on later, perhaps?”

“No, it—” Annie stopped dead. “Proportions… symmetrical… they should be symmetrical. Edwin, will you run and fetch the floor plan, if you please?” When he returned, she laid it down on a wobbly table and pointed. “Look… there are four rooms jutting out, two to each side of the house. On the kitchen wing, the scullery and still room. On this side, the blue room and the little parlour. All the same size… symmetrical. But they are not!”

“But they are,” Cecilia said. “The plan clearly shows that they are the same size.”

“On the plan, yes! But this room… I am sure it is smaller than shown… smaller than the blue room. That is what Jerome’s notes say. ‘Out 17 in 14’ The measurements inside and out. This room is smaller than the plan shows…three feet smaller, I would wager my life on it. Somewhere between this room and the hunting room is a hidden space, and Jerome is inside it.”

“Inside the wall?” Cecilia said, horrified. “How will he breathe?”

Panic rose to choke Annie. How would he breathe? A small cavity, perhaps sealed tight. How much air would he have? How long would it last a frightened boy of twelve? “It will be like a normal room,” she said, her voice high with terror. “There will be air… enough air… a vent, perhaps, or it may be an old staircase leading to an old cellar, perhaps. There will be air.”

Surely there would be enough air?

30: Many Visitors

“Let me get Captain Edgerton back and a hammer or two, and we will have the wall down,” Adam said grimly.

Annie’s heart slowed a little. “Yes… but Jerome got inside without dismantling the wall, so it should be possible to get him out. All we need to do is to find the way in.”

“But if we cannot, then the wall must come down,” Adam said. “I shall find the captain.”

He turned and would have gone at once. Panic swamped Annie anew. “No! Do not leave me!” They all turned to her, astonished at her vehemence. “I mean… it is better for you to stay here… a man… your greater strength… Let Edwin go.”

“I will go,” Cecilia said quickly. “Annie is quite right. I can do nothing useful here, and if strength is necessary, then you may need both Adam and Edwin.”

With a quick rustle of skirts she was gone. Adam and Edwin looked hopefully at Annie.

“Where do we start looking?” Edwin said eagerly.

“I have no idea,” she said. It was hopeless! How could they possibly find a door in minutes or hours that had taken Jerome weeks to find? And surely it would be too late! There was nothing to be done…

“Annie?” Adam said. “You must have a plan… do you not?”

The note of terror in his voice brought her sharply back to reality. Jerome was depending on them — on her — to rescue him, and Adam believed in her. She must not let them down, but it was imperative for her to think rationally. Deep breaths… in… out… and again… Her pulse calmed. To give herself time to think, she paced up and down the room.

“The hidden space must run from the door to the outer wall… at most,” she said, trying to be absolutely accurate. “The door may be in this room, or in the hunting room, or it may be in the outside wall, although surely we would have known about that?”

“There is a quantity of ivy on the walls,” Edwin said. “That may be hiding a door.”

“True, but if this is a regular door, why can Jerome not escape? There must be more to it. Perhaps he has fallen from an entrance on an upper level?”

“We looked everywhere upstairs,” Edwin said. “Jerome was convinced that, if there was a priest’s hole to be found, it would be in one of the principal rooms.”

“A priest’s hole…” Annie felt weak with relief. “That would have an air hole, certainly. There will be no risk in a priest’s hole.” A blocked-off cellar or passageway would be a danger, but a priest’s hole… that would be designed for a man to hide for several hours. “Let us work systematically,” she said, with renewed conviction. “Edwin, do you know the butler’s pantry? There are spare candelabra there. Fetch as many as you can carry, and candles, too — the good beeswax ones, not cheap tallow. Now, Adam, we will examine this wall for possible doors.”

He held a candelabrum in each hand while she slowly paced the full length of the wall, feeling carefully for any crack, however minute, that might indicate the presence of a door. There was nothing.

“Very well. The hunting room, then. Ha! The hunting room… of course! The place where one must hunt for a priest… or a missing boy.”

Edwin returned with his arms full of candelabra, and a box of candles. Slowly, candle by candle, the room was illuminated as bright as day.

Annie gazed thoughtfully at the wall that adjoined the little parlour. Bookcases… nothing but solid, heavy bookcases from one end to the other. But now that she was looking at them with new eyes, alert to the least sign of a movable door, she became aware of the ornate tracery that adorned the ends of each case. They were exactly like…

“Handles! These vines are handles.”

Adam grabbed one and pulled. Nothing happened. “Edwin, help me!” he cried.

“No!” Annie said. “If there is a door here, Jerome opened it himself. It does not need two grown men. Try the next one.”

They tried. Nothing happened. Between them they pulled every piece of carved woodwork that might have been a handle, but to no effect.

“It is not working,” Adam said. “Shall we try the outside wall?”

“No, wait. If pulling does not work, try pushing.”

“But there are handles! If they are there for any purpose at all, they must be pulled.”

“Perhaps they are there to pull the door shut again. We must try everything, Adam. If one way fails, then try a different way.”

With a sigh, Adam pushed the first bookcase. Nothing happened. He pushed the second bookcase. Nothing happened. He pushed the third bookcase…

“It moved!” Edwin yelled.

Adam pushed harder, and the bookcase opened into a pitch black void. “Jerome?” Adam said, his voice wavering. Then, more strongly, “Jerome!”

Silence.

Annie held her breath.

Adam picked up a candelabrum and stepped gingerly into the narrow void. “It is empty,” he said, and the despair in his voice tore at Annie’s heart. “There is just an old box here. No Jerome.”

Then, faint but unmistakable, a quavering voice. “Adam? Is that you?”

“Jerome! Where are you?”

“Behind the door.” Then, as Adam made to move the door aside, he almost screamed, “Do not shut it! It cannot be opened again!”

“Cousin Annie is outside and will open it again. This place is so narrow that I must close the door to reach you. Annie, count to ten… no, to twenty, then push the door open again.”

“Annie?” The pleasure in Jerome’s voice was unmistakable. “Are you there, too?”

“I am, and Edwin. We will have you out in no time, Jerome. Close the door, Adam.”

The door swung shut with a distinct clunk. Annie counted, then pushed it open again. Adam stepped out with a pale-faced Jerome in his arms.

“Here he is, safe and sound.”

“What an idiot you are,” Edwin yelled. “Why did you go in there without telling anyone?”

Jerome grinned, and wriggled out of his brother’s grasp. “You discovered me in the end, and look!” He brandished a piece of vellum. “I found the will!”

Before anyone could speak, Captain Edgerton burst into the room, followed by Mr Elkington, Benedict, Mr Willerton-Forbes, Dewey, Sheffield, Billy, the two Ransome brothers and several men Annie recognised from Adam’s estate, armed with a wide array of implements. It was clear that the tool store had been raided for anything portable, useful or not. Annie admired their enthusiasm, but it seemed unlikely that pitchforks and scythes would be helpful in demolishing a wall. Fortunately, seeing that they were unnecessary now, Captain Edgerton dispatched all the tools and most of the men. Momentarily the room seemed less crowded, but then Cecilia, Julia and the female servants edged in. Even Mrs Dresden, handkerchief in hand, came to assure herself that Jerome was unscathed.

He loved being the centre of attention, relating in his clear voice his discovery of the priest’s hole and the box containing the will, how he had pushed the door aside to explore the rest of the hidden room and it had closed firmly, and how he had tried desperately to open it again, but there were no handles on the inside.

Captain Edgerton wanted to explore the secret place for himself, eventually bringing out the box to be examined more carefully. Inside, apart from the will, with small bequests for his two natural sons, were letters and other papers relating to Rupert’s mistress, as well as details of some dubious land deals Rupert had effected in Grantham. Mr Willerton-Forbes pored over them, his face alight with pleasure.

Annie edged herself away from the crowd. Once again she found herself separated from Adam, and this time there were no glances over the heads of the others and no reassurance. It was as if he had forgotten her.

She was shaking. Perhaps it was the relief of finding Jerome safe, or perhaps it was Adam’s seeming indifference. Before his arrest, she had been quite sure of his feelings towards her and although she could not yet be certain of her own heart, it made her happy to know that she had his love. Yet now, all her certainty faded away.

Creeping out of the room, she slipped into the deserted tapestry room and then into the little parlour. She was trembling too much to stand, so she sat on the sofa beside the cold hearth, an arrangement of pine cones filling the grate. A single candle danced in a draught, so that the shadows leapt hither and thither. To her dismay, hot tears trickled down her cheeks and she was powerless to stop them. Rocking gently, she surrendered to grief and hardly knew why.

A masculine handkerchief was pressed into her hands. She had not heard Adam enter the room, but as always he had noticed her distress and followed her. That much at least had not changed! And, as always, his presence comforted her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, wiping away her tears.

He sat down, although at the other end of the sofa from her. So far away! She ached for him to hold her, as he had done before, yet it was clear that he would not. What had changed? Just a few short days ago, he could not restrain himself, yet now—

How foolish she was, with her husband barely a month dead, to be mooning over another man. How wicked she was, so be thinking so! It was wrong in every way.

“It is the relief,” Adam said, his voice calm. “After the crisis comes the reaction. I was once involved in an affair of honour, not for myself, but as second for a friend. My behaviour during the meeting was perfectly correct, but as soon as it was over and it was clear both parties were uninjured, my knees almost buckled beneath me. Would you like a brandy?”

She shook her head. He was trying to soothe her by his own composure, and although she would have preferred his arms around her, his words were helping. Her tears were gone, and she began to feel more like herself.

“Thank you,” she said again, with a tremulous smile.

He smiled, too, and at once her spirits soared, followed instantly by guilt. She lowered her head and smoothed her skirts, the stark black bombazine reminding her of her situation. She was in mourning and such feelings were most improper. And yet she could not help what she felt. It was so confusing.

“I must make you an apology,” he said. She looked at him questioningly, but he averted his eyes and went on quickly, as if he had rehearsed his speech, “When I was imprisoned, I found myself with a great deal of time to think, and to reflect on all that I have done lately. Such reflections were painful to me. Annie, I have behaved very badly towards you. No, no, pray say nothing. Let me confess my sins at once and have done with it. I have always prided myself on my open nature… my uninhibited conversation and behaviour. Whatever I feel or think, the world will know it and I have never made the least attempt to dissemble. That approach led me into trouble, particularly with Rupert, who saw, as everyone must have done, my admiration for you and my disapprobation of his treatment of you. What I did not appreciate at the time was that my uncontrolled behaviour affected you, too. Not only did Rupert keep you on a tighter rein than ever because of it, but half the neighbourhood must have wondered whether I could speak so warmly of you without some encouragement. I even wrote openly to Cecilia about you — how I regret that! She could never be discreet.”

His hands moved restlessly against his knees, back and forth, back and forth, rubbing against his silk evening breeches. The fob at his waist glimmered in the wavering candlelight. He paused for so long that she wondered if he had ground to a halt, but after a few moments he heaved a loud breath and carried on.

“I said much to you that should not have been said,” he said slowly. “My behaviour has been grossly improper. I have caused speculation to be voiced against you, and importuned you at a time when you were entitled to expect the utmost restraint from those around you. With all the changes in your life — your sudden marriage, Rupert’s death, the coming child — it was ungentlemanly of me to use you so. It is fortunate for me that your own behaviour has always been above reproach, so that the blame for these wrongs lies entirely at my door.”

“Not always above reproach,” she said, with a quick smile of remembrance.

“Now that I will not accept,” he said fiercely. “You have a gentle heart, that is all, and wished to comfort my distress. You should never have been placed in such an awkward position that you felt it necessary. Let me at last see myself as I truly am — a despicable man who treated you with abominable disrespect, both before and after Rupert’s death. But I am resolved to do better, Annie! I can be better, I know it, for I am quite determined to repair the damage I have caused to your reputation. To that end, therefore, I will behave to you always as a gentleman should — with courtesy and consideration, but without importuning you.”

“You will not go away?” she said in sudden panic.

His face softened. “I will not. I will always be here to offer you whatever support you need from me, but while you are in mourning, I shall not speak of… other things. But the day you set aside your blacks, then I shall speak. By then, all this will be behind us, you will have your child and you will understand your own heart and what you wish for your future and your child’s.”

“The nineteenth day of August,” she said. “That will be the day I set aside my blacks.”

“Then you may look for me on that day, but until then, I shall be your cousin only.”

“And my friend?”

With a hint of his previous intensity, he whispered, “Forever that, come what may.”

“Thank you,” was all she said.

~~~~~

Annie could scarcely believe how much this conversation relieved her mind. She did not have to wrestle with her own confused feelings. Instead, she could prepare for the birth of her child untroubled by thoughts of Adam, or at least, since it was impossible not to think of him, untroubled by the difficulties of knowing what to do about him.

Jerome was none the worse for his misadventure, although he refused to enter the priest’s hole again. “There is writing,” he said quietly.

The next morning, Adam showed Annie the section of the room behind the door. There was a bed there, and a folding shelf to hold a Bible or crucifix, and in the furthest corner, a closet with a close stool. On the wall beside the bed was written in charcoal, ‘If I should die, know that my father locked me in here three days ago. Herbert Huntly. 7th May 177-’

“He would have been ten when he wrote that,” Adam said, holding the lamp high so that Annie could read the markings.

“Poor little boy! Oh! The punishment room! Rupert was going to put me in here, when I defied him. What a horrible place! And poor Jerome, to find himself trapped here, in such surroundings. But he had light… a candle to see by?”

“For a while. When it eventually burnt out, and he had exhausted himself shouting for help and looking for a way out, he lay down on the bed and slept. He was asleep when we first opened the door. That moment when we broke in and there was only silence! I confess, I was almost in despair at that point. Hearing his voice again was the sweetest sound! I shall never complain about his chattering again.”

“You will, of course,” she said, smiling. “But this is such a small enclosure. Is there an air vent?”

“Up there, high on the outer wall. It is covered by creepers and invisible on the outside, but this was a priest’s hole, so it would have been designed to keep a man hidden for hours or days, if need be.”

“Or a child,” she said sombrely. “What a dreadful thing for a father to do to his son. No wonder Herbert grew up so cold and distant. The only person he was so fond of was his mother.”

“Who failed to protect him from his father, and then ran away to Ireland with her lover,” Adam said acidly.

“It is difficult to defy one’s husband,” Annie said quietly. “He may have mistreated her, too. No, I cannot blame her.”

The days following Jerome’s accidental imprisonment were as busy as any Annie had known. All their neighbours were struck as one with an urgent wish to congratulate Jerome on his lucky escape, hinting in a variety of ingenious ways to inveigle an invitation to view the priest’s hole. None of them succeeded, for Annie refused to have the hunting room invaded by every casual visitor.

Then Uncle Tom arrived in a post chaise, frantic with worry, followed within an hour by Lavinia and her long-suffering husband, and within another ten minutes by a complete stranger, who turned out to be Mr Willerton-Forbes’ father, the Earl of Morpeth. They were given the good news that Adam was free, and Uncle Tom reassured that Mrs Dresden was restored to her usual gently active, if lachrymose, self. He was fascinated by the case, and gathered up all Annie’s notes to study.

Naturally, these visitors had to be accommodated, and even though Adam, his brothers and the Elkingtons had removed to the Manor, Mr Willerton-Forbes and Captain Edgerton were still in residence. Annie had expected them to depart once the matter of the murder had been settled, but Mr Willerton-Forbes had simply passed on all the details of Rupert’s mistress to Sir Leonard Fairbrother, and left it to him to see that she was arrested.

Annie had no objection to their extended stay, for they had, after all, been an enormous help to her, but she rather wondered at it and supposed it must be related to their original task, of giving Judith a thousand pounds from the Benefactor.

“Have you much more work to do to verify the status of Judith’s marriage?” Annie asked the lawyer one day.

“None at all,” he said, smiling. “I am perfectly satisfied with the validity of Mrs Herbert Huntly’s claim. However, I am growing anxious to hear from my colleague, Mr Neate in Ireland. He was to discover for me why Mrs Connell failed to inform me of her son’s marriage, and also, I hope, find out the circumstances of Mr James Huntly’s death. However, I have had no word from him apart from a brief acknowledgement of my letter. If I do not hear something soon, I shall be obliged to send Captain Edgerton.”

“Shall you be able to recover the thousand pounds given to Mrs Connell?” Annie said.

“Oh, indeed,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “It will give me the greatest pleasure to do so.”

“You will take legal steps? In Ireland?”

“Oh no, that would be far too difficult. Fortunately, there are other ways.”

Annie was about to ask what he meant by that when he placed one finger to his lips and winked, so she laughed and said no more.

The next day, yet another post chaise arrived laden with luggage bearing two more complete strangers. Annie was getting used to such happenings now, so she greeted the two men politely. One was a small, nondescript man dressed in entirely in black, but the other could only be a Huntly. He had Rupert’s dark hair and gangly frame, but his features were akin to Benedict’s, with the same mischievous grin he shared with Adam. She stared at him, mesmerised.

The man in black laughed. “Does he have the Huntly nose?”

“Not the nose, especially, but the mouth and eyes,” she said.

“This,” said the man in black proudly, “is your brother-in-law, James Huntly… or James Connell as he has been known.”

“Then you are not dead!” Annie cried.

James laughed delightedly. “I am feeling quite well on it, if so, madam.” He had rather a charming Irish lilt to his voice. “I had not the least idea of my heritage until Mr Neate here told me of it a few days ago, and it thrills me to discover so many kin after growing up as an only child.”

Two more rooms were found for the new visitors, two more places set at the dining table, Adam and his family were summoned after dinner to meet the new member of the family,  and as they lingered over the tea and cake board, James told his story.

“I got it all out of my mother, you may be sure,” he said. “The problem is that she is a good Catholic, so she never regarded her marriage to Henry Huntly as valid. It was only ever celebrated in a Protestant church, you see. Eventually, she met my father — oh, but of course he was not my father.” He laughed good-naturedly at his own mistake. “She met James Connell and he convinced her that she could leave Huntly and marry him in a Catholic church in Ireland and that would be a properly sanctified marriage. I cannot believe that is true, myself, but she believed it.”

“It is almost true,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “Her marriage to Henry Huntly was certainly valid under English law, but unless the marriage was also celebrated in a Catholic church afterwards, it would not be recognised as valid in Ireland. It is a very peculiar situation.”

James’ eyebrows lifted, but then the mischievous grin reappeared and he looked so like Adam that Annie’s heart flip-flopped in response.

“So… possibly married to one man according to the English church and married to another according to the Catholics. Trust my mother to have twice as many husbands as everyone else! But the second marriage was barren, and that was no good, because my father’s — I mean, James Connell’s scoundrelly younger brother would take everything. Ma had never had any trouble in that way with her first husband, so they devised a scheme — they would travel to England, she would pretend to reconcile with Huntly and leave again as soon as her object was achieved. And, as you can see, the scheme succeeded.” He made a small bow.

“But Ma was very bad, for she told me nothing of all this. I grew up believing that James Connell was my true father, knowing little of my relations here, apart from Herbert — my half-brother, as I thought. And so, when Mr Neate told me of Henry Huntly I determined that I would come here to meet you all.”

“And to see the house,” Annie said with a smile. “After all, if my child is a daughter, Willow Place will be yours.”

James laughed. “No, that cannot be, for my birth is registered in Dublin, with James Connell shown as my father. He is my legal father.”

“Once again, the situation is more peculiar than you might suppose,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “Your name and the date of your birth are recorded in the family Bible here. Your parents’ marriage was still valid in England at the time. That is enough to make you the legal son of Henry Huntly — under English law.”

James’ jaw dropped. “Are you serious? I am truly part of the family here?”

“Truly,” the lawyer said. “You may inherit, but even if you do not, you have the right to be accepted as the brother of Herbert and Rupert Huntly.”

“There is a home for you here, if you wish to stay,” Annie said.

“You are too good,” he said, his voice cracking. “This makes me even more happy to tell you our other news. Mr Neate has something for you, Mr Willerton-Forbes.”

Mr Neate fished in a pocket and produced a roll of bank notes. “The thousand pounds erroneously given to Mrs Connell. Mr James Huntly was very helpful in the matter, knowing where his mother kept her money.”

“But why did she lie to me?” Mr Willerton-Forbes said plaintively.

“Herbert entered the Catholic faith some years ago,” James said. “Ma told me plainly that his marriage was not valid, and Herbert regarded his wife as no more than a mistress. I beg your pardon,” he said to Judith. “This must be distressing for you to hear.”

“Not in the least,” she said. “I always wondered why Herbert married me, but this makes perfect sense, and I must thank you for bringing me the money to which I am entitled.”

“Here it is,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said, rolling the notes in his fingers. “What do you wish me to do with it? Shall I put it in the bank for you?”

“I shall take it. I have a plan for it,” she said, with a secretive smile. “May I write to the Benefactor, to thank him or her for my good fortune?”

“You may, of course,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “I shall keep the letter safely with all the other letters of gratitude, you may be sure, and if ever I find out who the Benefactor is, I shall ensure that those letters are read.”

“You do not know who it is?” Judith said, her eyes round with astonishment.

“I do not, but I do not need to in order to do that task appointed to me.”

“Are you not curious?”

“Indeed I am,” he said. “Very curious indeed, for it is a strange and perplexing thing. One day I am determined that I shall solve that mystery.”

Epilogue

19th AUGUST, THE FOLLOWING YEAR

Adam wore a new shirt, new breeches, new waistcoat and a new coat of superfine, the work of the famed Mr Weston. He toyed with the idea of adding a second fob to his waistcoat or a small diamond pin to his cravat, but eventually discarded the idea.

“Is it too much, do you think, Turville?” he said, surveying himself in the long glass.

“You look very well, sir,” his imperturbable manservant said, as he tidied away shaving brushes and discarded neckcloths.

“The waistcoat is not too bright?”

“It is perfect, sir.”

Adam grunted. Now that the moment had come, he was a bag of nerves. What if it went wrong? What if he made a mull of it? What if — his blood ran cold at the thought — what if she said no? He closed his eyes, hands on hips, taking a moment to compose himself. Breath in… and out… in… and out.

“Should you like your horse brought round directly, sir? Or after breakfast?”

“Horse… breakfast…” He was too distracted to think straight. “I am not sure…” Could he wait for breakfast and calmly eat without knowing his fate? He could not. “I shall go now,” he said with decision. “On foot, I think. It is such a fine morning.” At least that would give him time to arrange his thoughts. It was odd, for he had had a whole year to prepare for this moment and yet he felt curiously unready.

“Aye, it’s a grand morning for a walk,” Turville said. “Very auspicious.”

Adam fervently hoped he was right. He let himself quietly out of the front door and down the steps, turning at the bottom to gaze up at his home. Wickstead Manor. An ancient name yet the house could not be more starkly modern, all Romanesque pillars and plaster and fashionable wallpaper. Somehow the polished wood and worn stone of Willow Place appealed more to him — honest and unpretentious, like its mistress. The thought made him smile. Determinedly, he turned his back to the house and began the walk that would settle his future.

As he neared the southern lodge, John Ransome emerged to begin his day’s work. There was no longer a gate there, but the lodge was useful as worker accommodation, and now housed the newly married Mr and Mrs Ransome.

“How is Judith today?” Adam said, as they walked towards the river together.

Ransome pulled a face. “Not a good day, but she is cheerful, and very happy to be with child again. She is such a good mother.”

“You will hope for a son, I daresay,” Adam said.

“Son or daughter… either will be a welcome gift. Oh, I must tell you that we have got the range working at last. We dined on roast beef yesterday in celebration. I am heartily tired of stews, I can tell you. Your generosity is very much appreciated.”

“Finally!” Adam said, with a laugh. “That must be the most belated wedding present ever seen. Six months for the thing to arrive, and another two to assemble it. But I am glad it is in use at last. I had begun to think your child would arrive first.”

They had reached the river where their ways parted.

“May I wish you joy?” Ransome said tentatively.

“Not yet. I hardly like to presume, but you may wish me good fortune, if you will.”

“Then so I do, with all my heart, for I, of all people, know what resolution is required to wait for so long. I was determined not to compromise Judith’s reputation by trespassing upon her year of mourning, and it was the most difficult year of my life.”

“Yet you succeeded,” Adam said.

“True, but our secrecy had ill consequences, too. All those times when I loitered in the grounds at night to catch a precious glimpse of Judith, or our clandestine meetings in the old boat house — all that achieved was to frighten Mrs Huntly and to distract those investigating the murder. We should have told the truth at once.”

“In the end there was no harm done, and that evil woman was brought safe to the Assizes in the end.”

“To be transported,” Ransome said in disgust. “Pah! Australia is too good for her. At least her children will have the chance to do better. There are not many men who would be so generous as you, to stand guardian for such brats.”

“They are family,” Adam said with the hint of a shrug. “They would have been destined for the poor house otherwise, for their mother’s property was obtained illegally and is back in the hands of the previous owner’s family. Besides, Cecilia is very happy to have two more chicks under her wing. Never was a woman more endowed with maternal feelings.”

“I believe Judith may yet rival her,” Ransome said smugly. “But I will not delay you any longer from your purpose, so long awaited. Remember, sir, that the best of life’s joys are worth the wait — wives as much as kitchen ranges. May God speed your endeavour this day.”

They shook hands and parted, Ransome turning towards the village and Adam making thoughtfully for Willow Place. It was all very well for Ransome, for he had had an understanding with Judith… he had known the outcome as he waited patiently for her to be free to wed. Adam had no such certainty. For a full year, he had watched Annie carefully for signs of affection. That she liked him… that she was even fond of him, he could not doubt. But was there any stronger attachment? He had no idea. She treated him always with friendly composure, with no trace of consciousness, exactly as she treated everyone. It was not encouraging, and although she had told him clearly that she would want another husband to give her more children, could he bear it if she accepted him as she had Rupert — merely because he was a gentleman with his own house and a good income? Of course he could, but how much more glorious would it be if she loved him as passionately as he loved her!

He soon passed the spot where Rupert had been cut down, looking exactly as it had done a year ago except for a simple stone with no markings. A small posy of faded flowers lay at the foot of it. Impulsively he moved them aside and gathered a fresh offering for his cousin. Then, because he knew Annie would like them, he gathered a larger bunch, twining grass stems around to make a pretty bouquet.

He found the household at breakfast, Annie with the baby on her knee. Mrs Dresden jumped up and whisked the flowers from his hand.

“I will just put these in water. Meadow flowers… so charming, but they wilt so quickly. Do take the seat next to Annie, Mr Huntly.”

Annie’s visitors made the buttery look crowded. Lord and Lady Dillington ate decorously at one end of the table, but at the other end Mr and Mrs Perkins sat amid the detritus of their five riotous children.

“Pray forgive the disorder,” Mrs Perkins said fretfully, gathering up handfuls of cake crumbs and dabbing ineffectually at the tablecloth. “Why is it always the strawberry jam which is spilt? So very staining.”

“I believe there is some raspberry, as well,” her husband said genially. “The green must be gooseberry. Oh, and lemon curd over there.”

Mrs Perkins clucked at him, but Annie laughed. “Children will be children, Aunt Hester. How very smart you are today, Adam. Is that coat from London? So that was what you went away for! Will you have something to eat? Some coffee? Or tea?”

He agreed to a slice of plum cake and a cup of tea, but in truth he was too nervous to eat. He could not take his eyes off her. For a whole year she had worn black, or latterly grey or violet, and even before Rupert’s death she had always dressed in dark colours. Today she wore ice blue, so pale it was almost white, in a fine silk that draped around her in watery folds like the wind-blown ruffles on the river. She was so beautiful that he could barely speak for the lump in his throat. The conversation swirled around him unnoticed, for all he saw was Annie.

When she poured herself another cup of tea, he lifted the baby onto his lap. It was easier to talk to a baby than the woman he loved, he discovered. “Come to Cousin Adam, Master Rupert. Goodness, you are getting heavy, young man. Well, what a grand smile. I believe he has another tooth, Annie.”

“He has. Here, take the cloth. I should hate him to dribble on that splendid coat.”

“Weston’s work, or I am a Chinaman,” Lord Dillington said.

“Correct,” Adam said with a laugh. “I cannot tell one tailor from another, myself, but it seems a good fit.” The viscount raised an amused eyebrow at this vast understatement.

“Never mind Adam’s clothes,” Lady Dillington said to her husband, “for here is Annie out of black gloves at last. Does she not look well, Adam?”

“Oh yes,” was all he could manage.

Annie laughed. “Everyone is determined to celebrate the end of my mourning. Mrs Hewitt is preparing a goose for dinner, and some elaborate confection involving port wine, rose-water and vast quantities of nectarines. Anyone would imagine it is my birthday.”

He said nothing, seized with a cold fear that such preparations would be for naught.

The nursemaid came in soon after to take the baby away, and since Annie appeared to have finished her tea, Adam cleared his throat and said, “It is very fine out. Should you care to go for a walk by the river?”

For an instant her lovely eyes blazed with pleasure, but then she lowered her gaze demurely and it was as if the sun had gone out. Was that a good sign? Or not? “I should like that very much. Let me fetch my bonnet.”

She returned so quickly that he suspected that she had placed them nearby. No one else attempted to go with them, for they all understood. They smiled benignly as Annie returned to the room, and Adam rose to leave.

“Enjoy your walk,” Lady Dillington said, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Annie had brought a light shawl, but she hardly needed it, for there was already a warmth in the air. The last wisps of mist lingering along the river would soon burn off in the sunshine.

At first they walked in amicable silence, or at least it seemed amicable to him. He felt he ought to talk, but he could barely think straight, let alone string together a coherent sentence. So they walked side by side through the pleasure grounds, where Davy jumped up from his weeding to bow deeply to them. He was very respectful towards them both, after Adam had spoken for him at his trial, and Annie had paid his fine and kept him on.

As they crossed the lawn and passed the ha-ha to enter the park, he began to find the silence uncomfortable, yet he could not summon the right words. Was it time? Or should he talk of trivial matters until they reached the river? Would it look too eager if he began now? Yet they were still within sight of the house…

Lord, how difficult it was! Now that the moment had come, fear gripped him. He had lain awake half the night thinking of her, and trying to work out from words and glances and gestures just what lay in her heart. For a whole year he had tried, and he was no nearer to the answer. Today he would know, once and for all. Would he have everything he longed for, or must he settle for a sedate marriage of convenience, on her side at least? Or would she reject him… Dear God, let her not reject him!

They passed between the hazel grove and a stand of laurels, and at last they were hidden from the house. Abruptly she stopped, some strong emotion clouding her face. Was she angry with him? His heart thumped with painful intensity. He turned to face her enquiringly.

“Why do you not speak!” she cried. “You said you would… today, you said… yet you are silent. Why? Why?”

Her breath was as ragged as his own. For an instant, astonishment held him immobile. He licked his lips. How to answer her? This was the moment, but all his glib speeches, so many times rehearsed, deserted him. Instead, he found himself blurting, “Because I am terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Of finding out that you do not care for me. Annie, I wish—”

What he wished remained unsaid, for she hurled herself at him with such force that he was pushed back against a tree with a thump. And then…

Her lips claimed his with burning heat and need, sweeping away all his careful control and setting him aflame. This was no gentle, affectionate kiss, it was a thing of such frenzied urgency that he was utterly lost. He threw himself into that kiss with all the suppressed desire of twelve months of restraint. He could restrain himself no longer… and he need not! He could gather her into his arms and hold her against him, so tight that her stays pressed into him, and she must surely feel the buttons of his coat. And still she kissed him, her need as desperate as his, her passion the equal of his own, and he doubted no more. She loved him! By all that was miraculous, she loved him and she was his.

Eventually their ardour was sated for the moment, and their lips separated, although his arms still held her tight. One of her hands was inside his coat, resting warmly against his shirt. The other was tucked behind his head, her fingers gently stroking his hair.

“Are you less terrified now?” she said softly, making him smile.

“A little. I shall need a great deal more reassurance, I fear.” That made her laugh, and he was holding her so closely that he felt her body gently shaking with amusement. “But I must tell you, Mrs Huntly, that I am shocked by such wanton behaviour.”

Another ripple of laughter. “That was rather forward of me, was it not?”

“Outrageously so.”

“Oh, Adam!” She gently stroked his face, smiling up at him in a way that almost unmanned him. “I could not bear it, you see. You said you would speak and then… you did not.”

Her sweet face was so open, so artless that he could not resist teasing her just a little. “I had planned to, naturally. Today I believe I intended to pay you some little compliment on your dress.”

“My dress!”

“And then in a few weeks—”

“Weeks!”

“—I should remark upon the smoothness of your complexion, or some such. Then, in a few months—”

“Adam!” she cried, her face a picture of horror.

“—I should begin to suggest—”

His words were smothered in another impassioned kiss. “No!” she said firmly, when they finally broke apart again. “I am not waiting a day longer than necessary. We shall go and see Mr Popham today and arrange to have the banns read. Today, Adam.”

“Well… if you absolutely insist, my love,” he said. “We could do that, I suppose. Or…”

“Or what?”

“Or we could make use of the special licence I have in my waistcoat pocket.”

Her squeak of excitement was everything he could have hoped for. “A special licence? Did you get that when you were in London?”

“That was the reason for my journey, in fact. I would hardly go there merely for a new coat. It was a tricky business, for the Archbishop does not hand out special licences without good reason, but Mr Willerton-Forbes accompanied me to Doctors’ Commons, and also his father, the Earl of Morpeth, and that did the trick. I have the licence and we can be married today, if you wish it. Mr Popham is to call at around four o’clock, in case his services should be required, and your uncle is here to give you away.”

“Oh! I see it now. Everyone knew, except me,” she said, with a merry laugh. “Even Mrs Hewitt, busily preparing the wedding feast. I wondered why Mama and Aunt Hester were so insistent that I wear this gown, for I have a quantity of others far less fine.”

“It was presumptuous of me,” he said slowly. “I thought — I hoped — you might not wish to wait any more than I do, but Annie, dearest Annie, we need not rush into this if—”

Another kiss cut off his words. When they surfaced again, she said, “Dear Adam, I never knew what love was until I met you. I did not realise at first. All I knew was that I felt better when you were around, that you lifted my spirits in some mysterious way. And then, after Rupert died, I hardly knew what I felt. My emotions were all at sea! I know I looked so outwardly calm, for Judith and Cecilia both berated me for it, but that was just my way of coping with all that had happened. And when you were arrested — I was so terrified, Adam!”

“But you knew I was innocent?”

“Of course! But the law is not always perfect and you could have been taken from me even before I knew how much you meant to me. And then when you came back—”

“I would not even kiss you,” he said softly, leaning close to nuzzle her cheek.

“That was just what I needed, however,” she said. “The breathing space to be sure that I was not rushing into another mistake, as I did with Rupert. Time to determine my own heart.”

“And now you have?”

“Now I have, my love. We shall be so happy together, you and I. Oh… but if we marry today, must I move to the Manor at once? I shall have a great deal of packing to do.”

“I thought,” he said hesitantly, “and you must tell me at once if you dislike the idea, but it seems to me that it would be better if I move here. It would be a shame to leave Willow Place empty, or let to tenants, and you will not want to abandon your walks here, which has a far more extensive estate than the Manor. Besides, now that Mr Popham’s sermons have been printed and are proving to be so popular, he is likely to be summoned to the cathedral, and I can give the living to Elkington, as I have always hoped. He and Cecilia can raise their extensive brood at the Manor, instead of that tiny parsonage. But it shall be as you wish.”

“That sounds so perfect,” she said with a sigh. “Shall you mind? Leaving the Manor, I mean. It is your home, after all.”

“My home is with you,” he said simply. “I love you to distraction, Annie Huntly, and I am going to take the greatest pleasure in watching you unfurl your petals and become the wonderful, warm, loving woman you were destined to be, with your brood of fine children about you.”

“I hope we have many children,” she said, “and all of them with your blue eyes and mischievous smile and teasing ways.”

“May we not have some who have their mother’s hazel eyes and quick mind and serene manner?”

“I shall allow you one, perhaps,” she said, smiling. She lifted her head to kiss him again, then said, “Should we go inside and announce our good news?”

“And prepare for our wedding day,” he said. “The first day of forever.”

She gave him a radiant smile. Arm in arm, they strolled back to begin their life together.

THE END

Thanks for reading!

If you have enjoyed reading this book, please consider writing a short review on Amazon. You can find out the latest news and sign up for the mailing list at my website.

Family trees: Hi-res version available here.

A note on historical accuracy: I have endeavoured to stay true to the spirit of Regency times, and have avoided taking too many liberties or imposing modern sensibilities on my characters. The book is not one of historical record, but I’ve tried to make it reasonably accurate. However, I’m not perfect! If you spot a historical error, I’d very much appreciate knowing about it so that I can correct it and learn from it. Thank you!

Isn’t that what’s-his-name? Regular readers of my books will know that occasionally characters from previous books pop up again. There are a few in this book. Lady Charlotte Litherholm was at Valmont when Caroline Milburn visited in The Lacemaker. Mr and Mrs Elkington made a brief appearance at a dinner party in The Lacemaker. Lawyer Mr Willerton-Forbes and his flamboyant sidekick Captain Edgerton have been helping my characters solve murders and other puzzles ever since Lord Augustus. Long-standing characters the Marquess and Marchioness of Carrbridge and their home at Drummoor in Yorkshire get a passing mention.

About the Silver Linings Mysteries series: John Milton coined the phrase 'silver lining' in Comus: A Mask Presented at Ludlow Castle, 1634

Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud

Turn forth her silver lining on the night?

I did not err; there does a sable cloud

Turn forth her silver lining on the night,

And casts a gleam over this tufted grove.

Ever since then, the term ‘silver lining’ has become synonymous with the unexpected benefits arising from disaster. The sinking of the Brig Minerva results in many deaths, but for others, the future is suddenly brighter. But it’s not always easy to leave the past behind…

Book 0: The Clerk: the sinking of the Minerva offers a young man a new life (a novella, free to mailing list subscribers).

Book 1: The Widow: the wife of the Minerva’s captain is free from his cruelty, but can she learn to trust again?

Book 2: The Lacemaker: three sisters inherit a country cottage, but the locals are surprisingly interested in them.

Book 3: The Apothecary: a long-forgotten suitor returns, now a rich man, but is he all he seems?

Book 4: The Painter: two children are left to the care of a reclusive man.

Book 5: The Orphan: a wilful heiress is determined to choose a notorious rake as her guardian.

Book 6: The Duke: the heir to the dukedom is reluctant to step into his dead brother’s shoes and accept his arranged marriage.

Any questions about the series? Email me - I’d love to hear from you!

About the author

I write traditional Regency romances under the pen name Mary Kingswood, and epic fantasy as Pauline M Ross. I live in the beautiful Highlands of Scotland with my husband. I like chocolate, whisky, my Kindle, massed pipe bands, long leisurely lunches, chocolate, going places in my campervan, eating pizza in Italy, summer nights that never get dark, wood fires in winter, chocolate, the view from the study window looking out over the Moray Firth and the Black Isle to the mountains beyond. And chocolate. I dislike driving on motorways, cooking, shopping, hospitals.

Acknowledgements

Thanks go to:

All those fine people in Albany, Australia who restored the Brig Amity, and gave me the germ of an idea.

Rev Charles Sturgeon, who wrote the splendid sermon attributed in the book to Annie’s father.

Shayne Rutherford of Darkmoon Graphics for the cover design.

My beta readers: Barbara Daniels Dena, Quilting Danielle, Amy DeWitt, Melanie Savage, the readers of Rachel Daven Skinner at Romance Refined

Last, but definitely not least, my first reader: Amy Ross.

Sneak preview of The Painter Prologue: Miss Latimer's Academy

FOUR YEARS BEFORE THE SINKING OF THE BRIG MINERVA

Felicia gazed at her work with a critical eye. The faces… yes, she thought she had contrived them rather well, all things considered. And the trees… she had always been good at trees and flowers and curvaceous smears of colour. But the cottages! How was it that simple straight lines gave her so much trouble? The honeysuckle growing around the door was as realistic as any she had drawn, but the poor cottage itself looked as if a puff of wind would see it off. The walls were crooked, the window frames askew and the chimney pots tilting. The smoke— yes, the smoke needed something.

She reached for a stick of the palest grey, and blended it into the drifting cloud emerging from the chimney. Then some darker grey, a little white, and just a touch of black, smudging the colours together with her thumb so that they mingled and merged. Another stroke of white just there… Smoke and clouds were so satisfactory with pastels. It was hard to go wrong, in truth. But walls…

There was no sound, but she became aware of someone behind her. Miss Gertrude, of course. No one else had quite such an uncanny ability to sneak up noiselessly behind a person. No, that was unfair, for she had no intention of sneaking. It was just her way.

Felicia reached for a cloth to wipe her hands, and turned with a smile. “Miss Gertrude? Have you an errand for me?”

“You’re wanted in the Principal’s room.”

“At once? Then I shall wash the dust off my hands.”

“Nasty, messy stuff, those pastel sticks,” Miss Gertrude said with a sniff. “I can’t see why you don’t stick to watercolours like a proper lady.”

“Perhaps because I am not a proper lady,” Felicia said, as she poured water from the ewer into a basin. “I am only… oh, a pirate’s daughter, I think, abandoned at port in my cradle when he had to escape the Excise men in rather a hurry. He will come back for me one day. My mother was a Persian princess he captured, whose father offered a fortune for her safe return, but my father had fallen in love with her and married her by then. I expect she died of grief when I was left behind. There! I am a trifle cleaner, I believe.”

“You and your stories,” Miss Gertrude said sourly, turning to stalk away. “Pirates and Persian princesses! Ha!”

Felicia chuckled at her receding back, and ran lightly after her, down a floor to the main teaching rooms. The Latimer Academy for Young Ladies was a respected institution, where girls from twelve to eighteen could learn the feminine arts of French or Italian, music and singing, the management of household accounts, sewing, dancing and deportment, and a little history and knowledge of the world as an aid to conversation, but not so much as to deter potential husbands. Heaven forfend that they should be turned into blue-stockings! After which, they would be fired off into society and expected to make good, or at least respectable, marriages and bring honour upon their families. Felicia sincerely pitied them.

On the ground floor was the dancing room, where the rather fraught dancing master was attempting to instil gracefulness into a small group who seemed determined to bump into each other and then collapse into giggles, while Miss Mason banged away determinedly on the pianoforte. Felicia smiled, and executed a few steps of the cotillion as she passed through the hall in Miss Gertrude’s wake, her skirts flaring around her as she twirled. Oh, to dance and lose herself in the music! It was a long, long ten days until the next assembly, and she had her gown and hair ornaments already planned. And this time, she was determined, Jane would dance every set and enjoy herself. She was coming along so well, and in another few months, her shyness would be almost unnoticeable in company.

Across the hall were the domestic offices, where Miss Latimer had her study. Unusually, she was not seated at her desk when Felicia entered. Instead, she stood at the window gazing out into Bugle Street, one of Southampton’s most salubrious thoroughfares.

“Miss Oakes is here, sister,” Miss Gertrude said. She never called Felicia anything else, conveying her distaste for her by means of rigid formality.

“Ah, Felicia. Do sit down.” Miss Latimer settled into her seat behind the desk and Miss Gertrude took up her usual position, standing a little behind her sister, hands clasped before her, an expression of displeasure on her face, as if she had trodden in something unsavoury. The two sisters were as unlike as could be, Miss Latimer as round and soft as a floured dumpling, and Miss Gertrude as thin and sharp as a spear.

Felicia took the chair in front of the desk, and waited expectantly.

“I have had…” Miss Latimer began, then halted with uncharacteristic hesitancy.

“Yes?” Felicia said.

“A letter,” Miss Latimer went on, more strongly, picking up a paper that lay on the desk. “A proposal, if you like. A gentleman wishes to engage a governess for his two daughters.”

“A governess!” Felicia burst out. “I am hardly qualified—” A shiver passed down her spine, but whether of fear or anticipation was more than she could determine. A governess lived the most miserable life on earth, neither gentry nor servant but abused by all, and yet… to leave Southampton, perhaps, and see a little of the world beyond… that would be something!

“Hear me out,” Miss Latimer said. “It is… a most unusual case. He is a married man, but he took a mistress who gave him two children, and he seems to have cared greatly for them. They have been well provided for, at all events. The mistress has recently died, and now he wishes to engage a governess for his natural daughters. And here is the interesting part, Felicia. He insists that the governess must be an artist, and her primary role is to nurture the creative talents of the children. His mistress was a talented painter, it seems, and he hopes to see that ability transferred to her offspring. You can see why our thoughts turned at once to you.”

“Does he know that I am only eighteen?”

“Oh yes, and that does not weigh with him. He believes you may be suitable, despite your youth.”

“But I have neither the aptitude nor the desire to be a governess. I am perfectly content here with you until I reach my majority, and I had always supposed you to be satisfied with my accomplishments here.”

“Oh, indeed! Very satisfied, dear Felicia! We do not wish you to leave, no, no, no! Not in the least. But… there is just the tiniest problem. Mr and Mrs Pollard.”

“Have they complained about the instruction I provide Jane? Her drawing is coming on apace, and I still have hopes of improvement in watercolours, too.”

“It is not that,” Miss Latimer said hastily. “It is… oh, Felicia, you are too friendly with Jane, and that is the truth of the matter.”

“Who could not be friendly towards her, so sweet as she is!” Felicia said with some heat. “She is the most charming girl.”

“Of course,” Miss Latimer said. “No one doubts your sincerity or your good intentions, and Jane has come on tremendously under your tutelage, as I have tried to explain to Mr and Mrs Pollard. But they have heard rumours of your attendance at the assemblies, and they are concerned. Jane was seen dancing with an apprentice. Mrs Pollard is rather upset.”

“He was a ship owner’s clerk, and perfectly respectable,” Felicia said sharply. “He was even shyer than Jane, and it had taken him half the evening to gather his courage sufficiently to ask for an introduction. You would hardly have wished her to snub him. Why, he would have been crushed! And it was so good for her, since she had to exert herself to make all the conversation.”

“But hardly a suitable person for her to be acquainted with,” Miss Gertrude said reprovingly.

“If she must dance only with persons her mother regards as suitable, she will not dance at all,” Felicia retorted. “It is better for her to overcome her shyness here in our quiet provincial backwater than in the full glare of the London season, and that strategy was agreed with the Pollards from the outset.”

“Oh yes, but you are so lively and so pretty, Felicia, that Jane cannot show to advantage. And… and…” Miss Latimer hung her head shamefacedly, then, with a long intake of breath, she went on, “There is your lack of connections.”

“You mean that I am a bastard and an orphan?” she said mischievously, setting Miss Latimer twittering in distress. Felicia was amused, for she had long since ceased to regard her ancestry with dismay. “The Pollards may be only an inch away from trade, but they are more respectable than I am, certainly.”

“They are very wealthy, and Mrs Pollard, at least, has some excellent connections. They have ambitions for Jane. In fact, it is their cherished hope that she might make an impression on the Marquess of Beckhampton when she is out.”

“Beckhampton? Wait, is that the heir to the Duke of Falconbury? That will never fly! I cannot see retiring little Jane ever wanting to marry a duke, even supposing she should meet him.”

“What she wants is neither here nor there,” Miss Gertrude said abruptly. “It’s for her parents to say whom she marries, a great heiress like her, and they are acquainted with the duke, so it’s perfectly possible, whatever you may say about it, Miss Oakes.”

“Well, if she likes him and he is worthy of her, I wish them both joy, I am sure,” Felicia said. “But what is that to do with me? You want me to give up taking Jane to the assemblies, I gather.”

Miss Latimer flushed bright red. “I rather fear it is more complicated than that, my dear. Mr and Mrs Pollard are hinting that they will remove Jane from our care, and as you know—”

“Yes, yes, all the extras, and it is so good for your reputation.”

“That is why this proposal from Mr Kearney is so fortuitous. For him, your… your lack of connections is no obstacle, but a positive benefit.”

“Oh certainly,” Felicia cried, “for who better to educate two bastards than another bastard.” She chuckled merrily.

“Felicia!” Miss Latimer cried distressfully.

“I beg your pardon — I could not resist. Where is this position as governess?”

“At Itchen, just across the river,” Miss Latimer said, latching eagerly onto the happier topic. “Near enough that we might see you sometimes. It will not be for ever, as they will be going to school as soon as they are old enough and will have no need of a governess. Will you at least consider it? Mr Kearney will be here again on Thursday, so you may speak to him about the position then.”

“Of course I will consider it,” Felicia said gently, and was rewarded by seeing Miss Latimer’s clouded face lighten a little. “I do not wish to be the means whereby you lose your most profitable pupil.”

“We do not wish to lose you, either,” Miss Latimer said, “but you do see how it is, I am sure.”

“Oh yes. Either I go or Jane goes. That is perfectly clear.” Miss Latimer protested, but Felicia only laughed. “Do not distress yourself. It is only three years before I come into my inheritance, after all, so why should I not while away that time as a governess?”

“There! I knew you would see the bright side,” Miss Latimer said happily.

~~~~~

Philip Kearney was a handsome man, dressed in a casually expensive style with no great pretensions to fashion, and all in black, with crepe on his hat. He was perhaps forty, with a little grey beginning to show in his hair, but with none of the signs of over-indulgence so common in men of that age. There was an easy charm to his manner which would make him something of a danger to susceptible women. He was an architect, he told Felicia when they met in Miss Latimer’s office under the hawk-like eyes of Miss Gertrude, and his work required him to travel here and there, but he had his main office in Liverpool.

“That is where my wife lives,” he said. “Since it was her money and connections that established my career, I still keep a base there, but my heart has long been here in Southampton, in the Itchen village cottage.” He paused for a moment, his grief obvious. After a moment, he composed himself and went on, “You know of my great loss. My beloved Juliana was a woman below notice in the eyes of the world, but to me she was everything. Now that we are separated in this life, our two little girls fall to my sole care. Miss Oakes, I do not expect you to love my daughters, for that responsibility lies with me, and a welcome one it is. My only requirement is for them to receive a little learning, and an encouragement to develop whatever of artistic talent they may have inherited. Their mother was a painter of great ability, and I would not see her daughters denied their chance to follow her example.”

“What age are your daughters, sir?”

“Juliana is six and Margarita is four. Their mother had already begun teaching them to draw before her tragic death, and now that the Lord Chancellor has confirmed my guardianship, I wish them to continue that training as soon as possible. Miss Latimer tells me you have some considerable talent with pen and brush yourself.”

“I make no claim to any superior accomplishment,” Felicia said. “I have a degree of competence, which I strive constantly to improve, but that is all I would say of myself. I have some little experience of imparting my modest knowledge of the skills required, but if your daughters have truly inherited their mother’s talents, they will surely require the aid of a master to reach their greatest potential.”

“Such instruction as they require will be given them when they are old enough, but for now they need only the essentials, and Miss Latimer believes you eminently suited to such teaching. May I see some of your work, such as you deem fit for public scrutiny?”

With Miss Gertrude following them closely with her usual glower, Felicia led him to the studio on the upper floor. Three moon-faced girls whispering over their easels turned curious eyes on them, before being chased out by a glare from Miss Gertrude. Felicia showed Mr Kearney her sketchbooks and the several completed works awaiting framing, but his gaze soon fell on her half-completed cottage.

“Pastels? An interesting choice. Do you prefer such a medium to watercolours or oils?”

“I do. Watercolours are my bread and butter, naturally, since that is what the parents mostly want their daughters to learn, but for my own pieces I often choose pastels.”

“May I ask why?”

“The intensity of the colours, the ease of blending and over layering, the different ways a stick may be used to create different effects. On its side, I can cover the paper rapidly to build a base, then use the ends in different ways to add detail. And I love using my fingers to soften and merge the colours.”

“There is nothing in oils here.”

“I rarely paint in oils. I find it… complicated.”

He laughed. “True enough! You have some talent, that is clear, but there is something amiss with the cottage in this picture.”

“I am incapable of drawing straight lines,” she said.

“It is fortunate, then, that you are not an architect,” he said, his face softening into a wry amusement. “Buildings are my bread and butter, Miss Oakes, and with those I can achieve a likeness. Trees, too, although not with such panache as you. But people? No, that is beyond my limited talents. I like you, Miss Oakes. The position is yours, if you are so minded. One hundred pounds a year, plus board and whatever equipment you need for your teaching.”

“That is generous. To reside in Itchen, I take it. And will you be in residence also, Mr Kearney?”

“Occasionally, as my work permits, but the household comprises a housekeeper, cook, housemaid, two nursemaids and a manservant, so you need not fear for your reputation.”

His smile was so full of charming good-humour that she found it impossible to take offence. Besides, she preferred such plain speaking. It was best to get everything laid out in clear sight, with no room for misunderstandings.

“I have no reputation to fear for, being only the abandoned bastard of nobody knows whom.”

He laughed, but said, “Everyone has a reputation, Miss Oakes, even abandoned bastards, and your father may yet be found. Why, you might even be the daughter of the Prince of Wales.”

“Heaven forfend! More likely a coal merchant’s get, I should say.”

“Whoever he is, he should not have left you unprotected. The world is unforgiving towards those born out of wedlock, and those responsible have a duty to provide for all their children, whether legitimate or not,” he said in severe tones.

“I honour you for such sentiments,” Felicia said. “However, I must correct one misapprehension. My father, whomsoever he may be, did indeed make provision for me. It was not his fault that the protector he chose died when I was ten.”

“Would your protector have known who your father was?”

“Very likely, but she never dropped so much as a hint to me, and never will now. All is not lost, however, for when I am one and twenty I shall inherit the small cottage she owned, and my trustees will permit me to see all her personal papers. Then perhaps I shall find the answer, and will know whether I am the daughter of a coal merchant or the Prince of Wales.”

END OF SAMPLE CHAPTER of The Painter

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