Island of Bones (7 page)

‘They were kind to me.’

‘I am glad of it.’ They were silent for a while until Crowther asked, ‘And your son is well?’

She watched him from under lowered lids. ‘You shall meet Felix at dinner. He is young and more idle than is good for him. I wish I had had more children, but I had already remained longer with my husband than I should have. My pride again. I did not wish to admit it to myself, let alone to the world at large, but the marriage was a mistake.’

Crowther dropped his hands to his lap, feeling tired and somewhat trapped. It was an emotion he knew well and associated strongly with rich women speaking of their disappointments. Why had he come here? If he had not seen his house being pointed out as a curiosity in Hartswood the day the express arrived, perhaps he would have resisted. If his sister had left the room now with a promise never to see him again, he would have been quite happy to let her go. When she spoke again, her voice had resumed the dancing cadence of the drawing room.

‘Who is this Mrs Westerman who has dragged you back out into the light again, Gabriel? Who has succeeded where so many before have failed? A Naval wife, is she not? Is she of good family?’

Crowther stood and retrieved his cane.

‘Her father had a parish in Norfolk, I believe.’ The Vizegräfin snorted into her glass, her eyes a little brighter. He thought women of her age should not wear so many rings. They made their fingers appear more clawlike and scrabbling. ‘And her husband was an extremely successful Commander until his murder in eighty-one. She has not your taste for fine jewellery, but if what I understand is correct, his prize money could purchase your husband’s estates twice over.’ His sister continued to sip her wine without looking at him, smiling. She knew she had needled him, and Crowther felt a surge of irritation that he had showed it.

‘I find the journey has wearied me more than I had thought,’ he said now. ‘We shall meet again at dinner.’

He had thought the conversation concluded and already moved towards the door when the Vizegräfin spoke again. ‘You still carry our father’s cane with you, Gabriel. Family must mean something to you.’

Crowther’s fingers twitched on the latch and he left the room.

‘Do you like it, my dear?’ Mrs Briggs asked.

Harriet’s private sitting room on the first floor in fact delighted her. It was a pretty chamber that managed to be tasteful without unnecessary fuss. The walls were papered and the Chinoiserie designs of peacock, peony and branch made the room light. The furniture was honey-coloured and on the little round table set in the window was a bowl of foxgloves. Mrs Briggs stepped into the room to adjust the fall of the stems. She seemed a little nervous now, for all her volubility on their arrival.

‘Quite lovely,’ Harriet replied, and Mrs Briggs flushed a little.

‘Fairy flowers, my mother always called these. She used to make tea for my father with them when his chest hurt him. All the marigolds
in the garden have withered in this strange weather, but these flourish.’ She smiled at her guest and took her seat on one of the armchairs by the table. ‘But come, Mrs Westerman, take off your gloves and let us be comfortable.’

Harriet was happy to exchange the swaying carriage for the chair indicated, and within ten minutes of taking her place she found that she and her hostess were in the way of coming to a good understanding of each other. No matter how she had talked them into the house, Mrs Briggs was also an attentive and curious listener. Before Harriet could quite take measure of the way her own tongue was running on, she realised Mrs Briggs now knew as much about her home and household as her nearest neighbours, and rather more than they did about her husband’s death. The woman offered no homilies, she did not clutch her hand and offer to weep with her, and neither did she retreat into the language of euphemism when speaking of death. Harriet found she spoke with more freedom and feeling because of it. She finished her narration of the events of 1781 and lowered her head, rather shocked by her own openness. Perhaps Caveley had been pressing on her even more than she had imagined.

‘Oh, it is a horror and no mistaking it,’ Mrs Briggs said, shaking her grey curls. ‘I am glad the man who killed your husband died such a death, though I am sure you wish you could have struck the blow with your own hand. So many of our good men die before they see their children grown, while the fat and lazy lie all comfortable in their beds and when they rise cause nothing but trouble.’ She spoke with such conviction Harriet wondered if she herself had suffered such a loss, yet she knew Mr Briggs was alive and superintending some of his business interests abroad.

The question must have appeared on her face, for Mrs Briggs explained: ‘It was a sweetheart of my youth I lost, Mrs Westerman. And I thought I would never recover from it. He was killed in a brawl in a tavern in Manchester. Such a stupid, pointless death. Yet they all are, however much we try to dress them up.’

‘Indeed,’ Harriet replied.

‘Though of course I was only fifteen then, and recovered from my loss. I would not have such a fine house or fine view if I had married Ambrose Muncaster, apprentice butcher! No, Mr Briggs was only a clerk when I met him, but ambitious – very ambitious. Then came the first store and he began to import, and here we all are.’

Harriet stiffened slightly, expecting remarks on the healing power of time to follow and explanations of the various, secret destinies God has planned for us all. She was rather brutally spared. ‘But of course I was a great deal younger than you then, and had not his children before me as constant reminders of what was lost to us both.’

‘Is Mr Briggs still ambitious?’

Mrs Briggs threw up her hands. ‘Lord, yes! It is his nature and I cannot change it or wish it otherwise. I cannot expect a man to alter his character as soon as I feel I have money enough and want his company at home. Here we are as comfortable as can be, and in such a beautiful situation, good neighbours and good hunting, but he cannot stay here a month together, much as he cares for it and me, before he is as strung and twitchy as a rabbit smelling a fox. “John,” I say, when I see him gnawing his nails over the paper or standing up just to sit down again three times in a quarter of an hour, “you are a foolish old man and should learn to keep still, but I cannot change you, so off to Portugal with you. Send me long letters and I shall see you in six months.” Then he looks as delighted as a boy let off church, mumbles something about irrigation of the vines in the current season and away he goes.’

Harriet laughed. ‘And does he write you long letters?’

‘Oh, my dear, he does. So long I wonder he has any time to do his work at all. He is a fine man and I know I am blessed in him.’

Harriet was wondering as she spoke how she would describe Mrs Briggs in the letter to her sister she had half-formed in her head. The woman’s movements were birdlike in their quickness but so suffused with a lively good will that ‘birdlike’ would not quite do. Perhaps a
magpie had that glint in its eye. She was still considering when she found Mrs Briggs was asking her a question.

‘But you were a traveller, were you not, Mrs Westerman, when you first married? Do you not miss the adventure of it, as my husband does when at home?’

It was the first time in years that anyone had had the perception to ask the question directly, and Harriet answered with immediate honesty. ‘Yes, I do. Very much. I think that is why I am here now.’

Mrs Briggs chuckled. ‘Indeed, that might well explain why you were so ready to uproot yourself and come charging up to visit us. Though do not mistake me, my dear.’ She looked suddenly nervous, her quick eyes searching Harriet’s face for any sign of offence. ‘I am only too glad to have you here. You seem just the sort of guest I like to have in my home, and the frank and open sort of person it is a pleasure to see every day.’ Though Harriet was smiling at her, thinking it impossible to be offended by Mrs Briggs, her hostess still seemed unsettled. ‘There I go, running on again and saying all sorts of things one should not say.’

‘Mrs Briggs! Why should you not say them? You are only far too kind to me, and I fear I shall disappoint you on further acquaintance.’

She beamed again. ‘I am sure you shall not.’ Then her face fell. ‘But not everyone is of your mind. The Vizegräfin seems to shudder every time I open my mouth. Then I become nervous and make everything worse. She makes me feel like the girl I was, with hardly a clean shawl to keep me decent. I was all charity school and rough hands in my youth, and I think the Vizegräfin can smell cheap soap on me still. My daughter is married to a Lord, and happily, and my son looks set to only add to the fortune he inherits, as he manages the business with his father now, bless them both – yet ladies like her can make me feel like hanging my head and slinking back to the scullery.’ Her shoulders slumped a little.

‘I am sorry to hear you say so,’ Harriet said, with a slight frown. ‘I imagined you and the Vizegräfin must be good friends for her to be staying here. She is not a comfortable person to dine with every day then, if I understand you?’

Mrs Briggs shook her head, her eyes still downcast. ‘To be frank with you, Mrs Westerman, I wonder why the woman ever came! Her son seems pleasant enough – I like him, in fact – though he becomes sulky whenever his mother is in the room. My son was the same at one time. But the Vizegräfin never seemed to like us a great deal when we met in Vienna. I invited her to come to Silverside, naturally, when we discovered our connection, but I never thought to hear from her after that. She seemed a little horrified to be associated with us. Then a year later a letter appears done up with as many seals as a quart of brandy – and there it is! She would be very glad to make a long visit if it were convenient and so on, then she followed on so swift after my reply she must have had her bags packed and the horse waiting at the door.’

‘You have not asked her about the circumstances?’

‘Goodness me, no, Mrs Westerman! But you have not met the lady. If you had done so, you would not ask the question. She can be all twittering and charm when she wishes, but she will put you properly in your corner if you don’t bend to her.’

Harriet rested her chin in her right hand, tapping at the fabric of her dress with her left. ‘Her brother is not known for his social graces either, I am afraid, though he inflicts his company on very few. And this body of yours, Mrs Briggs? Was it at the Vizegräfin’s suggestion that Crowther be summoned to investigate it, or your own notion?’

Mrs Briggs looked into the air. ‘How strange! I suppose it
is
“my body” in my husband’s absence. Yes, it was the Vizegräfin. All that we have done this summer is due to her. She decided that a summerhouse on the island was a delightful plan. Then she wished to be present when the tomb was opened, then suggested summoning Mr Crowther and yourself. Perhaps she has become bored with Mr Sturgess, our neighbour, driving her about and playing cards five hours in the day. Still, I wish I had had the idea for a summerhouse of some sort before my son Ambrose grew so old and upright, but perhaps his children shall play there.’

Harriet looked at her. ‘You named your son after your first love?’

Mrs Briggs nodded. ‘With Mr Briggs’s happy consent, my dear. They
were friends as children and I think Ambrose would have been glad to see his namesake grown up so strong and well-established in life. We do what we can for the memory of our poor dear dead.’

‘And you wish to have the mystery of this extra body in the tomb revealed for the same reason?’

Mrs Briggs spoke slowly. ‘Well, I suppose he was someone’s son. I believe by the clothing the body is that of a man. I do not know what you might be able to find out. He is a long time gone, poor fellow, but these hills have long memories, the hills and the people. I have been here thirty years and am thought of as an out-comer still.’ She clapped her hands on her knees, and became brisk again. ‘You will most likely find nothing at all, but I am easier in my mind knowing an attempt will be made. Then we may say some prayers over the poor forgotten thing, and you may enjoy the air and exercise we offer. Now I must go and dress for dinner, and allow you to do the same. Miriam will have your clothes all laid out by now, and will help you if you need her.’ She stood and bustled out of the room and Harriet smiled after her, then began, with a grimace, to wonder how she should dress to meet the Vizegräfin, doubting if she had anything sufficient to the occasion.

S
TEPHEN HAD RUN HARD
up the wooded path to the west of the house and now bent over his knees panting. He was already in love with the lake and the hills, and as he left the house to look at the mountains, he found his mind was teeming so with plans for boating, swimming in the lake and climbing each of the peaks, he had felt a sudden urge to dash about that could not be denied. Mr Quince was already showing himself to be the best sort of tutor for such a trip by remarking as Stephen’s plans tumbled out of him that there was no better way to study geography than walking about in it, and he had always thought mathematics best tackled after a long swim.

Around him, oaks and beeches dressed with their summer foliage swung and stretched in the hazy sky. The birdsong was cacophonous: the bark of a chaffinch, the warbling, reaching trill of a yellow-hammer. The calls crossed and cut under each other. The air was full of the smell of dry earth and the competing breaths of wild flowers.

Stephen caught enough of his wind to look up and saw a jackdaw scratching about on the path in front of him. It was smaller than the crows he saw at Caveley and had very bright blue eyes. The feathers on its head were a little grey, giving the impression of a particularly glossy wig.

‘Good day, crow,’ Stephen said, his general good humour spilling over to the whole animal world.

The jackdaw hopped round in a tight circle before it looked over its shoulder at him.

‘Good day,’ it replied with the same lilt that Stephen had heard from the servants in the house.

Alarmed, the boy took a step back, caught his heel on a branch and fell heavily on his behind in the track, mouth still open. The bird fluttered away a little, looking offended. Stephen’s view was suddenly blocked by a pair of legs in brown wool. A hand was extended to him and he found himself pulled to his feet by a man in labouring clothes. He was the colour of the stained wood floors in the nursery in Caveley, and his beard was whitening in places. It was a round, manly-looking face, and smiling. His hair was curly, and he had a great deal of it.