Tarleton's Wife (10 page)

By this time Julia’s temper had calmed enough that she detected the softening twinkle in Miss Upton’s eye and the decided twitch which lifted the corner of her mouth. Julia could choose to be vastly insulted…or laugh. Somehow it seemed more than time for humor to edge its way back into their lives. She chose to laugh.

The ladies enjoyed tea and cakes, presented by the redoubtable Peters exactly as if his new mistress had thought to order them. They also settled the matter of clothing with Julia agreeing to Miss Upton’s suggestion that the recommended modiste be summoned to The Willows with a suitable selection of fabric. A simple enough solution to prevent Julia and her maid from suffering the humiliation of being seen in their rags and without proper blacks. There was honor enough in Daniel Runyon’s ragged uniform, the women decided, so he might visit the village tailor without bringing disgrace to the house of Tarleton.

With the practicalities settled to everyone’s satisfaction, Julia indulged her curiosity. “I believe you mentioned herbs, Miss Upton? Are you interested in their medicinal properties?”

“Precisely, my dear,” Sophronia Upton agreed, her quick, intelligent gaze suddenly hooded by an odd combination of pride, self-deprecation and a dash of defiance. “I am considered by some to have a certain talent with herbs. For more years than I care to count I’ve been providing dried herbs, medicinal decoctions, tinctures and even beautifying oils for the local apothecary. It is a practice which has brought me great satisfaction, so I am loath to give it up.” Miss Upton looked up from under lowered lashes to peek at Julia Tarleton’s reaction to this startling admission.

“Give it up!” Julia cried. “What must you think of me, ma’am? To have such a talent is quite wonderful. We could have used your services in Spain, I assure you. In fact, I hope you may be willing to teach me some of your art.”

Miss Upton was so overcome by this demonstration of her charge’s goodwill that she quite lost her usual composure. She could not imagine
anything
which would give her more pleasure, she assured Julia with a suspicious sniff, than to impart her knowledge to poor, dear Nicholas’ wife.

By the time Sophronia Upton departed to begin packing for her removal to The Willows, she had obtained some idea of what Mrs. Nicholas Tarleton and her two companions had suffered. In fact, as Peters ushered her out, she thought she might have some empathy with a medieval knight going out to do battle. Far from being an unwanted burden, Julia Tarleton now topped her list of worthy causes. No one was going to bring any more grief to the poor child if Sophronia Upton could help it.

* * * * *

Mrs. Jane Peters, housekeeper at The Willows for a quarter century, had a lamentable tendency to burst into tears at the sight of her new mistress. Knowing this, her husband suggested rather forcefully that she postpone the obligatory tour of the house, citing an attack of rheumatics if nothing better came to mind.

But the poor dear child must see her new home, the housekeeper insisted, her double chin quivering with strong emotion. How else would she know how to go on? Which rooms to refurbish? Which holland covers to keep in place? Or, indeed, how faithfully Mrs. Peters had mended the linens, kept up the inventories? A house of mourning it might be but no one would be able to say The Willows was not fit to entertain the king himself. Poor mad creature that he was.

Peters departed, shaking his head. He could only hope his wife could contain her feelings in front of Mrs. Tarleton. The poor girl had enough on her plate.

When Mrs. Peters entered the morning room at the back of the house, Julia was waiting, staring idly through the tall windows. Beyond the low stone wall which surrounded the terrace, intricate boxwood hedges outlined portions of the garden, all of which lay under a light dusting of snow. Mrs. Peters cleared her throat and launched into a spritely good morning. After a brief start of surprise, Julia schooled her features and indicated she was ready to view the house.

“Mr. Woodworthy has promised us three more housemaids and a footman, ma’am,” Mrs. Peters assured her. “At the moment we have only Tilly, who’s a bit slow, I fear, so you’ll find most of the rooms in holland covers and not fit for man nor beast. But there’ll be no shortage of those wanting a place, I can promise you that. Things be right bad with the tenants…and the villagers as well. ’Twouldn’t surprise me to see a full staff before nightfall.”

“Surely we will need more staff than can be obtained in one day, Mrs. Peters?” Julia questioned.

“To be sure, ma’am but Mr. Woodworthy is ever one to pinch his pennies. Quite surprised I was when he agreed to three maids. Not that I’m one to criticize my betters, you understand but ’tis common knowledge Ebadiah Woodworthy is not easily parted from his money. Or from anyone else’s.” On this last Mrs. Peters forgot herself to the extent of giving her mistress a knowing wink. With a grim nod of agreement, Julia followed the housekeeper from the room.

As she trailed Mrs. Peters through a succession of public rooms, even the gloomy shadows of ivy dancing against the ghostly white furniture covers could not dispel the unexpected impression of tasteful opulence. Silk wallpaper, thick intricately patterned carpets, elaborate overmantels, ceilings adorned with delicate plaster work, walls boasting Flemish tapestries and fine paintings. To her surprise, Julia began to feel faint stirrings of interest. Her eyes sharpened and she began to examine each room with greater care. By the time they entered the gallery, which extended along a goodly portion of the back of the house, she was not surprised to find that even her untutored eye recognized a startling number of old masters among the array of family portraits by artists of lesser renown. Some member of the family must have had a particular interest in fine art. And been far wealthier than Nicholas had ever indicated.

“These are the most recent family portraits, ma’am,” Mrs. Peters declared. “There’s Miss Laetitia when she was a girl. Pretty little thing, was she not?”

Indeed she was. Julia regarded the painting of a lovely young woman of perhaps seventeen, wearing an elaborately hooped dress of pale pink, a large straw bonnet held in her hand, its ribbons of rich rose trailing over the paler expanse of her gown. “Did she never marry?” she inquired.

Glistening drops sprang into Mrs. Peters’ eyes. “Lost her man to heathens in India. Begging your pardon, ma’am but he was a soldier too. Wore the willow all of her life, she did.” Obviously horrified by her indiscretion, Mrs. Peters hastily continued, “That’s her father to the right. James Summerton, brother to the major’s grandmother. A fine man, he was. Started collecting all these things when he inherited and Miss Laetitia kept it up. Very knowledgeable, she was.” Surreptitiously, Mrs. Peters dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her voluminous white apron. “Doted on the major, she did…”

“This is the major’s aunt?” Julia asked in surprise. “The one who left him The Willows?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Peters affirmed. “Miss Laetitia Summerton.”

“Somehow I had thought the major’s aunt a Tarleton,” Julia explained. “So Miss Upton lived here at The Willows as Miss Summerton’s companion.”

“That she did, ma’am. For nigh on thirty years. Pensioned to a fine cottage she was after Miss Laetitia was gone. For her, coming to The Willows is the same as coming home.”

Julia’s startled cry broke into the housekeeper’s spate of words. Julia stood, one hand pressed to her mouth, staring up at the life-size portrait hanging next to Laetitia Summerton. A striking young man of nearly the same age as the girl in pale pink.

“Aye, ’tis him, all right,” said a stricken Mrs. Peters. Having long been accustomed to the portrait, she had not thought how it might affect her new mistress. “Nineteen he was and his commission newly purchased,” she babbled, wishing they might magically be transported elsewhere. “Just a babe but looking so grand in his uniform. Miss Laetitia came here near every day to look at him. Said that, major or no, she always thought of him as the boy he was then.” Mrs. Peters gulped and fished out a handkerchief, blowing her nose with some vigor.

Blindly, Julia turned away, exiting the gallery without a backward glance.

* * * * *

Miss Sophronia Upton joined the household late that afternoon, greeting Julia with warmth as she entered the breakfast room on the following morning. With barely suppressed excitement, she added, “Have you heard, my dear? Frames were broken at four cottages last night. ’Tis said it was Captain Hood and his men.”

Julia paused in the midst of spreading strawberry jam onto her toast. “I beg your pardon, ma’am but I fear I do not understand.”

“Forgive me, child, I betray our provincialism. We are inclined to think that our doings in Lincolnshire are known throughout the land.”

A wan smile brightened Julia’s sober features. “But I have been in Spain, ma’am, so I hope I may be excused for not knowing about Captain…Hood, did you say?”

“Yes, indeed,” Miss Upton agreed. “We are not far from Nottingham, you know and I fear ’tis a deliberate attempt to make use of the old legend. Captain Hood is…ah…a daring, though foolhardy, figure who has organized a band of men to protest what some believe are the current injustices in our area.” Rather than continue this promising topic, Miss Upton seemed to conclude she had said all she should and promptly turned her attention to a coddled egg and an abstemious portion of kippers.

Julia’s curiosity, dulled by the misery of her mourning, suddenly bubbled back to life. “You mentioned frames, did you not, Miss Upton. Please forgive my ignorance but what kind of frames are you talking about? And what exactly has happened to them?”

Miss Upton took a satisfying swallow of tea and gathered her thoughts. It was, after all, a trifle early in the morning for explaining the industrial revolution. “You have perhaps heard that here, in the heart of the best farmland in the country, people are going hungry?” she inquired.

“Mr. Harding gave us some idea of the situation when we dined with him at The Bell and Candle.”

Ah, yes, Sophy Upton thought, that rumor had reached her only hours after it happened. A most interesting meeting.

“About two years ago,” she continued, “Miss Laetitia asked Mr. Woodworthy if something could be done for the cottagers—for the men who had been put out of work by enclosures and for their wives and children who had lost their handcrafting cottage industries to factories in Nottingham. When the frames first came, it seemed a good idea but…“ Miss Upton deftly cracked her egg and began to peel it.

“What frames, Miss Upton?” Julia asked, frowning.

Wistfully, Sophronia Upton eyed her egg but continued with no more than a small sigh. “The factories in Nottingham make hosiery—ladies and gentlemen’s fine stockings and men’s pantaloons, you understand. The knitting is now done on a machine called a frame and it was decided to set up a frame for each cottager who wished it. Miss Laetitia was most pleased, I can assure you, for now the cottagers would have work and yet be able to stay on the land and not have to remove to the city.”

“It seems a fine idea,” Julia said carefully, recalling Jack Harding’s bitter words.

“Alas,” said Miss Upton after managing a bite of her egg, “Mr. Woodworthy’s ideas did not always match Miss Laetitia’s intentions. It seems the frames must be rented from the factory owners in Nottingham at exorbitant rates—or so he says. And, as if that weren’t enough, the stockingers are being pushed to slipshod methods in order to produce more and more goods. They were proud of their skills and now they feel doubly trodden upon.” Miss Upton shook her head. “It’s a great sadness to me, knowing how much Miss Laetitia wanted to do what was right.”

Julia glanced down at her plate and discovered she had eaten a hearty breakfast while Miss Upton talked. Odd, she had not felt hungry at all. “Captain Hood?” she encouraged.

“I know I should abhor his methods, my dear,” Sophronia Upton confided, “but the case has grown quite desperate and I cannot help but admire the man for doing something about it—though he’s bound to be transported, if he isn’t hanged.”

“But what does he do, ma’am?”

Nervously, Miss Upton looked around to make sure they were alone. “You must never admit to a single soul that you have the slightest sympathy with the captain and his men,” she whispered with considerable drama. “You would be ostracized and myself along with you. The captain is very much
persona non grata
. The militia are far more interested in capturing the captain than in training to repel Napoleon’s invasion.”

Julia drew a deep breath. “But what do the captain and his men do that it so heinous?”

“They break the frames,” Miss Upton replied, as if that fact were so obvious it need not be stated. “They gather money from those who sympathize with them, then they meet and decide which frames are to be broken. The money is given to help those who can no longer work because their knitting frames have been destroyed. Why, my dear, whatever is the matter? You look as if a ghost walked over your grave.”

T’ Summerton cottages be on t’ list… It was agreed. Since when are you swayed by a pretty face, Cap’n?

Julia’s breakfast rose in her throat. “Were any of our cottages damaged?” she asked.

“No, God be thanked, for however I might agree with the frame breakers in principle, I must admit I would not like to see such a thing happen to our own people. It must be monstrously frightening, particularly to the children.”