Yorkshire (18 page)

A noise heralded a flood of silk as most of the other guests arrived. We could discuss it no further.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough, but not memorably, except for Richard’s obvious coldness to Miss Cartwright. He didn’t bother to hide it now. He wasn’t impolite, merely indifferent. She didn’t seem to notice, but tried to pay him flattering attentions, which he politely declined. Perhaps she really did care for him, and if this was the case, his coldness to her was cruel. It troubled me to see such cruelty in a man I was about to give all my hopes to. I hoped he was right about Julia, that she only cared for the position in society that he could bring her.

Chapter Twelve

Our mourning dress arrived, standard sizes, standard designs. A maid quickly fitted me into one of the gowns allotted to me, and took my measurements for the other. Martha was annoyed that maids neglected their housework to sew, but it had to be done.

After the fitting, I changed into my old gown, and went upstairs with Mrs. Peters. Our task was to assess the work yet to be done, and make a list for Martha.

Only the servants’ quarters and the leads lay above us. The roof, James informed us, seemed to be in fair order, so we hadn’t expected to find the devastation damp could wreak. But we did find it.

The rooms had been used by the family, and contained the nurseries, schoolroom and several bedrooms. Everything had been abandoned where it had been left ten years before, just like downstairs. I opened a door. “Do you think we’ll find her in here?”

“Who would that be, madam?” Mrs. Peters asked.

“Sleeping Beauty.” Richard’s conceit never appeared so apposite as it did now.

I don’t think she understood. “There’s been nobody up here for years, madam.”

We began to make a list of the rooms, their contents and what needed to be done to restore them. Up here on the second floor, the pervading odour of damp and neglect was overpowering, so the first thing would be to light fires in all the fireplaces, once they were clear of soot. We couldn’t get the depressing odour out of our nostrils. For hours after I went back downstairs, I could smell it. The upper walls and ceilings of the rooms were fringed with the creeping black stains of untreated damp. At the far end of the building, it seemed to get better. Then we opened the door to the nursery.

I have rarely, if ever, seen such a shocking sight. Toys lay strewn about randomly, as though the children had only just left the room, but they were mildewed and black with damp. A baby house lay open in the corner, its delicate contents poured out on the floor in front of it, as if the house had vomited them.

A doll I would have loved to own when I was a child sat on a table, its beautiful silk gown torn and rotted. I picked it up. It had a vacant look because it hadn’t been loved for such a very long time. It wore a fontanges, one of those high headresses fashionable fifty or so years before, and as I placed the doll back down again the head-dress slid off. It took the wig with it, leaving the doll obscenely bald.

I shuddered. “I don’t want to stay here too long, Mrs. Peters. This nursery isn’t pleasant.” Mrs. Peters didn’t seem to feel it, but she nodded. We wrote down what we needed to, and hastily left.

The night nursery was next to it, and on the other side the little room once occupied by the night nurse, or the nursemaid. To our surprise, we found this much neater than the other rooms. Someone had neatly folded the bedding away, the drawers and cupboard were bare—all much more normal in appearance.

“Perhaps this room was discontinued for use before the rest of the house was abandoned.”

“Very likely, ma’am.” Mrs. Peters didn’t venture any theory of her own.

We passed on to a dark and grimy series of bedrooms, children’s for the most part, which contained small beds and nightlights. The room allotted to the governess was much like the others, except for a bigger bed, but we found some clothes in the drawers, which we pulled out and examined. They were all plain, serviceable clothes, full of moth holes.

I made a note for the maids to empty the drawers here. “Why didn’t she take her clothes with her?”

“The last governess never left, ma’am. She died of a lingering illness. It began with a lump in her breast and ended with a stick thin woman sitting in the servants’ quarters, crying with the pain that laudanum could no longer touch.” Mrs. Peters related this terrible narrative with little emotion. “I wasn’t working here then. I heard about it in the village when the poor lady was buried.”

“She was buried here?”

“She had no family.”

I dropped the clothing hastily, noting down that they be burned, for fear of infection. Poor woman. When I reckoned it up, I realised this must have been the governess of the last two earls. There had been no children in the house since. How had it had affected them, what had the painful death of someone so close to them done to their spirits?

I wanted to discuss this with Richard. This was passing strange, since I hardly knew him, but I wanted to tell him how sad it was up here, perhaps even show him if he wished me to.

“Mrs. Peters, do you know anyone who had a grudge against the last two Lord Haretons?”

“In what way, madam?”

She wasn’t stupid, only acting so. “Did anyone dislike them?”

She shrugged. “Most of the village. They took away jobs and custom. The landlord at the inn was very bitter.” The list of suspects had widened, but I thought we’d best forget the village for now or the search would become impossible. Later, it might prove necessary to enquire there.

“There’s always Ellis.” Mrs. Peters straightened from her task of looking through the drawers.

“Ellis?” Anything I could find out about that man would help.

Mrs. Peters lowered her voice. I had to assume she did this for effect since no one else was within earshot. “He came back with Lord Hareton after visiting Mr. Pritheroe. He never mixed with the other servants. They resented him. Then, the day before you arrived, he went into Lord Hareton’s room and we heard a terrible sound of raised voices.” She paused. I kept silent, waiting for her next words. “We couldn’t hear a word anyone said, however hard we tried.” I’ll wager you tried hard enough, I thought, but kept it to myself. “He’s still here, but Lord Hareton isn’t. He stays in the kitchen now.”

“Do the other servants get on with him?”

“No. The extra servants her ladyship has employed are from the village. He only speaks to tell us we’re doing wrong.”

“I’ll speak to Lady Hareton. I think it might be better if he goes home with Mr. Pritheroe, once he’s recovered.”

“Thank you, my lady,” she replied, with considerably more warmth.

I meant to repeat the gist of the conversation to Richard that afternoon. Carier had surprised me, asking if I would assist in taking out Richard’s stitches. I’d been there at their inception, so to speak. I was more surprised to find we were the only three people in the room, as when he’d made the request Carier had led Martha to believe Miss Cartwright would be present.

Richard met me at the door. He kissed my hand and led me to a seat. Carier had made the room very comfortable with a warm fire, cushions, books and other comforts. Richard’s considerable collection of toiletries were neatly ranged on the dressing table, crystal bottles glittering among the panoply of silver-backed brushes and pounce boxes.

There were two chairs placed either side of the fire. We sat and smiled at each other. He wasn’t wearing his coat, just shirt and waistcoat. I loved to look at him, but I had to stop thinking about what he looked without the shirt and waistcoat, how he’d feel. That way lay madness.

I told them what Mrs. Peters had said about the servants.

“It tallies with what we’ve discovered,” Richard said. “What do you think, Carier?”

Carier looked grave. “Yes, ma’am. Those two servants Mr. Pritheroe sent are hated by the others. The only books they read are the Bible and Mr. Pritheroe’s sermons, and they don’t join in. Now there are more servants they’ve been pushed aside. They only attend their master now.”

“The argument sounds interesting,” Richard added.

“I heard something of that in the servants’ quarters, my lord,” Carier said. “But either no one knows what they discussed, or won’t say. I’ll talk to Mrs. Peters, to find out more. She was in a place of advantage during the argument.”

“She stood right behind the door,” I said.

“Precisely, madam,” the manservant agreed.

Richard looked up at him. “You’ll have to use your seductive charms on her, Carier.”

Carier’s face was expressionless. “A bottle or two of good red wine should do it, my lord.”

“Let’s hope so.”

No twitch marred the manservant’s stern features. He busied himself about the task for which I had supposedly come here.

Carier proceeded to roll the sleeve of Richard’s shirt out of the way, tenderly resting his lordship’s arm on a small table covered by a towel. Another table held a decanter of red wine, one of brandy, and three glasses. Carier poured some brandy into a glass, handing it to Richard. “There shouldn’t be too much discomfort, my lord, but this will help to ease any you might feel.” Richard obediently drank, and leaned back in his chair.

I went over to where Carier was unrolling the bandage, both of us anxious to see the wound. I’d seen such injuries before, swollen to twice their size with pus and bad liquid. These often killed the unfortunate person who had sustained them, so I hoped with all my heart I saw no signs of this on my lord.

We were lucky. The wound looked clean, probably the result of the gin that Carier had poured so liberally over it that first day, and they way he’d changed the dressings twice a day. I breathed out in relief, but I hadn’t realised until then that I was holding my breath.

The ten brown stitches Carier had put there held the edges of the long gash together, but the flesh was beginning to grow over them. When I mentioned this to him, Carier nodded. “That’s why they must come out now. They could grow right into the skin.”

I nodded.

“You’re a wonderful woman.” Richard looked down at the wound. “Any other lady would have fainted or thrown a fit of the vapours or the like.”

I made a scornful noise. “I’ve always been interested in healing. There were accidents aplenty around the village where I grew up. After I stood by helpless when a man bled to death from a scythe cut, I promised myself I would learn more. It will never happen again when I’m there to help.”

Richard smiled. The brandy had been a generous dose. While not drunk, I think he felt a trifle relaxed. “A wonderful woman.” He smiled and leaned back, closing his eyes.

“Hush, sir,” I scolded sharply.

He lifted his head, looking at me through half-closed eyes. “Don’t mind Carier. He knows all my business. He guessed how it is between us, but he knows how to hold his tongue. Besides, he would infinitely prefer you to Julia. Wouldn’t you, Carier?”

The manservant glanced at him. “It’s not for me to say, my lord,” he replied primly, busy now at his work. He picked up a small pair of scissors which lay on the table, and with those, and a pair of tweezers, he snipped and pulled out the stitches. Richard fell silent.

I decided to distract him, telling him about our discoveries in the governess’s room and the nursery that morning.

His first comment was a brief, “Poor woman.” But after a few moments he added, “From what I’ve heard of their father, the boys were given little familial affection.” He glanced at Carier, who continued stoically with his work.

I saw his point. “You mean they would have looked for that attention elsewhere?”

My heart turned over at his smile. “Just so. What a perceptive woman you are! Now if the governess died in pain in front of her charges, without anyone to love her, it must have had an effect on them.”

“If their father had ignored her illness. They might have resented his indifference.”

A pause followed, broken by the crackling fire and snipping scissors. Richard said, “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure, but I would be very surprised if this house isn’t haunted.”

Carier was halfway done. “Would you try to flex the arm just a little, my lord?” Richard obediently bent the arm. We were relieved to see the reddened edges of the wound held together. Carier smiled in satisfaction, and gently pulled out the last five stitches. Richard sat back in his chair, his eyes closed for the most part while Carier worked on him.

When all the stitches were removed, Carier examined the wound closely for any gaps. Then he sighed contentedly. “That will do very well, my lord.” He picked up a fresh bandage, lighter than the original one, and I returned to my chair while he bound the arm.

Carier rolled the shirtsleeve back down, fastening it. He took the operation’s debris into the dressing room, returning with the most beautiful dressing gown I’d ever seen. Richard refused it. “I’m quite warm enough.” Carier poured wine for us, and left the room.

Richard flexed his arm once or twice, grimacing, and then picked up his wine and took a sip. “Carier does like you, but he never took to Julia, so I must be right this time, don’t you think?” He looked at me, and lost the smile. “And there’s another thing—I haven’t yet toasted you in any form.” He raised his glass. “To your beautiful brown eyes. May I drown in them forever.” He drank.