A sinister revenge, p.7
A Sinister Revenge, page 7
He gave me a feeble smile. “How indeed, miss? May I present Mrs. Brackendale, the housekeeper?” He gestured towards the woman behind him, tall and composed and with an enormous ring of keys at her belt that rattled as she moved.
“How do you do, Mrs. Brackendale?”
“Miss Speedwell,” she said, inclining her head. “This is Lily, one of the upstairs maids. She will be responsible for taking care of you during your stay.”
Lily was a plump and cheerful-looking country girl with rosy apple cheeks and a twinkle in her eye that spoke of barely suppressed amusement. Her dark blue dress was uncreased, her white apron spotless.
“Hello, Lily,” I said.
She bobbed a curtsey, the edge of her mobcap fluttering a little. “How do, miss?”
“I am sorry that his lordship is unavailable to receive you at present, Miss Speedwell,” Collins said. “But he was confident you would take no offence.”
“Certainly not. His lordship and I are long past standing upon ceremony,” I assured him.
“Still wrestling with the accounts, is he?” Merry enquired.
“No, Mr. Merryweather. I believe now it is the rents. It is nearly quarter day,” Collins replied, pursing his lips.
“Oh dear,” Merry murmured. He looked at me. “Tiberius is not the most attentive of landlords, and quarter days are when the rents are due from every cottager, farmer, and tenant on Templeton-Vane land. And every one pays in person, coin in hand. He will be inundated with visitors from morning to night. Tell me, Collins, has he begun drinking yet?”
“Only a little whisky in his morning coffee,” Collins admitted. “And then a very nice full-bodied Burgundy with luncheon.”
“An entire bottle?” Merry’s brows rose skyward.
Collins discreetly held up two fingers before turning to me. “No doubt you will meet other members of staff during your stay, Miss Speedwell, but you may rely upon myself, Mrs. Brackendale, or Lily to attend to any of your wants. His lordship has issued strict instructions that you are to be afforded every possible comfort whilst at Cherboys. Now, Lily will show you to your room.”
Merry and I arranged to meet after I had freshened myself, so I trotted obediently after Lily, listening to her cheerful prattle as she pointed out still more features of the house as we mounted the broad principal staircase. “Now, the family portraits is all in the picture gallery, and I wager you’ve never seen the like of that room, miss. It has a window in the ceiling it does, three stories above. It makes me giddy to look up at it, it does. The billiard room is where the Russian paintings is, all grim-looking saints and a Jesus as wants a good meal, I reckon. Here in this staircase hall is the Italian collection,” she said, waving a hand to indicate the paintings hung in heavy gilded frames. At a glance I noted a Leonardo, a pair of Titians, a gloomy Caravaggio, and a particularly fine Tintoretto triptych.
Looking up, I saw that the ceiling of the staircase hall was covered in frescos. “Heaven.” She pointed upwards. “The walls below used to be painted with . . . the other place,” she said in a low whisper. “The late Lady Templeton-Vane didn’t think it decent, so it were all painted over and these pictures hung instead, although why anyone would want a painting of some dirty boats is beyond me.” I smiled as we passed a Canaletto series of gondolas.
We left the stairs at the first landing and I saw that we had emerged into a wide rectangular gallery open to the floor below. “Stand just here, miss, and you can see how it is arranged. Below us is the pictures what I did tell you about, the family portraits and such.” I peered over the railing and saw beneath us the long expanse of the picture gallery. On the floor above us, another corridor circled the opening to the gallery, whilst far above, a top light permitted illumination. It was a clever architectural conceit, permitting light and a sense of spaciousness.
Lily, no doubt trained well by the redoubtable Mrs. Brackendale, did not point but gestured by nodding her head. “Across that way is the children’s wing, the nurseries and governess quarters and schoolrooms, although none of those are in use now, of course. Overlooking the drive and away to the sea is his lordship’s suite.” She turned. “Along the back of the house is one of the large guest suites, meant for guests that haven’t yet arrived. Italians, I’m told.”
“That would be Count Salviati and his countess,” I said.
“Aye, that sounds right. In the back corner, overlooking the garden, that is where your room is, miss. It has a wee balcony for sitting should you take a mind to admire the view. Them Italians in their suite come next to your room, then the back stairs, the linen room, and the sitting room for visiting ladies’ maids.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t one of those,” I told her, knowing well I would lower myself in her estimation by the admission. Travelling without a lady’s maid was as scandalous as losing one’s maidenhead in certain circles. Of course, I did not have one of those either, but the loss hardly troubled me. “I am sorry it will make extra work for you, but I assure you I am entirely capable of looking after myself.”
“As you please, miss, but if you need a hem whipped or a bit of lace mended, you come to me,” she told me firmly. “Mrs. Brackendale will have my guts for garters if she thinks I’ve not taken care of you properly.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I am not meant to speak like that in front of guests.”
“Well, I am not your customary guest, Lily,” I advised her.
“God’s own truth, that is,” she agreed. She relaxed enough to point upwards. “The other large guest suite is meant for the Scots and it is on the floor above us with the bachelors’ rooms. Mr. Revelstoke is in the corner, just above your room, miss, and the vicar is next door, over his lordship’s suite, as it were. And the floor above that is the attics, maids’ rooms and lumber rooms and so forth.” Along the walls were alcoves housing assorted seminude statues of nymphs and warriors in Classical poses. “These are called nimps,” she informed me. “They’re ladies what had special powers—talking to trees and whatnot. And some of the statues are men with their bits out, so mind you don’t get startled.”
I suppressed a smile.
“Thank you, Lily. You have been a most informative guide.”
“Thank you indeed, miss.” She pinked with pleasure. “Come this way and I will show you to your room. Mind you look out the windows as we move to the back of the house. The views are of the gardens, not the sea, but for my money, Devon is as pretty a country as you’ll find.”
* * *
• • •
She led me to a bright and airy room of generous proportions. It was furnished and carpeted in delicate shades of green and violet. “The Pomona Suite,” she said, throwing out her arms.
“Pomona? After the Roman goddess of spring?” I enquired.
“No, miss. After that,” she said, nodding to a dog basket in the corner. Lying in state was a sleeping dog—at least it seemed to be sleeping.
“Stoker’s pet,” I observed, recognising the creature from the story Merry had told.
“That it is, miss. After it did die, Mr. Revelstoke stuffed it and Lady Templeton-Vane said it was a masterpiece, but old Lord Templeton-Vane wouldn’t have it in the public rooms and ordered it destroyed. Her ladyship had it moved here instead. I can take it out if it troubles you,” she said, moving towards it.
“No, thank you,” I told her. “It doesn’t bother me in the least.” There was something oddly touching about having a bit of Stoker’s childhood in my rooms, and although I might have chosen a more decorous item, I could not choose a more meaningful one.
CHAPTER
9
I washed and changed into a walking dress and stout boots, longing for fresh air and a bit of late summer sunshine. I retraced the route I had taken with Lily, making my way to the entrance hall, where Merry was waiting. We left the house through the garden entrance, a small lobby hung with an elaborate green glass lantern. The little room gave on to the terrace, which ran the distance of the back of the house. From there, shallow steps descended to a series of small outdoor rooms, each with its own distinct style and purpose.
“The knot garden and the rose alley were laid by my mother,” Merry told me with some pride as we made our way down a long, straight corridor of roses, great flowering shrubs heavy with perfumed blossoms. In the middle a sort of bower had been made, with benches and an archway of roses meeting overhead and sprinkling petals like so much silken, scented confetti. Merry gestured towards a gap in the shrubbery. “This path here leads through the little copse we saw as we drove in. It will take us out onto the cliffs.”
He pointed out various landmarks along the way, some of which I recognised from my researches—the pavilion shaped like an enormous pineapple, a fountain featuring a goddess with exuberant breasts and a basket full of grapes, a picturesque hermitage long since abandoned but still attractive. It had been built to resemble a mushroom, the roof carpeted thickly with moss. “My grandfather hired a man to live there and pretend to be the hermit. Apparently it was all the rage a century ago. Ah, and here we are,” he said as we broke from the trees and out onto the wide expanse of headland giving on to the sea.
The beauties of the Devon cliffs are best described by poets. A natural historian will speak of limestone and strata and mineral deposits, but a poet will sketch with words the grandeur, the limitless, stark beauty of white chalk cliffs bearing down to the ink blue sea. This part of the world brooks no beaches; no pleasant stretch of shingle softens the base of these cliffs. They rupture abruptly at water’s edge, broken off as if in midsentence. If one is careful and has a good head for heights, one might perch precariously at cliff’s edge and peer over the side, spotting the dark shadows that hint at caves forgot since the start of mankind. But tarry too long and it seems the earth shifts under the feet, crumbling away like so much demerara sugar. It is easy to lose one’s head and succumb to giddiness, and as we approached the edge, Merryweather looked a trifle unwell.
“Are you quite all right?” I enquired.
“Entirely,” he said.
“For a clergyman, you are frightfully mendacious,” I told him. “You are positively green, Merryweather. Have you a poor head for heights?”
He looked abashed. “I am afraid so.”
I drew a flask from under my skirts. I offered it to him and he pulled in a long sip, swallowing, then gasping, choking, and heaving all at once. I thumped him hard upon the back until he regained his breath. His complexion had turned from green to a violent shade of pink.
“Not water,” he managed in a broken voice.
“Certainly not. Aguardiente,” I explained. “It is a refined spirit from the sugarcane plant. Potent but effective for restoring the nerve. Already you look much improved. Would you care for more?”
He reared back like a frightened pony and waved me off. “Thank you, no.” His voice was still hoarse but he managed to stand. “I am quite recovered. I think I saw stars for a moment,” he added, blinking furiously.
“Yes, it can have that effect.” I tucked the flask back into place and found him regarding me with a lively interest.
“You are an extraordinary lady, Miss Speedwell,” he said.
I held up a hand. “I am on a first-name basis with the rest of your family and see no reason for formality amongst friends, Merryweather.”
“Veronica,” he said, with one of his charming blushes. “It is difficult to make new friends here. I am glad to think of you as one.”
“You do not much care for being a vicar, do you?” I enquired as we began to stroll. I made certain to keep myself between Merry and the edge of the cliff path. Where we walked, the path was bordered by a grassy verge some feet from the brink of the precipice, and the footing was sound enough.
Merry shrugged. “One has no choice in such things.”
“No choice! You speak like a Russian serf. You are not tied to the land, you know. You have two strong arms and a strong back. You have a reasonable intellect, one presumes, as well as the advantage of youth. The world is yours for the taking.”
“But take it where? I have been educated for this,” he said, tugging at his dog collar. “I am fit for nothing else.”
“Feathers,” I said firmly. Merryweather, like so many born into the noble class, had little imagination and less initiative. But liberating him from his torpor could wait. We had come to a section of the cliffs which looked as though a giant had bitten a piece away, leaving a long curve edging inland. A landslide had happened here, I realised, carrying away part of the path itself. Some distance from the edge, a pair of wooden posts had been knocked in, flanking the path. Between them stretched a heavy chain, thick with rust, and a painted notice, the edges peeling away from the salt-laden winds. danger.
“That is where the cliff collapsed,” Merryweather told me. “When I was a child. It happened when Tiberius was having friends to stay—you must know, the people he has invited for this house party. It is a reunion of those who were here then.”
The sea was louder here, as if the sheared-away cliff cupped it, amplifying the sound and sending it up to where we stood.
“There was a fossil, was there not?” I asked, stretching on tiptoe. I could see nothing. The notice was some six feet from the edge, and even as I stood there, I observed a tiny ripple of pebbles as the ground shifted. They shivered and then disappeared as a minute portion of the cliff fell away.
Merry grabbed my arm and pulled me several feet further back. “I am sorry, but it is not safe. When Father had the notice put up, it was some twenty feet from the edge. Every year more of it slides down into the sea.” He shifted and raised his gaze to the sky. “The autumn storms will come, bringing heavy wind and rain, soaking the earth and causing the ground to crumble away. And that is when the situation is most unstable.”
He looked distinctly uncomfortable, so I allowed him to lead me up to safer ground. A boulder had shrugged itself free of the earth, making a sort of rustic seat, and we scrambled up to perch atop it.
“St. Frideswide the Lesser’s chair,” he said.
“And who is St. Frideswide the Lesser?” I asked. “Besides patroness of your church.”
“A Saxon lady of gentle, some say even royal birth,” he told me, his hair ruffled by the sea breezes. “Not to be confused with the original St. Frideswide, of course.”
“Of course. What makes this your St. Frideswide’s chair?”
“Legend says St. Frideswide had become a Christian, unlike the rest of her family, who remained firmly pagan. Her father arranged a marriage for her with another Saxon lord, who refused to permit Frideswide to practice her faith. Frideswide came here and sat upon this rock and said she would not be moved until her intended husband promised to allow her to do as she pleased. Naturally, her father and brothers and prospective husband thought it would be a simple matter to carry her off the rock and to the church to be wed.”
“Naturally.”
“But when they came, they found that none of them could shift her. It was as though God himself had bound her to the seat. For six days and nights she sat, taking no food, no water, and resisting all attempts to remove her. One by one, the menfolk gave up, all except the would-be bridegroom, who insisted he would be master in his own house and that Frideswide would bend the knee to him.”
He paused for dramatic effect. “But on the seventh day, his strength broken, the bridegroom gave in. He promised Frideswide she should do as she wished, and instantly he made his vow, the rock released her and she went happily into his arms. To this day, folk around here believe that if a woman sits upon St. Frideswide’s seat before her intended, she will be master in her own house.”
“And if a woman does not wish to marry?” I asked archly.
He grinned. “Then I believe she does not need St. Frideswide’s help in the first place.” I smiled back before turning to the panorama before us.
“What a marvellous view!” I exclaimed. Sea and sky met at a single dark line on the horizon and the world seemed to fall away as we sat there under the scudding clouds. The wind whipped and gulls cried, diving for fish as the whitecaps rose.
“Before we spoke of St. Frideswide, you asked about a fossil,” Merry said. “It was a Megalosaurus. The largest ever found on this coast—or in the world, I am told.”
“But it was later lost, was it not?”
He nodded. “Along with one of the guests at Tiberius’ house party. An Italian fellow—I don’t remember much of that time. I was very young, you understand. But I remember Lorenzo.”
“Do you indeed? Why?”
He paused as if groping for words. “He was kind to me. He had a sort of toy he used to carry in his pocket—a bit of card tied between two pieces of string. One side of the card had an illustration of a bird, the other a cage. When he spun it between his fingers, it looked as if the bird were actually inside the cage. I thought it magic,” he said with a nostalgic smile.
“A thaumatrope!” I exclaimed. “I had one as a child. Only mine had a butterfly on one side and a net on the other. Quite appropriate, as it turned out, given my chosen occupation. What happened to yours?”
“Oh, it was not mine. He bought it to take home to his little sister. But he was kind enough to oblige anytime I asked him to show it to me. He was generous like that. Always doing things for other people. At least that is what I remember. I don’t even recall what his voice sounded like or the features of his face. But I do recall how he made me feel.”
“And that was?” I prodded gently.
“Important. Fourth sons are rarely noticed,” he added with a rueful smile.
“Neither are orphan girls,” I replied.
“I am sorry,” he said instantly. “I did not know.”
