Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood
1: The Banker
AUGUST
Peter Winslade descended gingerly from the coach, brushing the worst of the dust from his coat, and looked about the yard of the Cross Keys Inn at Astley Cloverstone. The swaying of the coach had made him rather nauseous, but it was still a jolly adventure to ride on top, watching the fields and woods and villages go by. There had been something of a breeze up there, too, which he would not have obtained from an interior seat. Nevertheless, it was pleasant to stop moving at last, to see his boxes being unstrapped, to know that this time the coach would leave without him. He had arrived.
The ostler’s eyes slid past him as he led the spent horses away to the stables, and he moved on. Then he saw the name on Peter’s box as it was handed down and stopped, turning to look more closely.
“Mr Winslade? Lord, sir, ain’t seen you this many a year. You’re quite a stranger.”
“It cannot be Tommy, can it? Gracious me, you were only this high when I last saw you. How are you? And your sister — Mary, is it?”
“We’re fine, sir, and thank ’ee kindly fer askin’. Hoy, Billy! See to these horses, will ’ee? Well now, sir, ’tis right kind o’ you to come, even though you’ve missed the funeral.”
“Funeral?” Peter said in alarm.
“Aye, Mrs Winslade was took… oh, almost a month past, now, poor lady.”
“Dear me. I had no idea.”
“She were very sick. Carriage ain’t here yet, Mr Winslade.”
“Oh, they are not expecting me at the Manor, so they will not have sent the carriage.”
“Well, give me ten minutes to see the coach away and they horses properly settled, and I’ll run you up in the cart wi’ your boxes.”
“Thank you, but I shall walk, I think. It is such a warm day, a stroll beside the river will be most refreshing.”
He shook more dust off his hat, replaced it and then set off at a brisk pace, his cane tapping rhythmically. The stage coach overtook him just before the bridge, clattering off in a cloud of dust towards Great Maeswood and on towards Shrewsbury. Peter coughed, brushed the new film of dust from his coat and turned onto the river path.
Three days ago, he had left behind the smoking chimneys and foul air of Leeds, so hot he could scarcely breathe. Three days of lurching about on the roofs of slow-moving cross-country stage coaches, of waiting hours in noisy, sweltering inns for the next cheap coach to arrive, of snatching a few hours sleep on a bench. Quite an adventure!
Now he was back in sleepy rural Shropshire, the trees rustling above his head providing him with blessed shade. By his side, the Wooller River burbled gently over the pebbles, although without much energy at this time of year. Three coots paddled industriously upstream and disappeared into the reeds.
When he came to the wooden bridge, where there was a patch of shingle edging the water, Peter bent down to scoop water into his hands, drinking thirstily and then splashing his face. It helped a little to refresh him as he left the water behind and began the long, slow climb to the house, emerging in a short time at the bottom of the deer park. The heat was fierce as he strolled through the meadow, swinging his cane jauntily. He was almost at his destination.
Cloverstone Manor was a fine old building in the Jacobean style, with mullioned windows and elaborate chimneys outside, the interior a maze of dark-paneled rooms, and all of it expensive to maintain. Peter would never say so to his cousin, but he was secretly very glad there had never been any possibility of it coming to him.
He rang the front door bell and waited. And waited. Twice more he rang, and eventually the door creaked open a notch, and a very elderly butler peered out. Heavens, was that Binns? How frail he had grown.
“Yes?” Binns said.
“Is the squire at home?”
“I will enquire, sir. What name shall I give?”
“Tell him his cousin Peter is here to see him.”
Binns started. “Mr Peter? Is it you? Come in, sir. Come in at once.” He opened the door wide and ushered Peter into the hall. “Are the grooms dealing with your horse, sir? Or your carriage?”
“No horse or carriage, Binns. It is Binns, is it not? I walked up from the village, and my boxes will follow.”
“I will ask Mrs Cobbett to prepare a room for you, sir.” He nodded to a footman standing in the shadows. “Robert, pray inform the master that his cousin, Mr Peter, is awaiting him in the book room. This way, sir, if you please.”
Peter followed the butler at the excruciatingly slow pace that seemed to be all the fellow could manage. After what felt like half an hour of long galleries, stairs, then more meandering galleries, he was shown into a room that might once have been a cosy, masculine apartment, but was now a scene of devastation. Every surface was covered with newspapers, opened letters and scraps of paper, with abandoned glasses and decanters half buried in the debris. Peter shuddered. Three pointers dozing on a sofa looked up with interest as he entered the room, only to lay their heads down again almost at once. The butler pointed out a decanter and what might once have been a clean glass, and then withdrew.
On the mantle, a clock ticked mournfully, measuring out the seconds. One of the dogs rose, turned round, settled again. Through the open window a gardener could be heard industriously clipping something. Snip… snip… snip…
The door was thrown open, and there was John, looking not a day older and just as stylishly dressed. A warm smile lit his face, and Peter could only hope the smile would stay in place, for all his hopes depended on it now.
“Peter! My dear fellow! What a wonderful surprise after all these years! Whatever brings you to our little backwater, eh?”
Too soon to answer that. “I was so very sorry to hear about Mrs Winslade,” Peter said. “I knew nothing of it until I heard at the Cross Keys just now. How you must feel it, Cousin!”
“Oh… yes, poor Lilian. Of course, she was very ill. Consumption, you see. She barely left her room these last two or three years.”
“Consumption is an evil thing,” Peter said. “At least her suffering is at an end, so you have that comfort.”
“Yes… yes, of course. A great comfort. Peter, I am so very glad to see you, but I am this minute leaving for Bath. Henry and I are going to… recover our spirits a little, you know how it is. A change of scenery and air, new faces… it will do us a world of good.”
That was a setback. His disappointment must have shown in his face, for John went on at once, “But that need not affect your plans. Stay here if you wish, and see all your old friends. Susannah is here, for a few weeks anyway, until she marries.”
“I had supposed she must have married long since,” Peter said, distracted by this news. How out of touch he was! But he had been so frantic these last few weeks that he had ignored his mail.
“No, no, quite an old maid, we all thought, but along came a new physician over at Great Maeswood, and there we are. So you are very welcome to stay here. Or come to Bath, if you wish.”
Peter laughed. “No, no, a repairing lease in the country will suit me very well.”
“Repairing lease? Not in the basket, surely, Peter? I thought the bank was doing well.”
“So it was.” He sighed, tried to find some light-hearted way to speak of it and failed. “The bank is gone, Cousin. Failed. Smashed. I am done for. Once the house is sold, it will cover all the debts, I hope, but there will be nothing left. I am come to throw myself on your mercy and beg for your charity — a roof over my head while I regroup and look about me for some employment. A temporary home, that is all. I will not inflict myself on you for a day longer than necessary.”
“In God’s name, Peter, never talk about charity to me. You are family, so of course you may stay. You have been a stranger to us for far too long. Make this your home for as long as your wish — for ever, if you like. I shall be glad of the company, to tell the truth, because Henry is too restless by half to sit and talk to his father, and Susannah will soon be taking her conversation away from me, and it will be more comfortable for you than joining that sister of yours in Turkey or Africa or wherever she went.”
“Persia, last I heard,” Peter said, amused. “Which was five years ago. No, I shall not be troubling Josephine.”
The squire chuckled. “She always was eccentric. But the house — it must be sold? There is no alternative? I thought you were too wily a man to lose your money. Not like me, eh? I frittered most of mine away, but you were always the prudent one of the family. Have a drink. You must need it. Brandy? Where is the tray? Oh, never mind, this glass will do.”
He half filled an empty glass and pushed it into Peter’s hand, although it was the last thing he needed. He had not eaten since last night, and he was too light-headed with hunger for spirits. He took a polite sip, and hoped John would not press him further. Topping up a half-full glass for himself, John pushed the dogs off the sofa and waved Peter to a seat.
“Now, tell me all about it.”
He was a good listener, Peter had to give him that. Considering that he was practically out of the door on his way to Bath, he made no effort to rush the story, not interrupting at all, and Peter found himself spilling out the whole, foolish tale. How he and his partner, Kenneth Linch, had built their banking business by means of small loans secured by land to local farmers and mill owners. How Linch had become friendly with Lord Silberry, a personable man with a fine estate, who wanted to borrow a larger amount, but unsecured. He could not underwrite it with the estate since it was entailed, but he would repay it from his tenants’ rents and agreed to a high interest rate. Peter had not wanted to do it, for it went against all their principles, but Linch had persuaded him, and for a year or two, all was well. Silberry paid the interest due, and although the ship he had been long expecting from India, which would pay off the principal, was delayed, he could still meet the interest payments. But then the harvest was bad, and rents were poor and he could not pay in full, and the next two quarters he paid nothing at all. Gradually funds at the bank began to dwindle and then…
“You know how it is,” Peter said. “It only takes one person to get wind of a problem and everyone was at our door wanting their money at once, and no bank can survive that.”
“And this Lord Silberry gets off scot-free, I suppose?” John said. “That is not right, not right at all.”
“The fault was ours for accepting the loan,” Peter said, gently. “We took a gamble, and lost. It was very wrong of us.”
The door burst open and a handsome young man rushed in. Henry, Peter presumed. The son and heir. Carelessly dressed, and with the slightly arrogant swagger so common to men of that age. He was four and twenty, and Peter was only fourteen years older, but he felt like a grandfather by comparison.
“Father, the carriage is at the door.”
“Yes, yes, but make your bow to Cousin Peter, who is to make a stay at the Manor for a while. I hope he will still be here when we return from Bath.”
Henry bowed and said all that was proper. His manners were good, anyway. Then his father chased him away to supervise the loading of the luggage.
“I am sorry to leave you so abruptly, but all the arrangements are made — changes of horses, overnight stays, and so on.”
“Of course you must go. Cousin, I cannot begin to express my gratitude for—”
“Tush to all that. Family, remember? You would do the same for me in a heartbeat. Not another word about gratitude.”
“It goes against the grain, but it shall be as you wish. But how may I make myself useful while you are gone? Is there anything you wish me to do to repay your hospitality?”
“Stay here until I return, that is all I ask. I shall be back in a month or so, in time for Susannah’s wedding and the Michaelmas ball.”
“You will not hold a ball, so soon after Lilian’s death?” Peter said, shocked.
“Oh… well, not perhaps quite as we usually do, but there must be some celebration for the wedding, you know. One must acknowledge the occasion, although how I am to pay for it… Peter, you are good with money. Do you think you could get my accounts into some semblance of order?”
Peter laughed and shook his head in bemusement. “Cousin, I am the man whose bank crashed, remember? And you want me to deal with your accounts?”
“Well, someone needs to, and it is beyond my ability.” He waved a hand vaguely to encompass the piles of paper heaped everywhere. “Will you? Have a look at them, anyway. Look, the keys to everything are here. See if there is anything in this house worth selling, just to get my head above water again. I do so hate having to watch the pennies. If you find anything, you can keep a tenth of whatever it makes. No, no, I insist. You must be properly rewarded. But if you think it will be too difficult—”
“No, I should enjoy it, and I will certainly look for anything that may be sold. May I talk to your banker and attorney? I shall need letters of authority from you.”
“Very well. Let me see if I can find ink and a working pen, for it is astonishing how things disappear. Never to hand when one wants them.”
It took ten minutes to locate them, and a matter of seconds for John to dash off a letter ‘To whom it may concern, My cousin Mr Peter Winslade is acting as my agent. John Winslade’ on the back of a tailor’s bill.
And then he was gone, and Peter was alone. The dogs rose as one and reclaimed their places on the sofa.
~~~~~
Peter had a home, he had work to keep him busy and he had a full belly, too, for the housekeeper, Mrs Cobbett, splendid woman that she was, had caused a tray of cold meat, bread and cheese to be placed in his room, with a jug of ale to wash it down. Thus fortified, washed and changed into clean clothes already arrived from the inn and bestowed neatly in presses and drawers, he had two hours to pass before dinner. Time for a walk.
The larger village of Great Maeswood, the centre of the parish, was no more than two miles away as the crow flies, and a pleasant walk it was too for a man with sturdy legs and an energetic nature. Peter walked back across the deer park, across the river and along a leafy lane between fields already cleared of their crops. No one was about in the village, for it was the hour when the working people were at their dinner, so he walked down the road and through the lych gate without meeting a soul.
St Ann’s church was like a thousand other churches in small, rural parishes — modestly sized, unadorned, undistinguished. A few marble plaques on the wall testified to the piety of a succession of Saxbys and Gages and Ramsbottoms and Platts. A wooden board recorded in gold paint the names of the parsons, from John Wilmott in 1484 to the recent names of Sherrington, Cokely, Lancaster and Truman, the latter’s paint shiny and new.
Peter found a pew near the pulpit and knelt down to express his gratitude to God for his good fortune in his cousin, whose charity had undoubtedly saved him from the work house. He had not got very far when he heard a door open and close, and someone entered the church from the vestry, humming softly. A woman, he thought. He tried to continue his prayers, but the humming was of just that level that is almost but not quite inaudible, and impossible to ignore. Smiling, for whatever she was doing she was happy about it, he rose from his knees and sat on the seat. Closing his eyes, he listened to the tune, trying to work out what it was.
The humming stopped. Quick steps came down the aisle, closer and closer, and a face peeped over the pew wall. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said, in a softly melodious voice. “I heard a noise and thought it was one of the Preece boys hiding from his mother again. I was just about to box your ears.”
A woman of about his own age, drably dressed, with a little froth of a lace cap but no wedding ring on the hand resting on the pew wall. A middle-aged spinster, then.
“I have not had my ears boxed these twenty years or more,” he said, laughing. “What were you humming? I could not quite make it out.”
“Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”, she said. “I do so love the Christmas songs, and that one seems to go so well with my polishing.”
“What are you polishing?”
“The brass and silver.”
“May I help?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?”
“Perfectly. I enjoy polishing and I also enjoy the Christmas songs, so I cannot imagine a more perfect occupation.”
She found him another cloth and they polished and hummed and then sang all the Christmas songs they could think of, until he turned to her and said, “What next?” and she said, with surprise in her tone, “Everything is done, and in half the usual time. Thank you very much, stranger, although… I feel I should know you. Have we ever been introduced?”
“Probably, a long time ago. I have not been here for more than fifteen years - almost twenty. I am Squire Winslade’s cousin, Peter Winslade.”
“Oh, the banker! I know you now. I am Miss Beasley. Phyllida Beasley.”
“Ah, Dr Beasley’s sister. I remember. How delightful to meet you again, Miss Beasley, and under such charming circumstances. Alas, you are out of date, however. My bank is no more.” A hesitation, but it could not be kept secret. “It failed.”
“Oh no! How dreadful! Whatever went wrong?”
She was so sympathetic and interested and horrified and angry on his behalf that he told her not just the bare bones of it, but the very worst of it, too. “Ten employees at the bank are now out of work, not to mention my own servants — six of them, and my partner was in worse case. He has a wife and five children who are now scattered amongst three or four relations, and a dozen servants let go, and I do not know when they will find work again. One never minds for oneself, you see, but one’s dependents find themselves cast into darkness through no fault of their own. Mrs Linch and the children — blameless. The servants — quite blameless. Yet there they are, wondering how on earth they will manage this coming winter.”
“But you have lost more than they have,” she said, leaning forward eagerly. They were sitting in the Saxby family pew, plush with rugs and cushions and hangings against a stray draught, where lay the final brass they had polished. “A servant with good references will always find employment again, but you have lost your business, your income, the house you inherited from your father… everything!”
“Not everything,” he said, with a smile. “I have my health and strength. I have my mind, such as it is. I was very fortunate to have a house to sell to discharge all my debts, otherwise I should have ended in a debtors’ prison or the work house. I should certainly have been bankrupt. And I am very blessed indeed to have a good, kind cousin who offers me a home for as long as I want it, and something to do, to keep me busy — I am to put his accounts in order, if you please. I came directly here to thank God for my good fortune.”
“You call it good fortune to be expected to set Squire Winslade’s accounts in order?” she said, her face alight with merriment. “Most people would regard it as a penance.”
“It is a new adventure, Miss Beasley.”
“You have an odd definition of adventure, Mr Winslade.”
“Ah, but you see, all of life is an adventure, Miss Beasley. Life itself is the adventure.”
“Is it so?” she breathed, smiling at him with clear, dark eyes, and he felt something shift inside him. Some dark, hidden spot that had been frozen for half a lifetime had started to melt.