Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood
10: The Road North
They were three days on the road to Leeds, and Phyllida hated every moment of the journey. She was overwhelmed by echoes of her previous fraught journey north and guilty about leaving home at all, and even the cheerful company of Charu in the carriage was not enough to assuage her worries.
The stickiest moment was explaining her departure to Roland.
“Why does it have to be you?” he said plaintively. “Surely some other female could be found.”
“I have been working with Mr Winslade on the matter, so I know something of it already,” Phyllida said, an excuse they had all agreed upon.
“Now, Dr Beasley, I shall be coming over every day to ensure that you have everything you need for your comfort,” Susannah said, for she had gone with Phyllida to persuade Dr Beasley to let her go. “The gamekeeper has venison and partridge, if you would like me to bring some for you.”
“Partridge, eh? I am rather partial to partridge. What is that sauce I like, Phyllida?”
“Bechamel, dear. Mrs Shinn knows the way of it.”
It was exactly as Susannah had forecast — so long as he was assured of his meals served just as he liked them, he had no objection to her going at all. Oddly, this was not reassuring. Viola Gage was dealt with even more straightforwardly by way of a short note, to be delivered only after Phyllida was already on the road north.
Then Phyllida had nothing to do but sit in the carriage for endless hours, Charu chattering away beside her, and worry inwardly about all that she had left behind. Would Roland be looked after in her absence? Was Viola angry with her? Who would polish the church brasses and silver, and make sure the sick had enough beef broth, and the poor had woollen socks?
There were some elements of the journey that were very pleasant, however. The carriage was remarkably comfortable, and sometimes, in the heat of the afternoon, she even managed to sleep a little. Taylor was a careful and gentle coachman, giving his passengers no cause for alarm. And Mr Winslade — or Peter, as she must now accustom herself to calling him in public — was remarkably efficient. Whenever they stopped for a change of horses, there was a parlour made available, with food and drink and efficient servants, in a way that even Aunt Margery had never quite managed. When they stopped for the night, there was a pleasant room for herself and Charu, and a good dinner served. Peter seemed to know the best inns even before they arrived in a town, so there was no driving up and down and around trying to determine the best of them, as with Aunt Margery, wondering whether one inn was quiet because the rooms were bad, or a more popular one would be rowdy, or the one tucked away down a pleasant side street would leave them prone to pickpockets.
Phyllida had to admit that if she had not known the truth, she would never have suspected that Peter was not the superior footman he purported to be. His accent was softened, his demeanour was precisely right, and even his clothes, slightly shabby but of good quality, fitted his new rôle. Only when they all sat down for dinner together and the servants withdrew did he once again become the gentleman she had come to know and like so much.
Still, she was growing to like Peter the footman just as much. He was always respectful and deferential in public, and somehow the loosely-tied neckcloth, which revealed an enticing hint of throat, made him look even more handsome. Not that he had the striking good looks of some men — Dr Broughton, say, or Mr Malcolm Gage — but he had such a pleasant face, always smiling and with intelligence shining in his eyes. He was such a warm-hearted person that it was quite impossible to be downhearted when he was by.
On the third day of travel, when the plains of Cheshire and the dreadful roads of southern Lancashire had at last given way to the wilder country of the West Riding and its industrial towns, Phyllida’s worries about her brother and Viola, and how they might be managing without her, yielded to the greater worry of her meeting with the Lady Wilhelmina Leggatt. They stopped for a short time at a very poor inn in Lofthouse, to refresh themselves before continuing to Leggatt House a little further on. There was no parlour available, but the coffee room was almost empty at that time of day, with only a couple of elderly men playing draughts in the corner.
Peter came in grinning widely. “Look at this!” He held up a sixpence. “I helped a lady with her luggage and she paid me for my trouble. I like being a footman, I think. Perhaps I shall take it up permanently. Twenty guineas a year with board and livery, and vails sometimes — what could be more comfortable?”
Phyllida laughed. “I truly believe you would be perfectly happy with such a life. Do you never grow discontented with your lot?”
For an instant, the smile slipped a fraction, but he recovered almost at once. “What purpose would it serve? There is always much to be thankful for. Is the coffee good?”
“It is… drinkable,” Phyllida said. “Shall I take some out to Taylor? He will not want to leave the carriage.”
“He will have had some ale in the yard, I expect.”
“I shall go and see,” Charu said, bouncing up and dashing from the room.
“She makes me tired just watching her,” Phyllida said. “So much energy!”
“Does her chatter wear you out?” Peter said.
“Not at all, and if ever I wish for a rest, I have only to close my eyes for a while.”
“But I am not sure that you are enjoying your adventure,” he said quietly.
She sighed. “As to that, I cannot say. The travelling itself is very pleasant, for you have managed everything so well that I have not been uncomfortable for a moment, but… I worry so about Roland, and Viola, too, and Dr Broughton and even Matilda. She is the kitchen maid and it is uncharitable of me to say so, but a stupider girl never lived. Ever since the new groom arrived at the Grove, she has been mooning about after him and loitering after church and finding any excuse to go looking for him, and I swear he has never even noticed her. His eye is on the new chambermaid at the Boar’s Head, seemingly, although I have never seen her, for she never goes to church, but Viola says she is too pretty to be a chambermaid. Poor Matilda! She drives Mrs Shinn wild for she is forever dropping things and causing Mrs Shinn extra work. I used to be able to smooth everyone’s feelings and keep the kitchen on an even keel, but now—! The worst aspect of travelling, Mr Winslade, is that there is altogether too much time for thinking about things.”
“And worrying,” he said, with that smile that always lifted her spirits. “Would it be of any use to point out to you that it will be very good for all these people to manage without you for a while? They have come to depend on you and impose on your good nature, and it will do them no harm to cope by themselves for a while. We will receive letters from home at Leeds, and that will reassure you, I trust, and perhaps you will worry less and enjoy yourself more.”
She took a sip of coffee, then pulled a face. “Ugh. I withdraw my assertion that this is drinkable. Perhaps I will worry less but…” She sighed, and then smiled. “The trouble with you, Mr Winslade, is that you are all too easy to talk to. I shall tell you what concerns me and you will tell me I am being foolish, and then we shall speak of it no more. This is only the second long journey I have undertaken in my life, and the first… well, you know about that. This one should be very different, but there are so many reminders. We are travelling on the same roads, and although the inns are not precisely the same, for Aunt Margery had a dreadful knack of picking the very worst inn in every town, there are enough similarities to bring back all the bad memories. I have tried so very hard to push it all to the very bottom of my mind, but… but now I cannot and I feel just as ashamed and just as wicked as on that journey, too.”
She fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief, but he was there before her, proffering one of his own. “Cry if you wish, and if Charu returns we shall just say you are overcome with nerves regarding this meeting with Lady Wilhelmina. Dear Miss Beasley, I wish with all my heart that I could convince you that you are the very opposite of wicked. The mistakes of our youth should not haunt us indefinitely and weigh us down. They are lessons to be learnt, that is all, so that we may grow and mature and become wiser, better people. We have all done dreadful things in the past, and I should certainly not like to be judged by my actions from years ago. I had my wicked moments as a boy. I once tried to kill my brother.”
That startled a choked laugh out of Phyllida. “No! Surely not.”
“It is quite true. Richard was just two years older than me, so we were thrown together a great deal, which we both enjoyed, but he never made any allowance for my shorter legs or lesser strength. I was forever getting left behind or falling over, and getting into trouble for it, and he never made the least push to help. He told me I was an infernal nuisance, and he wished he could lose me permanently. We were typical brothers, I daresay. One day, we were climbing up an embankment, quite a steep cliff, and I asked him to give me a hand over a particularly tricky part. He just laughed, and climbed ahead of me, deliberately scuffing dirt into my face as he did so. I was consumed by a murderous rage, Miss Beasley. In that moment, I truly hated him and wanted him dead. I reached up and grabbed his ankle, which was just within my reach, and yanked it so hard that he slipped and bounced the whole way down the cliff.”
She gasped. “Was he… did he…? Was he much injured?”
“At first, I thought I truly had killed him, for he lay there at the bottom all in a heap, not moving at all. But then he started to laugh, and jumped up. There was barely a scratch on him, which possibly annoyed me more than all the rest. I felt, quite irrationally, I am sure you will agree, that since I had tried to kill him he should at least have had the grace to be injured. It was quite some time before I came to appreciate my good fortune, for if he had landed awkwardly he could have broken his neck, I suppose.”
“That was indeed a close escape. But was he very angry with you?”
“Not in the least. In fact, he admitted that he had probably deserved it, which was handsome of him, and we got on better after that.”
“But what did your parents say about it?”
“Good heavens, we never told them! Richard may have behaved shabbily towards a pest of a younger brother when we were alone, but we were united against the rest of the world. I hated him sometimes, but he was my very best friend too, and I never tried to kill him again. I certainly thought about it, and when he had been especially horrible to me, I lay awake at night dreaming up the most hideous ways I could think of for murdering him, but I never actually tried it again. I like to think that brief flash of violence showed me what I needed to do to grow up and attain some degree of civilisation.”
“How old were you when this happened?” she said.
“Five… six… I am not sure.”
“Just a child, then.”
“Exactly so,” he said with a pleased smile. “I am not the same person I was then, just as you are not the same person you were at eighteen. We are not defined forever by our youthful mistakes, Miss Beasley. They are but a small part of who we are. Ah, here is Charu back. Shall we gird our loins, Miss Beasley, and tackle the Lady Wilhelmina Leggatt?”
Leggatt House was barely a half mile away, the entrance marked by high gateposts topped with lions rampant, and a substantial lodge house nearby, but the gates stood open, so they bowled through and up the winding drive. At the front door, Peter hopped down from the box — he was remarkably agile! — and took her card to the grey-clad housekeeper who answered the door. The housekeeper disappeared inside, returning soon after with a nod to Peter, who opened the carriage door for Phyllida and then impassively handed her down.
“Thank you, Peter,” she said, in her most imperious tones. He was such a convincing footman that he made it easy for her to slip into her rôle as wealthy spinster, travelling with her three servants. The clothes helped, too. Just as on that memorable evening after she and Peter had fallen through the attic floor, dressing up in Lilian Winslade’s elegant clothes transformed mousy Miss Beasley into someone else altogether. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a different person, and when she walked about in silks and delicate muslins, fine wool pelisses and Kashmir shawls, and oh, the most ravishing bonnets, she felt, and could not help herself from acting, like a lady.
She glided up the steps and followed the housekeeper into a cavernous tiled hall, and directly across it to a pair of double doors. A maid opened one of the doors, and the housekeeper led the way into the room beyond.
“Miss Beasley, milady.”
Phyllida felt as if she had fallen back to her youth, arriving at Whitfield Villa for the first time, for this room was furnished in exactly the same style, with the heavy wooden furniture popular in Queen Anne’s day. The walls were panelled, the floor was bare wood stained black, and the windows were uncurtained. Even the paintings covering every inch of wall were dark and gloomy, with not a bit of colour to be seen.
There were three ladies watching her enter, seated in a semi-circle in the centre of the room, as carefully arranged as if they were sitting for their portraits to be painted. They wore the vivid brocade sack gowns of fifty years ago, the skirts wide and open at the front to show the decorative underskirt, with long trains artfully draped. Multiple lace flounces ornamented their sleeves and artificial fruit hung from high wigs. Their faces were powdered and rouged, and Phyllida thought she had never seen anything so grotesque.
The housekeeper brought forward a fourth chair, placing it so as to complete the circle, and then withdrew. Phyllida made a respectful curtsy, and then, when none of the ladies spoke, made the assumption that the elderly woman in the centre holding a pug was her ladyship.
“Thank you so much for receiving me, Lady Wilhelmina.” She was encouraged by a tiny inclination of the woman’s head to continue, so she sat down. “I am here to talk to you about the Leggatt Mining Company, of which I believe you are the principal owner.”
“Sole owner,” the woman hissed, leaning forward angrily, so that the pug yelped.
That was a setback. “Sole owner? That is curious, for I have here a certificate showing that my neighbour, Squire John Winslade, holds a partial share in the company and—”
“Nonsense!” The pug whined and wriggled from Lady Wilhelmina’s lap. “I am the sole owner, and have been for many years.”
“Oh.” Phyllida was puzzled, but she could hardly turn tail at this first setback. Unlike most of the squire’s holdings, this company still existed and he had at one time had a share in it, so something must have happened to change that. “Was the squire’s share bought, perhaps?”
“How should I know?”
An easy question to answer. “Because if you now own the whole company, you, or a previous owner, must have bought out all the other investors.”
A long silence, as her ladyship regarded Phyllida through narrowed eyes. “Francesca, the book.”
“Yes, my lady.” The woman to her left, wearing an orange gown and purple stomacher, a combination that made Phyllida’s eyes water, swished out of the room, her train trailing behind her. The rigidity of the hooped gown was alien, but there was something regal about the posture it engendered. Impossible to droop in such an outfit.
Francesca — Miss Pilling, Phyllida remembered from the letter — returned after several minutes holding a large ledger inscribed ‘The Leggatt Mining Company’. Lady Wilhelmina opened it and thumbed through the pages.
“No one called… what was the name?”
“Winslade, Lady Wilhelmina,” Phyllida said.
“No such owner.”
“But I have the certificate.”
“No such owner. Ever.”
There was no possible response to such a statement that stayed within the bounds of civility. Phyllida rose, smoothed her skirts and left without a word, striding across the entrance hall, her half-boots clip-clipping on the tiles, and down the steps. Peter jumped to attention to open the carriage door for her, raising one eyebrow at her stormy countenance. The carriage swayed as he mounted to the box, then they were in motion.
By the time the carriage pulled up, perhaps a quarter mile down the road, Phyllida’s temper had cooled slightly, but even so, when Peter climbed in to sit beside Charu, he laughed and said, “My goodness, Miss Beasley, whatever did her ladyship say that has you so outraged?”
“Her ladyship,” she hissed, “claims that there is no record of the squire ever owning any part of the Leggatt Mining Company, even though I have a perfectly valid certificate that says he did.” But when he laughed again, she said, “I wish you had seen her, Peter. She looked as if she had stepped out of a portrait from… oh, generations ago. A hooped dress, for heaven’s sake! Powder and rouge! A great wig with cherries in it! I have never seen anything like it. She is completely insane.”
He laughed even more. “Not to worry. I shall ask my attorney what he knows about it. Miss Beasley, should you mind terribly if we stop again a little further on? We shall be passing the door of the house where my former partner, Mr Linch, is now living, and I should like to inform him that we shall be in town for a few days.”
“Your banker friend? Of course you must call on him. Shall we leave you with him, and carry on into Leeds? You have secured accommodation for us, so—”
“No, no! I shall not abandon you. I wish only to tell Linch that I will call on him again in a day or two.”
But this plan was thwarted immediately, and he returned to the carriage deep in thought.
“He is not here,” Peter said, chewing his lip distractedly. “His sister tells me that he is at Langridge Hall.”
“Langridge Hall?”
“Lord Silberry’s estate.”
“But… is not that the man who defaulted on his loan and broke your bank?” Phyllida cried. “Why is he there?”
“Silberry was in London when the crisis came. Now he has returned, and wishes to make amends. He has provided a house for Linch and his family on the estate, and employment as a steward. If I wish to see Linch, I must go there, I suppose.”
“Is it far?” she said.
“Not above five miles… rather less, I think. Shall you mind? It is a little out of the way, but we shall still be in Leeds and settled at the Golden Lion by five. Linch’s cottage is well away from the main house, so there is no risk of encountering Silberry himself.”
“Then by all means let us go,” she said.
He smiled, and climbed back onto the box, as the carriage lurched into motion. Phyllida was left to wonder at the situation — this lord had destroyed so many lives, yet now he appeared to be taking the rôle of benefactor. How confusing it all was!