Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood
16: Returning Home
The return journey passed in a haze of joy that nothing could dispel. Phyllida had not known that such happiness could exist. Did all newly married couples enjoy such bliss, or were she and Peter especially blessed? They rode together in the carriage, sometimes talking unstoppably and sometimes in companionable silence. As the day wore on, Phyllida would remove her bonnet and lean her head on Peter’s shoulder as they both slept. Charu sat outside on the footman’s seat beside Christian as they drove, her voice a constant murmur above their heads.
Phyllida gave no thought to their return to Great Maeswood. That was for some far off day in the future. For now, all she could think about was Peter and being married and the great bloom of happiness that welled constantly inside her. She could not have guessed, when she made her wild and hasty decision to marry, how well it would work out. She had thought only that it would break the last ties to the mousy spinster she no longer wished to be, and that it would bring a little sunshine into Peter’s life. She had not suspected that the sunshine would fall equally on her.
At Harrogate, Peter went to see Mr Beckford, the coach builder, and negotiated an amicable severance for Christian.
“Glad to see the back of me, I’ll bet,” Christian said cheerfully. He collected his tools and his few clothes, stowed them on top of the carriage and they swept on southwards.
When they arrived in Leeds, the news of the impromptu marriage stunned Lord Silberry into momentary silence. But then he burst out laughing. “Well, well, well! What a secretive pair you are, to give me not the least hint. But why did you not write, so that I might have had a feast prepared for you? We shall have champagne, at least, and the best the cellar can offer.”
That was a good evening, and the hot bath that arrived within an hour of their arrival was by no means the least of it, the first with plentiful hot water since they had left that house a week and a half ago. Phyllida luxuriated in the tub as housemaids toiled upstairs again and again with ewers of hot water, then allowed Charu to primp and titivate her as she pleased. Mr and Mrs Linch were invited for dinner, too, and Lord Silberry had enlisted a number of friends who could be summoned to help celebrate at short notice.
Phyllida was astonished to find that she and Peter were persons of some celebrity, the news of the discovery of the Bartwell paintings having found its way to the London newspapers and thence all over the country. Lord Silberry himself was too gentlemanly to question them closely on the matter, but his friends had no such restraint. Phyllida left it to Peter to describe such details as he chose to reveal in his own self-deprecating way, but it was amusing to hear herself lauded by the rapt audience as if she were some kind of heroine, instead of a rather clumsy woman who had accidentally fallen through rotten floorboards.
Fortunately, the subject had been largely exhausted before they went into dinner. Phyllida was seated beside a Mr Keely, a portly man who wore a voluminous wig, which he removed from time to time to scratch his bald head, replacing the wig slightly askew each time.
“Have you known Lord Silberry a long time, Mr Keely?” Phyllida said politely.
“Oh, for ever, my dear lady. Man and boy, don’t you know. He very kindly lets me shoot and hunt on his land, and I return the compliment by giving him tips for winners at York. Which he never takes up, I might add.”
“Perhaps he does not quite like to gamble,” Phyllida suggested.
“No, he is the dullest dog that ever breathed, that much is true. I cannot get him to take an interest in my investments any longer. He is grown so cautious of late. I have a cotton mill in Oldham just starting up, a coal mine near Barnsley and a cutlery manufactory in Sheffield. People will always want spoons, don’t you know. But he will have none of it.”
“Do you know much about coal mines?” Phyllida said. “Do you know of the Leggatt Mining Company?”
“Indeed I do, my dear lady. I know the owners.”
“Oh, so you are acquainted with the Lady Wilhelmina Leggatt?”
“Lady Wil? Ha! Haven’t seen her for years. A recluse, that’s what she is, and thoroughly deranged in the head, if you ask me. But she is not the owner of the Leggatt Mining Company. She owns the Leggatt Mine, you see. Different entity.”
“Oh! Then… then I have been misled!” Phyllida cried. “Peter’s cousin invested money in the Leggatt Mining Company years ago, and we have been trying to establish whether it is worth anything, but Lady Wilhelmina told me she was the sole owner.”
“Oh, she would, she would. It was all most unfortunate, for her father held the original company, which was just a single mine, and no doubt that was where your husband’s cousin’s investment went. The enterprise prospered, and new mines were added. When he died, he left it equally to all the children, but Lady Wil said it was hers and there was just such an ambiguity in the wording that it could be interpreted so. In the end, the rest of them let her have the Leggatt Mine, and they took the rest of the company, including the name. Most unfortunate, for the Leggatt Mine was the profitable part of the enterprise. But if you give me the cousin’s name, I shall enquire for you. See what I can find out, don’t you know, but do not get your hopes up, for Lady Wil had the best of it, and the rest got crumbs, mere crumbs.”
~~~~~
The procession that departed from Langridge Hall was an impressive one. Lord Silberry’s elegant travelling carriage, containing his lordship, Peter and Phyllida, led the way. Then the Winslade coach, containing Charu, Christian and his lordship’s secretary and valet. Then a luggage coach, and finally a wagon conveying all Peter’s goods. Four outriders rode alongside or went ahead to secure horses at staging posts, meals or rooms for overnight stays. It was the most luxurious journey conceivable, and even though the weather finally became more seasonable and wet, they suffered no inconvenience and made surprisingly good time.
On their second overnight stay, it so happened that Phyllida found herself alone in the parlour with Lord Silberry.
“Mrs Winslade,” he said, eyeing her benevolently as he toyed with his wine glass, “you were so kind as to listen to my maunderings on the subject of marriage not so long ago. Then you were a spinster, and of some years’ standing. Now, suddenly, you are a wife and perhaps will be a mother before long.”
“Oh no, surely not!” Phyllida said, shocked. “Not at my age.”
“You cannot be more than… oh, six and thirty, perhaps?”
“I am forty, sir.”
“Even so, it is still possible. It is a big change in your life. I trust you will forgive the curiosity of one who regards himself as a friend, if a recent one, and one who, moreover, has an interest in the subject under consideration, in light of our conversation. In short… what made you decide? Was it done in an instant, or did you consider it long and carefully? Were you, in fact, considering it when we talked? You said, as I recall, that one might simply reach a point in one’s life where one is ready for marriage and snaps up the first person who happens by, and reason has very little to do with it. Was it like that? And how did you know that you would be happy?”
She laughed. “So many questions! To answer the last point first, I think we are agreed that happiness cannot be guaranteed. You called it a leap in the dark, I believe. Even so, I felt very much that my chance of happiness was as great with Peter as it could possibly be. And…I was right about that.” She blushed slightly. “As to why I chose to take the plunge, I cannot answer with any degree of rational argument. All I can tell you is that when faced with the choice of marrying Peter or returning to my old life, a spinster still, Peter seemed to be the better future for me, for he is such a good man and a dear friend. He makes me feel as if I am capable of anything, and not merely a rather uninteresting middle-aged woman. And although your maunderings, as you call them, started me considering the road to matrimony, it was not until we arrived at the smithy near Jedburgh and the smith rushed out, all ready to marry us on the spot, that I made up my mind to do it.”
“Good heavens! Just like that? But how fascinating. Ah, Winslade, there you are. We have just been talking about you.”
“Shall I go out again?” Peter said, with a quick laugh. “I would not wish to hamper the conversation, and you can abuse me much more readily if I am not here.”
“There has been not the slightest abuse. Indeed, your charming bride has made me even more certain that you are a very lucky fellow.”
“I am the luckiest man alive,” Peter said, and as he gazed at Phyllida, his eyes were so afire with love that she blushed crimson, and had to look away.
~~~~~
Their arrival caused quite a stir at Cloverstone Manor. The house was full because of Susannah’s wedding a few days earlier, and the Michaelmas ball just two days away, but room must be found for so distinguished a guest as Lord Silberry.
The squire greeted Peter with open relief, too caught up in his own difficulties to express much surprise at their news.
“Thank God you are back, Cousin, and your marrying just at this time is most convenient,” he cried. “I shall be very glad to have your wife in the house, I give you my word, for we are all at sea since Susannah left. You must help me, both of you, for the servants keep coming to me with questions. As if I know about the linen cupboard or the still room! And now with your friend the viscount, and so many people wanting to see the Bartwell paintings. The tale has been in all the London newspapers, and I am inundated with requests to see them. People from the Royal Academy, for heaven’s sake! Here in my house! There is a platoon of them camped in the Winter Drawing Room as we speak, arranging and rearranging the paintings to display them to best advantage, and squabbling over it as if they were still in the nursery. I am at my wit’s end, Peter, and that is the truth of it.”
“Of course I will do what I can, and Phyllida will help, too,” Peter said.
“I must go to Great Maeswood to tell Roland,” Phyllida said fretfully. “I cannot let him hear it from anyone else.”
“Naturally you must go at once,” Peter said. “We can take the carriage and leave Charu at the Grove.”
“No, you stay and help the squire, and I shall be back in an hour.”
It was agreed, so Phyllida and Charu got back into the Winslade carriage, and drove the four miles to Great Maeswood. It was very odd to alight from the carriage at Whitfield Villa. It looked the same… and yet different. No, it was Phyllida herself who had changed. Now she was a stranger in her old home.
“No luggage, madam?” Thomas said, puzzled, seeing that Charu’s small box was the only one strapped on the back of the carriage.
“I am staying at the Manor,” she said. “The carriage will take Miss Gage back to the Grove and then return for me. Ah, Roland, there you are. I have news for you.”
Roland’s face lit up when he saw her. “Phyllida! At last! I thought you were never coming home. You missed the wedding, you know. My dear, you must explain to Mrs Broughton just how I like my duck cooked, for she has a new way with it which I cannot quite like. Will you tell her? And she is not at all happy with Matilda, she says, and wonders why you keep her. I am sure you can sort everything out. I am so glad you are back, my dear. Nothing is quite as comfortable when you are away.”
“I have no time to talk to Susannah about Matilda just now, Roland. I cannot stop, for I am going back to the Manor.”
“And there have been so many visitors! All for the bride, of course, but it is most unsettling. Will you not come inside and take your bonnet off, my dear? That is… not your usual style of bonnet. And your coat… which reminds me…”
She had grown so accustomed to her borrowed finery that she had forgotten that Roland had never seen her that way. “Roland, I am only here to tell you… that I am married.”
“I would not say it to Mrs Broughton herself, for one would not wish to distress a bride, but I cannot quite like the woman she has attending her. She has an insolent look about her whenever I meet her on the stairs, and why can she not use the service stairs like the other servants? I do not like to meet lady’s maids on the stairs in my own house. Will you see to it, my dear?”
“Another time, Roland. Did you hear me? I am married.”
“What? What did you say?”
“I only came to tell you. I married Peter Winslade when we were in Scotland.”
“Scotland? But—?”
“I know, we did not intend to go to Scotland, but we did, and we got married there. I am Mrs Peter Winslade now, Roland.”
“Married?” He seemed to shrink into himself. “Married, Phyllida? But… why? Why would you do such a thing?”
It was the unanswerable question, or at least there was no way to answer it to Roland’s satisfaction. They were still standing on the front step, Roland looking pole-axed by her news, when Susannah came rushing out.
“Miss Beasley! How lovely to have you home again.”
Phyllida got in a bit of a muddle with trying to convey her congratulations on Susannah’s recent marriage, while also imparting the news of her own marriage, but fortunately Susannah was quick on the uptake.
“You and Cousin Peter? Oh, famous! I always knew there was something between you,” Susannah said, and then embraced her heartily. “I wish you the greatest joy! So you will be going back to the Manor? But you must come again soon and explain to me just how to make Dr Beasley comfortable for I fear I have unsettled him rather. Forgive me, but I must dash back to the kitchen before Matilda drops something else. Come tomorrow!”
And with that she was gone, leaving Phyllida and Roland staring at each other.
“I never knew you were dissatisfied with your life here, Phyllida,” Roland said with dignity. “For myself, I expected to live out the rest of my days with you beside me. I am very sorry if I have not been an adequate companion for you.”
“No, no,” Phyllida cried distressfully. “It is not that at all…”
Just then the Winslade carriage returned from its short drive to deposit Charu at the Grove, and just behind it, walking with determinedly long strides, her bonnet askew, was Viola Gage.
“What is this nonsense of Charu’s?” she began. “She says you are married.”
“It is true, Viola,” Phyllida said. “I am Mrs Peter Winslade now.”
Viola’s chin lifted. “Well. I see. If you want my opinion, there is no sadder spectacle than a middle-aged spinster scrabbling round for any husband she can get.”
“Viola, I—”
“You had a perfectly comfortable home, wanting for nothing, and you had to throw it all over and go running after some man you barely know. And married over the anvil, without even the banns read in the proper way! What sort of man would propose such a ramshackle way of marrying? And he has not a penny to his name. A failed banker! Whatever were you thinking? He can give you no consequence. He cannot even provide the bare necessities of life. If you had asked me for my opinion, I should have advised most strongly against such nonsense. How selfish of you to abandon your brother for some whimsical delusion. I suppose you imagine yourself in love with him and he with you. Truly, I thought better of you, Phyllida. What is to become of Dr Beasley without you to see to his comfort? But little you care of that, when you are thinking of nothing but yourself. Well, you have made your bed and now you must lie in it. It will all end in tears, I make no doubt. You will heartily repent of this before you are much older, and you need not come running to me for sympathy. I am very sorry for it, for you have made yourself a laughing stock and it is disappointing. Deeply disappointing.”
Phyllida could not prevent the scalding tears from pouring down her cheeks. Dimly she was aware of Thomas holding open the carriage door, so she rushed towards it and scrambled inside. The door closed, Thomas gave the order and the carriage lurched off. Phyllida lay down on the padded seat and sobbed piteously.
~~~~~
Peter dispatched the squire to the Winter Drawing Room, where many of the guests were assembled, to introduce Lord Silberry and play the jolly host, a rôle for which he was far better suited than managing the household. He then tracked down Mrs Cobbett, the housekeeper, who told him in no uncertain terms that she could manage perfectly well, thank you very much, and if he would only keep the squire out of her hair, she would be very much obliged to him.
“Gentlemen know nothing about managin’ a house, if you’ll pardon my sayin’ so, sir. Master told me to report to him after Miss Susannah had left, sir, and I knew full well no good would come of it, and sure enough, it threw him into a flap. He’s got the place in an uproar, so he has. We’ve had Michaelmas balls here for as long as ever I’ve been at the Manor, and always managed just fine, so there’s no need for the master to do anythin’ but enjoy himself. If you’ll just tell him that, sir.”
“I will, Mrs Cobbett, and if you have any minor details that you would prefer to talk over with a lady, my wife will be here shortly and—”
“Your wife!” she squawked. “You’re married, sir? I never knew that!”
“Well, it only happened a few days ago and—”
The housekeeper squealed with such force that half the servants came running, sure that someone was being murdered.
“Mr Peter got married!” she yelled, quivering with excitement. “Two weddin’s in one week! Lord bless us all! Is she someone from up north, sir? Is she a grand lady? Ooh, I can’t wait to meet her.”
“You know her already,” he said. “Miss Beasley.”
The silence was so profound that the sound of the scullery maid clattering pots in the sink several rooms away could be clearly heard. Then one of the footmen sniggered.
“That’s enough, Johnny Pugh!” Mrs Cobbett snapped. “She’s a lovely lady, sir, and we all wish you both very happy.”
“Thank you, Mrs Cobbett,” Peter said, and made his escape as quickly as he could without actually running.
He took the service stairs two at a time, laughter bubbling up every step of the way, and by the time he had gained the ground floor, it burst forth in great gusts of hilarity that had him rocking back and forth. He had to stop, leaning against the wall, to sober up a little. But how ridiculous it must seem! To the servants, he and Phyllida must indeed look like a couple of sentimental old fools, grasping at a last chance of matrimonial happiness before the imbecility of dotage set in. A spinster of forty and a failed banker of thirty-eight — what a pair!
Ah, but to young saplings like Johnny Pugh, still not quite old enough to be called a man but already feeling the amorous sap rising within whenever he looked at the kitchen maid, Peter and Phyllida must seem like ravaged old oaks, ready to fall in the next sturdy nor’westerly. Yet from his own perspective, Peter felt himself not quite ready for a Bath chair yet, and as for Phyllida, why, she was in her prime!
Still chuckling, he made his way through the Armoury, thronged with people, and on to the Great Hall. It was a noisy mêlée of footmen and valets, bags and hat boxes, his own twelve boxes from Leeds scattered higgledy-piggledy, together with Lord Silberry’s luggage and, incongruously, an elderly woman with a loud voice issuing strident orders in the midst of it, while Binns, the butler, bowed and bowed again.
But across the great echoing space was a still figure with a woebegone face. He half ran to her side, dodging between boxes and footmen.
“Phyllida? What happened?”
Tears welled up and cascaded unheeded down her face. “Roland… so upset… and Viola said I was selfish! Am I selfish, Peter?”
“Of course not!” he said crossly. “How dared she speak so to you! Come out of this rumpus, my dear. Let us find somewhere quiet and you can tell me all about it.”
He led her behind the carved wooden screen, past the main staircase and up a tightly-wound spiral stair hidden behind a curtain. Cloverstone Manor was a great rambling pile and he was heartily glad it was not his, but there were a multitude of hidden ways to slip from place to place undetected, where his bride’s tearful face would not attract notice.
His bedroom was silent, impassive. Phyllida stood in the middle of it, silently weeping. Gently he unfastened the ties of her bonnet and cast it aside. Then the gloves, and finally, after many tediously small buttons, her pelisse. She stood still, unresisting. Taking her hand, he took her into his tiny sitting room. One of the advantages of an end room in one of the wings was access to a portion of the corner tower, and into this small space had been squeezed a sofa, an escritoire and chair and a narrow bookcase. It was Peter’s refuge, and now it would serve as Phyllida’s refuge too. He pulled across the curtain that separated the tower from the bedroom, and sat on the sofa.
“Come and sit on my knee.”
“On your knee?”
“So I can hold you. Then you can tell me exactly what happened, and I can kiss away all the hurt.”
With a little giggle, she settled herself across his lap, and laid her head on his shoulder with a sigh. “I feel better already,” she murmured into his neck.
“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “Does that mean I need not kiss you after all?”
For answer, she lifted her face and closed her eyes, and he responded without a second’s hesitation.
Some considerable time later, they surfaced to hear a door opening beyond the curtain, the puffing of footmen carrying heavy loads and another voice — “No, no, those to the box room, and that one into the dressing room. Come along, come along, I haven’t got all day.”
Phyllida gave a gurgle of merriment, and Peter put one finger to his lips. What fun to be hidden away behind the curtain, unseen by the servants!
More puffing, more haranguing from what sounded like Trent, the squire’s valet. Then the door closed again, and all that could be heard was the muffled sound of Trent humming tunelessly as he unpacked the few items from Peter’s travelling box. Then silence again.
“Now,” Peter said, gently cupping her cheek with his free hand, “tell me everything.”