Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood
18: The Michaelmas Ball
Peter’s discussions with the smith proved fruitful. Preece was very interested in helping with the coach building scheme, and even had a barn, presently filled with an assortment of rusty old plough shares, buckets and scythe blades, which could be converted to the purpose. His eldest son, Dan, who had a skill with wood and was, moreover, the exact same age as Christian, entered enthusiastically into the idea, and even proposed that Christian move in with them, offering to share his own small room with him. It was all very satisfactory, and as he walked to Whitfield Villa to collect his wife, Peter felt that everything was working out very well.
The news of Dr Beasley’s relapse was a blow, however. Phyllida blamed herself, and nothing Peter said brought her the least comfort, so they walked back to the Manor in a less optimistic frame of mind.
Since dinner was late at the Manor, Peter had a little time to distract himself with some soothing sorting of papers in the study. He had not yet had time to look at all the documents found in the inlaid box in the attic, so after a little preliminary tidying of his cousin’s desk and chasing the dogs out, he settled down to read.
It proved to be a dispiriting experience. The bulk of the papers comprised correspondence from the architect of Cloverstone Manor, a man by the name of Arthur Welbury. There were sketches of parts of the house, exterior details, ceilings, fireplaces and cornices, enthusiastically described, but these early missives gave way to more sombre notes. ‘That can be done, but not within the original costings. The additional charge I estimate to be £800. Please confirm that you wish to proceed on these terms.’ There were many of similar type, as Lord Bartwell’s vision for his house grew more ambitious.
Then the letters became more terse. ‘This cannot be done without additional expense.’ And finally, a long series of increasingly desperate letters. ‘I must be paid something before I can proceed further.’ And, ‘It would pain me to remind a man of noble blood of his obligations to those far below his own exalted rank, but the house is now complete and I await the final payment, according to my most recent invoice.’ This was followed by, ‘I take your point that you have paid the sum originally agreed and more besides, but there have been many alterations requested by your lordship incurring additional costs, all agreed with you in advance, and therefore I must regard these sums as an inviolable part of our agreement. There is still above eight thousand owed to suppliers, craftsmen and labourers, not to mention my own fees. If the house meets with your approbation, I must respectfully request that you pay the outstanding sums forthwith.’
Then a very brief note, ‘Can you not borrow the amount? Must my children starve because you have overstretched yourself?’ Followed by, ‘My lord, I beg you, take pity on a man who has done you no wrong, yet is now facing ruination and the spectre of the debtor’s prison on your account. Your humble servant, Arthur Welbury.’ Then one final scrawl, ‘I shall be there. Welbury.’ And then silence.
What a business! It was promising that Lord Bartwell had agreed to meet him, but even if he had eventually been paid, the worry of it all would have taken its toll. What had Susannah called Lord Bartwell? A man of combative temperament… or something of the sort. He would not be the first man to throw away a fortune on building a grandiose house, and then run away from the consequences. Or had he been forced to run away… a duel gone wrong, perhaps? Had he hidden the paintings away hoping to restore his fortunes later by secretly recovering them? Impossible to guess, and after two hundred years, the truth would never now be known. What an unhappy episode in the Manor’s history.
~~~~~
The following day, while Phyllida walked to Great Maeswood to see Roland, Peter undertook a task which he knew would be disagreeable but could not be postponed, and arranged a private meeting with his cousin. They met in the squire’s book room, which was already beginning to acquire a patina of disarray, with opened letters abandoned on the desk and half-drunk glasses of wine scattered here and there. The dogs raised their heads from the sofa at his entrance, then lay down again.
“Well, you have made a great change in here,” the squire said, pouring a glass of something and thrusting it into Peter’s hand. “I daresay I shall not be able to find anything now. Every last paper is tucked away in a box or drawer or cupboard, and no knowing where to start looking for a thing.”
“But I know, Cousin. I can lay my hand on any required document in a moment. That is an improvement, is it not?”
“I dare say. It is a pity all your efforts have been for naught, and I am no better off, but then my expectations were not high. The money is gone, and I do not see how I can come about unless I marry a fortune, but the rich ones are well defended, you may be sure.”
“Your case is not desperate,” Peter said. “You still have your tenants, although not as many as formerly.”
“I was forced to sell some land to Saxby… quite a lot of land, in fact,” the squire said sombrely. “He was a hard man, Thomas Saxby. He loaned me money once or twice when I was in a tight spot and then… well, it was easier to sell him the land once and for all, instead of paying interest year after year. And then he raised the rents, and my tenants — former tenants — blamed me, of course.”
“The rents had not increased for some years,” Peter said. “You have made some improvements to your own land of late, so you could perhaps review the rents for next year. Some of your tenant farms look very prosperous to me.”
“Ah, but it varies so much from year to year,” the squire said. “A good year may be followed by three or four poor ones, and the higher rate would drive an honest man to despair.”
“Jackson says that the rents may be doubled without causing hardship.”
“Jackson! Jackson! What does he know? He would squeeze the land dry if he had his way. If a man comes to me and says that he has a wife and ten children to support, and can only afford to pay half his rent, must I insist and watch them starve? What would you have me do, Peter?”
“I would have you collect the money you are due, and not merely half of it, as you did last year. I would have you tell the man with ten children that he has more than enough hands to work his land, and the oldest two or three must be of an age to earn for themselves. I would have you make only the improvements that you can afford, and not rebuild entire rows of cottages just because one or two have leaky roofs. And I would have you disengage from this brothel that you own.”
“Brothel? I own no brothel, Cousin.” The squire lowered his eyebrows and glared at Peter.
“I am speaking of the Water Street establishment in Market Clunbury.”
“That is a gentlemen’s club, and I do not own it, I assure you, only the house in which it operates. Lord Saxby bequeathed the property to me, and it was the most generous act of friendship he ever did me.”
“It is a gaming hell and a brothel and I know not what besides, and that bequest was no act of friendship, Cousin. Your good name is being used as insurance against any investigations by the law. Lord Saxby may have been content to lend his name to all that goes on there and take the ill-gotten profits, but I strongly advise you not to follow him down that path.”
“Oh… well… perhaps they play a little high there, sometimes, and if a few ladies of a friendly nature like to attend as well…” The squire paused, chewing his lip. “Very well, I accept that there is something of that nature going on, but there is no real harm in it… is there? Every gaming establishment has a certain amount of… irregularity, shall we say, but it must be expensive to operate such places. One cannot wonder if they charge outrageous prices for a bottle of port. They have to turn a profit somehow.”
“This is more than irregularity,” Peter said. “It must be, when your share of the profit is seven hundred and eighty-four pounds and six shillings a quarter.”
The squire gaped at him. “No, Peter, you must be mistaken about that. It cannot be so much. That is… that is… a very great sum per year.”
“Three thousand pounds.”
“Dear God!” The squire sat down abruptly on the nearest chair. “Three thousand? A year? Then… I am rich.”
Peter could have shaken him. “No, you are a dupe. Whatever is going on beneath the respectable surface, and I have not been able to determine the full extent of it, there is serious lawbreaking involved. If someone squeaks, you will be put in the very awkward position of either being accused yourself, or having to use your influence to ensure the culprit gets off scot-free. Either would be dreadful for you and your family, John. I beg you to cut all ties with Water Street.”
“Three thousand a year,” the squire murmured, a dazed expression on his face. “And to think I handed it over to Susannah for her wedding clothes! And the Lady Day payment, the first I had from the place, I gambled it all away. Seven hundred pounds! I had no idea. Intended it for Susannah, to buy shoes for the children, you see, but I thought I could afford an hour at the faro table, for old time’s sake, and somehow it all disappeared and there was nothing left for Susannah at all. I thought it might have been fifty or so, but seven hundred! Good Lord!”
Peter gave it up, and left him to contemplate his new-found riches.
~~~~~
The Michaelmas ball was one of two big events held at Cloverstone Manor every year, when the squire relived his glory days as a mover in society and every acquaintance within reach descended to enjoy his hospitality.
Phyllida rather enjoyed the balls, for although she was no dancer, she liked to see all her friends gathered in one place and it was fun to dress up a little. It was the one occasion when she dared to set aside her usual dark colours and wear something brighter. This time, she was more festive than usual for Susannah and Peter had chosen her gown from Lilian’s wardrobe, a deep gold tunic dress with a short train, the over gown frilled at the back and around the hem. Peter found her a dainty diamond parure that had been his mother’s, and attired in the headdress, necklace and bracelets, she felt like a goddess.
Susannah opened the dancing, as the daughter of the house and the newest bride, but the squire shooed Phyllida and Peter onto the floor, too, as well as Mrs Gage, the other recent bride. The younger Saxby daughters filled out the rest of the first set. After that, Phyllida was glad to retire to a quiet corner with Peter, to watch the dancing, to sip champagne and to receive the congratulations of their friends. It was pleasant — no, more than pleasant, it was utterly delightful to have Peter at her side, gazing at her with what she could only describe as adoration. Perhaps in future he would disappear into the card room on such occasions, as so many gentlemen liked to do, but for now he clung to her like a limpet and she revelled in his attention.
Phyllida had hoped that the ball would be an opportunity for a rapprochement with Viola, but although they exchanged a few civil words, there was no conversation between them. Viola’s eyes raked her up and down, her lips pursed in disapproval of the gold dress, and she moved away very soon. After that, she made no effort to come near Phyllida.
“She will come round,” Peter said quietly. “She is so used to Miss Beasley that it will take her some time to grow used to you being Mrs Winslade. It is a big change for her.”
“For me too,” Phyllida said.
“And for me,” he said, with a warm smile. “I have been a bachelor for almost as long as you have been a spinster, but for me it is the most pleasant change imaginable. For Miss Gage, it must seem like a retrograde step, with nothing but disadvantage.”
“She might at least try to be happy for me,” Phyllida said.
“True, but if she cannot, then I shall just have to be happy enough for all of us.”
Lord Silberry, knowing few people, stayed close to them before supper, watching the dancing and being introduced to everyone who wandered within range. He also obligingly fetched drinks for them when their glasses were empty. On one such expedition, he returned without the drinks.
“Quickly, Mrs Winslade! Come at once and tell me who the beauty is!”
Almost he grabbed her arm in his excitement. Laughing, she followed where he led.
“Over there, under the portrait of the man with all the lace. Heavens, what an incomparable beauty! I have never seen the like, even in town.”
Phyllida saw only the Saxby ladies. “The one in pink? That is Miss Flora Saxby.”
“No, no! She is pretty enough, but no. The older one in the lovely blue-green gown that makes her look like a water nymph.”
“That, sir, is Lady Saxby.”
“Oh… and Lord Saxby? Is he here?”
“Lady Saxby’s husband died in January. I believe she considers her mourning period to be over.”
“Excellent!” he said, beaming, then added hastily, “Not that it is not a great tragedy, to be sure, but… Mrs Winslade, would you be so obliging as to introduce me? But what is her rank? What was her husband?”
“A baron.”
“Excellent,” he said again.
Amused, Phyllida took him round the room, avoiding the dancers, to where Lady Saxby stood speaking quietly to the squire and watching her younger daughters dance.
Phyllida curtsied politely. “Lady Saxby, may I present to you Viscount Silberry of Langridge Hall, near Leeds. Lord Silberry, Lady Saxby of Maeswood Hall.”
“Lord Silberry,” she said, smiling and holding out her hand.
He bowed over it with great gallantry. “How is it we have never met in town, Lady Saxby? We have not, I am sure, for I should not have forgotten it.”
“I have not been to town for years,” she said. “My late husband was fonder of galloping over fields than sitting in Parliament, I regret to say. Do you spend much time there? Is it true what they say of the Prince of Wales?”
Phyllida left them to their London gossip, and slipped away. Later, she saw them heading for the card room together, heads bent towards each other like old friends.
“They seem to be getting on well,” Peter said, watching them go. “Will they make a match of it, do you suppose?”
“I hope not,” she said.
His eyes widened. “No? I should have thought it a good match, myself. A viscount and a baron’s widow is a very suitable pairing, and they look well together, do you not agree? He has the patrician’s height and bearing, and she is beautiful.”
“She is also— No, I will speak no harm of her. No doubt she had a difficult time of it with Thomas. He was not an easy man to live with. Very charming, when he chose to be, but implacable… unbending. He made no concessions to the wishes of others. He must have been a great trial to his wife.”
Peter made no reply, merely looking at her thoughtfully, but she understood him. He was thinking, as she was, that if Thomas Saxby had behaved towards her as he ought, she would have been the wife living with the trial of a husband. That, at least, was something to be thankful for, that she had been spared a life married to such an inconsiderate and selfish man.
The supper was every bit as wonderful as usual, but when the musicians picked up their instruments again ready for the dancing to recommence, Peter said to her quietly, “Have you had enough? We can retire whenever you like.”
Phyllida smiled and put her hand in his. Wordlessly they crept away to their room.
~~~~~
Peter was aware of a change in the atmosphere as soon as he went down to breakfast. Phyllida had gone out early, to walk to Great Maeswood and see her brother, but Peter had slumbered on, and so was late downstairs and the Winter Dining Room was full. He had always been aware of tensions in a room, finding it quite useful in his business dealings. A merchant who fell silent when his banker entered the room was a man whose finances needed to be watched carefully, and any unusual requests for loans rejected. So this morning he knew that something was in the wind, and that it concerned him.
He greeted a few people affably, and they responded in like manner, but their eyes slid away from him too quickly, and they applied themselves too readily to their plates. Peter ate in silence, then went in search of a friendly face. He eventually tracked down Lord Silberry in the library.
“Might I have a word, my lord? In private.”
“Naturally. Lead the way, and I hope you know the way to wherever you are going, for it would take me a month at least to get my bearings here.”
Peter found an unused room, a lady’s boudoir at one time, to judge by the flowers painted on every surface, and closed the door. “The air was a little frosty in the breakfast room this morning,” he began, “which leads me to believe that some rumour must be circulating about me or my wife. I should be glad to know if you have heard anything.”
“My dear fellow, I never listen to gossip.”
“I am sure you do not, and nor do I as a rule, but if it affects me or mine, I should like to know what is being said. Forewarned is forearmed.”
Lord Silberry sighed. “It concerns this young man you brought with you from Harrogate. It is said that he is the natural son of your wife. No one quite believes it, however, since the lady has been a pillar of respectability these many years, and has never had a lover. However, the grandmothers in a village like this have long memories, and have recalled that the lady went away to Harrogate some years ago and stayed there for several months.”
Peter tugged at his lower lip thoughtfully. “That is what I feared.”
“People will always speculate about these things,” Lord Silberry said easily. “So long as you never acknowledge the story, it will remain below the surface, where it cannot touch you or your good lady.”
“But it will,” Peter said. “These things fester. Once the idea is in people’s heads, they will always look askance at Phyllida and wonder.”
“But they will never be sure. It will be a nine day’s wonder, and then it will fade away. There will be some new happening at the front of people’s minds. The new baron will be here next month and that will put everything else out of people’s heads. We must all hold our nerve, and act normally.”
“You too? But of course, you came down from Yorkshire with us, so naturally they will have asked you what you know.”
“Indeed, and I told them the absolute truth, that he is here to work for you, and I know of no other connection, and would consider any suggestion of impropriety a slur on a most respectable lady. I have also pointed out that he does not resemble Mrs Winslade in the slightest.”
“Thank you,” Peter said absently. “I shall have to tell Phyllida what is being said, I suppose.”
“I should not advise it,” Lord Silberry said. “What she does not know cannot injure her, and the last thing you want is for her to look conscious, or fall into the vapours at an inopportune moment.”
“Phyllida does not fall into the vapours,” Peter said coldly.
“Then she is a woman in a thousand. The fair sex is not robust, as we are, my friend. A woman’s body is weak and frail, and her mind, although stout enough ordinarily, cannot sustain great distress without affliction. It is best not to burden a lady with undue worries. As her husband, your responsibility is to protect and shield her from any unpleasantness. Whatever rumour is flying round the village, no one will be vulgar enough to ask Mrs Winslade directly of the truth of the matter, and therefore she need only behave precisely as usual, with no hint of anything amiss. Her friends will rally round her, and all will be well, you will see.”
Peter could not be so sanguine, but by the time he set out to follow Phyllida to Great Maeswood, he had not decided whether to tell her or not. There was a great attraction in remaining silent and pretending nothing was wrong. The rumour would then be no more than whispers in the air, little puffs of innuendo to be blown away on the wind.
But if the whispers became louder, more strident… what then? He dared not think.