Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood

21: Monday

OCTOBER

Phyllida approached the new week unexpectedly sanguine. Perhaps something of Peter’s perpetual optimism had rubbed off on her, for what else could account for it? The one thing she had dreaded above all for twenty-two years had finally come to pass and… she was not in despair! Viola had turned against her, but she had anticipated that, and the Broughtons were on her side. That was important, for Roland’s sake. He must not hear this news, not until he was a great deal stronger. As for Lady Saxby’s intervention, Phyllida was very grateful, but had no idea what to make of it. Clearly she had wanted to show her support, but why? Impossible to guess.

But if she truly wanted an explanation for her buoyant mood, she had only to look at her husband. As she watched him dress, humming softly to himself, Phyllida experienced a rush of affection for this quiet man that left her breathless. He was not especially handsome, nor above average height. He had no particular features worthy of note, except, perhaps, a certain intelligence in his eye. His hair was not fashionably arrayed, and there was a hint of incipient stoutness about his middle, the result, no doubt, of too much time spent sitting behind a desk in Leeds eating pound cake, and not enough long country walks.

And yet he was lovely. What other man could have heard her history and accepted it so calmly, without condemnation? Who else would have encouraged her to face her past as he had done? And surely no one else would have supported her so unreservedly. When Viola had called her a sinner, Phyllida had almost collapsed in anguish, but Peter, steadfast Peter, had issued his challenge and his strength had fortified her spirit and enabled her to call on her own inner strength. And then he had kissed her! Hidden in the lych gate! And with such fervour that she hardly knew where she was. Then he had walked her down to the Villa, holding her hand very tightly, with Christian beside them. Her husband and her son! She could not be downcast with two such men in her life. How very blessed she was.

Impulsively, she crossed the room and wrapped her arms round her husband’s neck, then kissed him soundly on the lips.

“Mmm, that was very pleasant,” he murmured, wrapping his arms tightly round her waist and nuzzling one of her ears. “What was that for?”

“Do I need to have a reason?”

“No, but if it was because you like this particular waistcoat, I shall be sure to wear it a great deal.”

“You are very silly, Peter Winslade,” she said with mock severity, “but I do love you.”

He went very still. “Do you?” he whispered.

“How could I not? You are the most lovable man in creation, and the kindest, and the gentlest, and—”

“Hush, or my head will swell up so much I shall have to buy new hats, and think of the inconvenience. Oh, my dear!” He let out a long, slow breath, and closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers. “I think I began to love you that day we met in the church, do you remember? You were polishing and humming, and I ended up polishing and humming too, and feeling that… something in my life had changed for the better.”

“I felt that too,” she said, allowing her forehead and nose and cheeks to be kissed. “I thought I had found a friend. When does friendship become love? Or is it all the same thing?”

“That is too philosophical for me,” he said. “I only know that I was deep in love almost before I knew it. I never dared to hope that you would love me too, but I would happily have settled for your friendship. Do you know, I believe you are right. Friendship — true friendship — is very much like love. Both are given unreservedly, and sustain both parties through many trials.”

“Unreservedly, yes,” she mused. “A friend should be a friend always, no matter what arises. She should not abandon her friend at the first ill wind.”

“You are thinking of Miss Gage,” he said softly.

“Yes. I can see now that she is no friend to me — and never was. Poor Viola! She must be so wretched just now.”

“And you are not?”

“No, because I have you, my own dear love, my truest friend. And I shall have breakfast, too, if only you will hurry up with that cravat.”

“Well, who is holding me up, I should like to know?” he said, still holding her tightly, and leaning forward for another kiss.

There was a sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door. “Are you decently attired?” came the squire’s voice, followed immediately by a head round the door. “Ah, I intrude, I see. Shall I come back later?”

Phyllida blushed furiously, scrambling out of Peter’s arms, but he only laughed.

“Come in, by all means,” Peter said. “We newly-weds are wont to fall to kissing given the least opportunity, but we can tear ourselves apart for a few minutes for you, Cousin.”

He came in and shut the door. “My dear Mrs Winslade, I cannot tell you how shocked I was to hear how you have been treated. It is abominable, and I only wish I had been able to help you when you most needed a friend. Can you forgive me?”

“It is all long in the past, Squire,” she murmured.

“I want you to know that you have a home here at any time if you should ever want it. I understand why you return to Great Maeswood, but you are a part of the Winslade family now, and we look after our own, you may depend upon it. That is all. The matter is now closed. Although… I have had the strangest conversation with Taylor. He swore he said nothing at all to anyone, and I must presume he was talking about Mrs Winslade, but he said that Becky guessed. Who is Becky, his sweetheart? Ah, as I thought. And then he said, and I am quoting his exact words here, ‘Please do not let Miss Gage poison me.’ Why would Viola Gage poison him? I swear, servants these days are all so woolly-headed.”

“Charu Gage, not Viola,” Peter said, laughing. “She threatened poor Taylor with all manner of horrible punishments if he breathed a word about Phyllida, and it seems he has not, but people were bound to speculate, I suppose. And I imagine Taylor is not very good at pretending that he knows nothing.”

“He is an idiot, and I shall boil his head for even discussing the matter with his girl,” the squire said crossly. He turned to leave, and then turned back again. “Peter, I have decided to take your advice on the matter of that house in Market Clunbury. Considering how it came to me, I cannot believe now that there was any benign intent behind it. I shall write to Crossley to begin the process, but may I refer him to you with any questions? You will still act as my financial adviser, I hope?”

“Of course, Cousin,” Peter said.

With that, the squire was gone.

“What was that all about?” Phyllida said. “If you are at liberty to divulge the details, of course.”

“Lord Saxby left John a brothel and gaming hell in his will,” he said grinning. “Very profitable it is, too, so although I pointed out the consequences of a magistrate and landowner being a part of such an enterprise, and suggested that Saxby was perhaps trying to get him into trouble, John was inclined to be tolerant and live high on the proceeds. But now he has seen how truly wicked Saxby was he has relented.”

“He was wicked, I believe,” she said musingly. “He seduced me for no reason at all, just because he was bored, I suppose, and I was there. I always wondered why it was I fell under his eye for those three days, but never before or since.”

“You were a wager,” Peter said sadly. “He bet his four friends a thousand pounds apiece that he could take your virtue. The squire knew about it, but he never believed he had done it.”

For a moment, she stood, slack-jawed in amazement. Then she laughed. “Oh, thank you!” Throwing her arms around him again, she pulled him into another kiss.

“Whatever for?” he murmured, feathering kisses all down her neck so that she shivered deliciously from head to toe.

“Mmm… What?”

“Why are you thanking me? Not that I have the least objection, you may be sure, but I should like to properly understand.”

“Thank you for telling me things, even bad things, and talking about brothels and gaming hells, and not saying that it is nothing that a lady needs to know about.”

“You are a married woman now, my dear, and we may talk about anything at all.”

“So we may.” She sighed, and laid her head on his shoulder. “Yet another reason to like being married, to add to the many others.”

Peter squeezed her tight. “So many, many others,” he murmured into her hair.

~~~~~

As soon as the carriage pulled up outside Whitfield Villa, Phyllida knew something was wrong. The front door stood open, but not for their arrival, for no one emerged. From within, raised voices could be heard. Mrs Haines! Mrs Haines was shouting! Phyllida had never heard the housekeeper’s voice rise above a measured tone in her life before. Whatever disaster befell the household, and for some reason they were prone to domestic disasters, Mrs Haines remained calm at all times.

The shouting stopped. And out of the front door, her head high, strode the determined figure of Viola Gage. She stopped dead when she saw Phyllida descending from the carriage, a flash of something that could have been shame crossed her face. But then the chin lifted a little more, and the expression settled into defiance.

“He had no idea,” she said. “I thought to console him in his grief, for it must be an unspeakable blow to discover that his sister is… is a harlot! I wanted only to tell him that I will support his efforts to cast you aside. But he knew nothing. You have concealed your wickedness even from your own brother.”

Then she half-ran round the carriage horses and away down the drive.

Phyllida could hear her own blood thundering in her ears. She was hot and icy cold all at once. Perhaps she swayed, because Peter’s hand was firm under her elbow, supporting her.

“Steady,” he murmured.

“What has she done?” Phyllida whispered. “Roland… oh, dear God, let him be all right! Let him not have another seizure!”

Mrs Haines was on the top step, tears rolling unchecked down her rounded cheeks. “It was Thomas, madam. He let her in, and now he’s—”

“Where is he? Where is he?”

“Parlour,” Mrs Haines said.

Phyllida ran up the steps and past her, past Thomas standing as still as a statue in the hall, and past the stairs to the parlour. Roland was sitting, frozen, in his chair, with Dr Broughton kneeling one side of him and Susannah the other. Susannah saw Phyllida and jumped up at once.

“We had no notion—!” she cried, in obvious distress. “Thomas let her in, and the damage was done before we even knew anything of it. He is so shocked! He has not moved at all, he just sits there crying. We do not know what to do. Even Samuel does not know what to do.”

Now that she could see his face clearly, Phyllida saw the tears trickling down Roland’s face. When had he ever cried before? Never, that she could recall. He was not a man of strong emotions, as a rule.

“He has not—? There has not been—? Another seizure?”

“No, nothing like that. He just… does not move.”

But at the sound of Phyllida’s voice, Roland turned his head. “Phyllida? Oh, my dear!” Then he held out his hands to her. “Why did you not tell me? All these years, you have borne this burden alone, and I knew nothing of it. Why, oh why did you not trust me with your secret, my dear sister? Oh, my poor Phyllida!”

He was not angry! Astonishing as it was, he was not outraged that his sister was… what had Viola called her? A harlot! Such a Biblical word. But he called her his poor Phyllida. He was… miracle of miracles, he was sympathetic!

With a little cry, she flew across the room, hurled herself at his feet and, with her head resting on the shawl covering his knees, burst into noisy sobs.

“My poor, dear sister,” he murmured, stroking what he could reach of her head that was not obscured by her bonnet. “And you have a child — a son, a grown man already. How wonderful!”

Astonished and humbled in equal measure, Phyllida raised her face to gaze at this brother of hers, a man, she now realised, whom she had not known very well at all.

“You do not mind?” she whispered, awed. Although her attention was fixed on Roland, she was aware that Peter had entered the room, and that Susannah and Dr Broughton had quietly withdrawn. The door closed behind them with a soft click.

“Mind? I always longed for children, you know. Not my own, because marriage never appealed to me, but I would have been very happy for you to marry and have a child of your own. I never dreamt that you already had one. But why did you never tell me, my dear?”

“You were not here,” she said simply. “I told Aunt Margery and she dealt with it.”

“Were you very much in love with him, my dear?” he said softly. “Were you dreadfully unhappy?”

“No. I was never in love, merely… mesmerised by him.”

“Who was he, this man who so dishonoured you?”

Phyllida sat back on her heels. It was the obvious question, and she could think of no good reason not to answer it honestly. He was dead, after all, and could not deny it or repudiate his natural son or do any more harm to Phyllida herself. And yet she still dreaded naming him. She had told Peter, but then Peter had never known Thomas Saxby well. Roland had known him for years, had attended him as his physician, played cards with him regularly and revered him as a nobleman, never seeing his faults. He had never presumed to call the baron a friend, but he was proud to claim acquaintanceship with him, and to dine at his table occasionally.

“Do you truly want to know?” she said softly.

“Yes,” he said at once, his voice firm. “I should like to know the name of the man who dishonoured you and then deserted you in your need.”

“It was Lord Saxby.”

“Lord Saxby?” His voice was high with distress. “But… but he was a nobleman, a gentleman, a man of honour. How could he—? No man of upright character could do such a thing.”

She was silent, letting that thought work its way to the obvious conclusion.

His shoulders slumped. “The scoundrel! I would never have thought it of him. And yet… the boy will have noble blood in his veins. I wonder if he looks like his father.”

“He does not,” Phyllida said. “He is the very image of dear Papa.”

“You have seen him? Where does he live?”

“Right here in the village, now,” Phyllida said. “We brought him back from Harrogate with us, so that he and Peter can go into business together. Christian is a coach-builder.”

“Oh, I should so like to meet him,” Roland said wistfully.

“Nothing easier,” Peter said. “He is only down at the smithy. I can be back with him in five minutes.”

And so it was that, having entered the house in the greatest fear for Roland’s health and half expecting to see him carried off by a seizure at any moment, Phyllida had the inestimable joy of introducing her son to him. Christian entered the room rather shyly, his felt hat clutched in his hands, but smiling when Roland exclaimed over his likeness to Papa. Dr Broughton had left to attend his Market Clunbury practice, but Susannah sat with them for a while, serving tea and feeding endless biscuits to Christian.

“You must come for dinner tonight,” she said to him. “Dr Beasley is to eat with us for the first time, so it will be a family occasion. He will be going upstairs for a long nap soon so that he will be well enough. Mrs Winslade, may I have a word with you? A domestic matter.”

Out in the hall, still littered with the bags and boxes brought from the Manor, she grabbed Phyllida’s arm. “I cannot believe he has taken this so calmly! He was devastated by the happy news that you had married, but he is quite accepting of the fact that his own sister gave birth to an illegitimate son. It is impossible to understand!”

“Not really,” Phyllida said, laughing. “I was concerned, I confess, but I had forgotten one particular facet of Roland’s character — his principal concern is his own comfort. He thought that my marriage would deprive him of the convenience of my perpetual presence, but now that I am returned to the Villa, he is perfectly reconciled to the idea. Of course he now also has Peter to dance attendance on him. And Christian, too. He will be teaching the pair of them cribbage or backgammon before long so that he never lacks a playing companion, you mark my words.”

Susannah laughed and shook her head. “Men! They can be the most selfish creatures imaginable sometimes, is it not so? And also the bravest, the most honourable and the most devoted. What would we do without them?”

“Oh, we should go on quite well, I sometimes think,” Phyllida said. “At least, I used to think so, until I met Peter. Now I find him indispensable to my happiness.” She smiled fondly. “But you had a domestic question, I believe?”

“Oh… yes. Matilda. My dear Mrs Winslade, are you very much attached to her, for if she drops one more dish I shall be obliged to turn her off for her own protection, or Mrs Shinn will murder her. Or I might do it myself, who can say? Wherever did you find her?”

“The workhouse in Market Clunbury,” Phyllida says. “One does so like to help out such unfortunates if one can, and the master assured me that she was a hard worker and honest.”

“And so she is but—”

They were interrupted by the doorbell. “It is a little early for Lady Saxby,” Susannah said. “I hope it is not Miss Gage again, or I might just wring her neck.”

“How blood-thirsty you have become, Susannah,” Phyllida murmured, then laughed. “But I do not think she would dare.”

Since neither Thomas nor Mrs Haines emerged from the nether regions, Susannah opened the door herself, only to be almost bowled over by four furry shapes barrelling into the house.

“Mercury! Kenneth! Oh heavens, I am so sorry!” Mrs Gage stood on the doorstep, with Laurence Gage beside her. “Mars! To me, boy! To me, at once!” The four ran out again just as enthusiastically, then two of them turned to make another foray. “Mercury! Mars! Oh dear! Laurence, can you take them away somewhere? Mrs Winslade and Mrs Broughton do not want them rampaging through their house.”

Laurence whistled and called, and by setting off down the drive, he convinced the dogs to follow him.

“Goodness, I cannot apologise enough,” Mrs Gage said. “Such rag-mannered animals today, but their dog brains cannot conceive that we might want to go out for a walk without them. Mine are only pups, and they seem to have infected Laurence’s two with their bad behaviour. Mrs Winslade, I am sure you have enough to do without me, but might I inflict myself on you for just five minutes?”

Phyllida laughed, feeling instinctively that Mrs Gage had not called to berate her. “Do come into Roland’s book room. We may be private in there.”

“How is Dr Beasley?” Mrs Gage said. “Recovering well, I hope.”

“Oh yes, and fortunately Viola’s visit has not set him back at all, which I had feared, of course, when I arrived this morning to find her leaving.”

Mrs Gage frowned. “Viola was here? This morning?”

“Oh yes. She told Roland… everything. You did not know?”

For a moment, Mrs Gage merely goggled at her, mouth agape. Then, with a sharp exhalation, she paced across the room and back, visibly shaking. With a cry of frustration, she stamped her foot. “That woman! I know she is Laurence’s sister and has not had an easy life but really, I could wring her neck, truly I could!”

“I am afraid there is a queue forming for such a purpose,” Phyllida said, smiling gently. “Poor Viola! She does not mean to be so tiresome — she just cannot help herself. If there is news, it must be dispensed at once, no matter what. However, as it happens there is no harm done. He is here now, my… my son, and Roland is delighted in him.”

“Thank God!” Mrs Gage said. “But really, if Viola could only learn—! A little compassion is not too much to ask… or at least loyalty towards such a good friend as you. She was so put out about your marriage, as if you had done it solely to inconvenience her, and now this. But she will never change, I suppose. Not like you! My dear Mrs Winslade, I am ashamed of myself for taking so little notice of you before. You seemed such a timid little creature, but yesterday, the way you stood up to Viola — why, you were a veritable lioness! Even your voice has changed, you know, and I do like these new clothes you have. Marriage suits you very well. But that is not what I came here to say. I want you to know that you will always be welcome in my house.”

“It is Viola’s house too.”

“True, but things changed when I married Laurence and I am mistress of it now. We all had… um, a rather spirited exchange of views last night, including the children, who hold surprisingly strong opinions on the subject. We are all agreed, apart from Viola, naturally, that whatever might have happened in your youth, you are a lady of unimpeachable character now and have done nothing to forfeit our esteem. I shall leave my card with you now to prove it, and you may call upon me whenever you wish, just as you did before. And you and Mr Winslade must come to our card party tomorrow night.”

“But Viola—”

“May hide in her room, if she wishes. Who is she to judge you anyway? Let him who is without sin cast the first stone — or her, in this case. Now, now, do not cry, my dear. You will find out soon enough that you still have plenty of friends. Lady Saxby for one. Oh, but I should warn you that Captain Edgerton and his investigating friends have been bending their minds to the interesting question of who the gentleman in the case might be, and they have reached the firm conclusion that it must have been Lord Saxby. He has some form in the matter of seducing innocents, so I can see how they made their deduction. I am afraid you will be subjected to a great deal of speculation on that score. And now I shall leave you to settle into your new home, or rather your old one. Do give my very best wishes to Dr Beasley. I shall call upon him in a few days. Tomorrow night, remember — do not fail me!”