Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood

22: The Road From Astley Cloverstone

Lady Saxby was late, so late that Phyllida had had ample time to rearrange all the shelves and drawers in her room to accommodate Peter’s clothes. They had no dressing room, but neither of them felt the need for it, or for a valet or lady’s maid, either. Most of Peter’s possessions from Leeds remained at the Manor until they had a house of their own, but he had brought a number of clothes and it was some time before Phyllida had stowed everything to suit her notions of order. 

Still Lady Saxby did not come, and Phyllida was beginning to grow nervous. Had she repented of her impulsive offer in the churchyard? And a more prosaic concern — would she arrive so late that dinner would have to be put back, with all the inconvenience that entailed? Mrs Shinn had enough difficulty in preparing dinner to time as it was. It did not do to stretch her abilities too far.

But eventually Lady Saxby came, and alone. Phyllida could not ever remember when she had last seen her without her little entourage of daughters, not always all four of them, but always one or two. Now she seemed oddly naked without her defensive shield of handmaidens.

Phyllida took her into the parlour, and offered tea.

“Have you anything stronger?” How strange to see Lady Saxby nervously twisting a handkerchief in her hands, all her customary poise deserting her. “Wine… port… anything.”

Phyllida fetched a glass of Madeira from Roland’s book room, and then sat down to hear whatever it was that Lady Saxby wished to say to her. She had formed no expectations. Perhaps it would merely be a polite visit to show her support, or perhaps she wished to hear all the salacious details. Whatever it was about, Phyllida was calm now. So much turbulence in her life lately, but she felt as if she had weathered the storm and emerged into more placid waters. So she was unprepared for Lady Saxby’s words.

“He really should have married you. If he had, your son would be Lord Saxby now. Probably you would have given him a quiverful of sons, as I never managed to do, and we would not now be in this wretched uncertainty.”

“Oh!” Phyllida cried. “You know!”

“That it was Thomas who sired your bastard? Yes, of course. It was my first husband’s disreputable friends who egged him on to it, you see, so when they all returned to London, very pleased with themselves for what they had done, they told me all about it. I did not know it was you, of course, and you gave not the least sign that there was anything between you. I would never, ever have married him if I had known of it. I imagined it was some hapless dairymaid or farmer’s daughter. I read him the riot act when I heard about it, and told him that if he ever did anything of the sort after we were married, my door would be locked to him thereafter. He could have me or he could have his light-skirts, but not both. I have my pride, after all. As far as I know, he never betrayed me. He had some shreds of honour about him, and once he had given his word, he kept to it.”

Phyllida said nothing, for strictly speaking it was true that Thomas had always kept his promises. He had undertaken to have the two Rycroft boys educated, and that he had done, in full measure. But he had given them no help to begin a career, nor had he taken any fatherly interest in his stepsons. It was the grooms who had taught them to ride, and the gamekeeper who had schooled them in the handling of guns. Nor had they ever had horses of their own, riding whatever mount was unwanted at the time. Thomas kept his word, but not one iota more.

Lady Saxby went on, “Mrs Winslade, I cannot tell you how shocked I was when I heard about your son and realised the truth — that it was my husband who had treated you so abominably. You were no dairymaid to be paid off, or married to one of the under-gardeners. It was despicable behaviour. Your son — Christian, is it? — must be only a few months older than Agnes. When is his birthday?”

“April. The fifteenth.”

“Seven months. There were a few weeks when we were both pregnant, I happily, in hopes of an heir to the barony, and you in great secrecy. And I had Agnes and then Flora and Honora, and all the while the true heir, the one who should by rights have been the heir, was growing up far away from here.”

“But then you had Miles,” Phyllida said gently.

Lady Saxby nodded, head lowered, her eyes brimming with tears. “My darling Miles! When he was born, Thomas was triumphant — a son at last! But I had the most dreadful premonition that he would never live to inherit, and so it proved. So many times after that our hopes were raised but nothing ever came of it. Five months, the longest, but most came to grief within three. What we suffer, we women, on men’s behalf. And now there is no legal heir and we are to have this… this bank clerk foisted on us! At least he will not turn us out of doors.”

“That is generous of him,” Phyllida said, rather taken aback by these disclosures, which she had never suspected. Lady Saxby had never been so forthcoming before.

“Oh, it is self-interest, most likely. He wants me to continue to run the house for him, but it suits me very well. I did think, when first I realised we would have someone of the lower orders imposed upon us, that I could not escape soon enough. The Grange would have been suitable, I thought, but when I looked at the place I realised just how small it is, not very much bigger than this house and the saloon so cramped! I could not have borne it! I must have space about me, Mrs Winslade. Large rooms, high ceilings… I cannot breathe, otherwise. As for Wellwood Park… suffice to say that Sir Harold was most disobliging about terms. So we shall stay at the Hall until Cassandra is married. After that… we shall see.

Phyllida did not know quite what to make of this information, so she made some non-committal comment, and resolved to ask Susannah about it after Lady Saxby had left.

She found Susannah in the still room, making lists, and told her some of what Lady Saxby had said.

“It is not so much that Sir Harold was disobliging about terms,” Susannah said, setting down the jar of jam she had been examining. “Lady Saxby wanted Cass’s fortune to pay for it, for her widow’s jointure would not stretch to something so grand, and the trustees said that it was too expensive and could she not manage with something smaller? Perhaps she expects Mr Truman to fund her — Oh, I wonder if he plans to take Wellwood Park for himself? Then Lady Saxby might live with them, although…”

“No, I cannot see that as the most harmonious of homes, either,” Phyllida said ruefully. “Cass and Mr Truman will not wish to begin their married life sharing their home with her mother, her three unmarried sisters and either or both of the Rycroft brothers.”

“It might do, for a while,” Susannah said thoughtfully. “Lady Saxby and the girls could live in Wellwood Park for now, while Cass and Mr Truman have the parsonage. Then, when the girls are all married and the Truman family is bursting out of the parsonage, they will install a curate and remove to Wellwood Park. It might work, I suppose. Mrs Winslade, what is in this jar, do you suppose? Peach jam? Or apricot?”

“Quince,” Phyllida said at once. “On this shelf, we have blackcurrant, apricot, blackberry and apple, plum, cherry, strawberry, raspberry, and the green is gooseberry, of course. This one over here is Roland’s favourite, redcurrant and raspberry. On the jellies shelf, blackberry, redcurrant, apple, quince, gooseberry and crab apple. All the marmalades are here. We have no peach jam. If ever we get any peaches from the Hall, we eat them fresh. Too delicious to make jam.”

“Thank heavens you are here,” Susannah said. “I thought I knew how to run a household, but I am quite at sea here. How do you know which is which?”

“I just know,” Phyllida said. “I made most of them myself, you see, and then placed them on the shelves exactly as Aunt Margery used to do. I never write anything down, and I always know how many there are. I see you have used one jar of marmalade and one of raspberry jam.”

Susannah burst out laughing. “You are amazing, Mrs Winslade!”

Phyllida went warm with embarrassment. “Oh no, no! Perfectly ordinary. I am sure you could do exactly the same at the Manor.”

“Only with a list,” Susannah said, waving the paper ruefully. “I can do nothing without a list. Sometimes I even have lists of lists.”

“Then may I help you make your lists?” Phyllida said happily. “Oh, the joy of another lady in the house! Roland has been very good company all these years, but it is not the same, is it? It is not at all the same.”

Susannah smiled, and picked up her pencil again. “Let me begin again, with the blackcurrant.”

“Three jars. Apricot, two jars. Blackberry and apple…”

~~~~~

Dinner that evening was a delightful affair. After the elaborate meals at the Manor, Phyllida felt it almost a relief to be faced with the simplicity of Mrs Shinn’s cooking. She was not the world’s best cook, but good, plain food was within her grasp, with a few more adventurous dishes for special occasions. There were two or three dishes new to Phyllida, presumably imported by Susannah, but most were familiar old favourites.

Susannah made a gracious lady of the house. They had had a polite little tussle in the still room over the tricky matter of precedence, Susannah arguing that Phyllida should take the head of the table, since it was Dr Beasley’s house and she was his sister. Phyllida pointed out that she and Peter only had the status of visitors, since their stay was temporary, and that Susannah was therefore the mistress of the house. Roland appeared slightly surprised to see Phyllida cede the position, but accepted it without comment.

Dr Broughton sat beside Susannah, with his daughter Cressy on his other side, a lovely child whose artless chatter kept them all laughing through the first course, after which her nurse removed her. Roland looked a little pale, but he ate well and was cheerful, even if he planned to retire to bed directly afterwards. Peter was his usual genial self — he fitted into any company, bless him, from the grandeur of Langridge Hall to the homeliness of Whitfield Villa and, one day, their own little cottage.

And then there was Christian. Her son! It still gave Phyllida a frisson of pure joy to look at him and realise that she had created him. Not intentionally, to be sure, but something very wonderful had come of that day when her life had changed. He wore his Sunday best in honour of the occasion, and he was surprisingly forthcoming, not at all overawed by the company. He answered their questions readily enough, but when Roland asked, very gently, if there was anything he wished to know of his mother’s family, he said, “To be honest, sir, it’s my father who interests me more. I know I mustn’t name him, but I should love to know more of him.”

Dr Broughton cleared his throat. “I know nothing of this matter, and prefer not to speculate, but three separate patients today have mentioned to me that they believed it to be Lord Saxby, so if it is indeed he, you may speak freely on the subject. On the other hand, if this should not be so, it would be as well to scotch the rumours at once. It would not do to blacken a man’s name without cause. I should perhaps add that my informants were uniformly incensed that he would take a gently-born lady’s virtue and then neglect to marry her. The villagers can do their sums, and know that he must have married Lady Saxby within weeks of his encounter with you, Mrs Winslade. They are entirely prepared to heap the greater portion of blame onto his head. Old Mr Timpson was irate about it. ‘To do that to Miss Beasley, who is as good a soul as ever lived,’ he said to me. ‘It’s not right. May his bones rot in Hell for all eternity,’ and much more in the same vein. I never heard him so outraged before. It is usually the quality of the ale at the Boar’s Head that occupies his thoughts.”

Phyllida smiled. “How very kind of him to say such things. It is true that Lord Saxby is Christian’s father.”

“Then may I ask—? Oh, I have so many questions!” Christian said. “Mrs Winslade told me a little of him, but now that I have seen Lady Saxby and her daughters— But no, do not look so alarmed, Dr Beasley. I’ve no wish to claim any relationship with them. I’m sure they don’t want anything to do with me! But I’d like to know something about them.”

So they talked about the Saxbys, with Christian asking question after question and Roland, Phyllida and Susannah, who knew them best, answering as best they could. Eventually, they came to the question of the inheritance, and the bank clerk from Edinburgh.

“But how came Lord Saxby and Miles to die at the same time?” Christian said. “Was it illness? Or an accident?”

“Lord Saxby came to grief while driving his curricle, not half a mile from here,” Phyllida said. “He always did drive too fast, and it was dusk, a dangerous time of day. It was just a pity he had Miles with him.”

“They both died at once? That must have been a spectacular crash,” Christian said.

“Lord Saxby died in the accident. He was so unfortunate as to land on a sharp branch that pierced his chest. Miles was grievously injured, but died two weeks later.”

“I thought he was well on the way to recovery,” Roland said, shaking his head sadly. “However, one can only address the visible injuries. There is no knowing what may be going on inside.”

“Were there any signs of such? Bleeding, swelling, discolouration?” Dr Broughton said.

“Nothing of the kind, and I had begun reducing the laudanum since he was in less pain. But there, one can never tell.”

“May I see the place where the accident happened?” Christian said eagerly. “Even though I never knew him alive, I should like to understand his death.”

“I will take you there tomorrow,” Phyllida said. “There is a memorial stone marking the spot.”

~~~~~

A party of five began the walk out of the village along the Astley Cloverstone road to the memorial stone. Peter had decided that if Phyllida was going, then so was he, since there was no pleasure to be had anywhere without her company. Christian had brought along Dan Preece, the two having become firm friends in the space of six days, and Dan had brought Sam, one of the Hall grooms, who had been in the rescue party the night of the accident.

The memorial stone was easy to spot, being over six feet in height and two feet in width, shaped like an obelisk. On the plinth at the bottom were engraved the words, ‘In memory of Thomas, 6th Lord Saxby, of Maeswood Hall who died on this spot after a violent driving accident. Erected by subscription by his humble servants and tenants.’

“This is it?” Christian said, looking up and down the road. “What happened? Did something break on the curricle?”

“Doesn’t seem that way,” Sam said. “It’s still in the old coach house up at the ’all. Pretty well beaten up, but nothing vital broke. ’E were just goin’ too fast for ’is own good, is all.”

“No,” Christian said thoughtfully. “It’s a good, straight road, smooth surface, no unexpected ruts or stones. The ditches are well back and the verge is low.”

“What is worrying you?” Peter said curiously. “It seems a straightforward enough case to me. Driving fast at dusk, something spooked the horses — a deer, maybe.”

“If the horses had hit a deer, the carcass would have been found.”

“There were nothing like that,” Sam said.

“It might not be close enough to be hit, but enough to distract the horses,” Peter said.

“No,” Christian said again, more forcefully. “When horses are galloping, there’s not much that distracts them. They’ll drive off a cliff if you let them, and if something pops up in front of them, they’ll tear right into it or over it.” Sam nodded knowingly. “Look, there’s really only three ways to crash a vehicle, especially a light one like a curricle — something breaks, it hits something solid or it tries to corner too fast. No corners here, nothing got hit and nothing broke. So what did happen? Were the horses much injured?”

“One’s neck got broke, the other it were ’is legs got tore up. ’ad to be shot,” Sam said.

“And where did the curricle end up?”

“Right where you’s standin’, in the middle of the road,” Sam said. “Past the ’orses, lyin’ on one side, ’is lordship ’alf out of it, Master Miles further on.”

“And it was travelling this way, towards the village?”

Sam nodded and Christian paced back a little distance, away from the village, looking from side to side. Then he swerved off the road, wading through the waist high weeds on the verge, past an overgrown bush that formed part of a neglected and gappy hedge. Just beyond was a tree, one of very few on this stretch of road. Christian walked all round it, then disappeared momentarily as he knelt down. Then he walked back to the road and across to where another tree stood, almost opposite the first. Again he walked all round it, then knelt down.

Peter’s skin prickled uncomfortably. He had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming.

Christian’s face was solemn when he returned to the group at the monument.

“What have you found?” Peter said.

“Someone stretched a wire between those two trees, Mr Winslade, sir. There are deep gouges on both trees where it was wound all round the trunk. That curricle was brought down deliberately.”

Phyllida gasped. “Then Lord Saxby—”

Christian nodded. “Yes. There’s no doubt at all. This was intentional. Lord Saxby was murdered.”