Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood
27: Epilogue: A Select Dinner For Friends
Peter still spent time managing the squire’s financial affairs, and two or three times a week he would walk to the Manor, chase the dogs out of the study, do some surreptitious tidying and then settle down with bills and letters for an hour or two.
One morning, Mrs Cobbett came in. “Beg pardon for disturbing you, sir, but there’s a man come to see the paintings, and the squire was in a rush to go out, so—“
“He wants me to deal with the fellow, eh?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, sir. The gentleman’s come all the way from London, after all. He’s in the Winter Drawing Room, but he has some questions, and I can’t answer him.”
“I am not sure I can, either,” Peter said. “What do I know about art? But I am happy to share a glass of Madeira with him while I say ‘I have no idea’ repeatedly.
The artist was rather younger than Peter had expected, perhaps only five and twenty, gazing up at the largest painting impassively.
“What do you think of it?” Peter said.
“Oh, I know nothing about art,” the man said cheerfully. “I have not come to see the paintings themselves.”
“Then… why are you here?” Peter said, bemused.
“I should very much like to see where they were found. My name is Welbury. James Welbury. I’m a descendent of—“
“The architect!” Peter said. “Peter Winslade. Delighted to meet you, Mr Welbury. Let me send for some lanterns, and then we shall explore.”
The room felt strangely empty. Everything had been removed and the debris cleaned up, the rotten floorboards replaced and a plain wooden stair installed so that the space could be used if required, but for now it remained empty, the walls plastered but not painted.
“There is not much to see,” Peter said apologetically. “The paintings were just here, against this wall, very well wrapped, and some vases over here. Chinese, seemingly, and rather valuable. Several marble statues over there. The lawyers are deciding whether they can be sold or not. Oh, and an inlaid box containing papers — letters, bills of sale for the paintings, that sort of thing.”
“Nothing else?” Welbury said.
“No, nothing. What were you expecting?”
Welbury laughed. “Nothing, to be truthful. But the story passed down in the family is that whenever my great great however many greats it is grandfather was asked about the Bartwell paintings, he always laughed and said, ‘If you find Lord Bartwell, you will find the Bartwell paintings.’ But on his deathbed, he said it the other way round, ‘If you find the Bartwell paintings, you will find Lord Bartwell.’ You may imagine how we wondered about that! I thought there might be… some clue here regarding Lord Bartwell.”
“Or his remains, perhaps,” Peter said, with a quick laugh. “That would account for why he disappeared at the same time as the paintings.”
Welbury’s eyebrows rose. “But no trace was found?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I expect he took flight to the continent. But I am relieved to hear that he survived, then, your ancestral grandfather. He did not end up in the debtor’s prison?”
“Not at all, thanks to one of your ancestors. He came here just before the estate was handed over to the Winslades. It had been sold, but they had not yet moved in, and he wanted to assure himself that all was in order. He spent several days here checking everything, and then went down to the old manor house to hand over the keys. Your ancestor gave him one hundred pounds, and that was enough to save him. He even became moderately successful afterwards, but the Bartwell paintings overshadowed him his whole life. He was very bitter about the whole business, and Lord Bartwell in particular. The Bartwell family hounded him, thinking he must have taken them, but he swore he had not, in fact, and nothing was ever found. And here they were the whole time.”
“But it must have been your ancestor who hid them here,” Peter said, frowning. “If he was here for several days, he had every opportunity to hide them.” Another thought struck him. “He must have had an accomplice. Those paintings are heavy, and to carry them up several flights of stairs and through the attics… and this whole room, Mr Welbury! He could not have created this room in a matter of days. It must have been part of the design, which means that Lord Bartwell asked him to create this secret place.”
Welbury frowned. “So what are you saying? That it was Lord Bartwell who wanted to hide the paintings?”
“Yes, because he was determined to keep them out of the hands of his relations, with whom he had— Oh! They were to meet… but what was the date. I must check the date! Wait here a moment, will you. I shall be back directly.”
Distractedly, he tore down to the study and pulled out the file for the architect’s correspondence, and found the brief little note that read only, ‘I shall be there.’ Then to the strongbox to check the documents for the Manor. Yes! It must be so!
Excitedly he flew back up the stairs to the attics. “They met here,” he cried, as Welbury gazed at him in bemusement. “Lord Bartwell and your ancestor — they arranged to meet, and where else but here? Together they moved the paintings and vases and statues in here for safekeeping, and then… we must guess what happened after that, but surely the wronged architect would take the opportunity to ask for the money still owing. And perhaps Lord Bartwell could not, or would not, pay, and so…”
“So… what?” Welbury said. “A fight? Here?”
“And Lord Bartwell disappeared at the same time as the paintings,” Peter cried. “He must be here! ‘If you find the Bartwell paintings, you will find Lord Bartwell.’ They are both hidden in the same place. Whatever happened to Lord Bartwell, he is here in this house, somewhere.”
“You mean… he died here? But there has been no body found. You said no remains were found here,” Welbury said.
“It could be anywhere in the house — buried in the cellar, up a chimney somewhere. An architect would know every nook and cranny.”
“No,” Welbury said thoughtfully. “It would have been found long since. In two hundred years, in a house teeming with servants, every part of the house would have been thoroughly examined… except this one room. If there is a body — and I do not accept your theory, Mr Winslade, but let us suppose that there is a body, then it is here in this room.”
“But where? Under the floorboards?”
“Possibly, but more likely…” He began tapping the walls. “…somewhere here. The end walls… yes! Can you hear the difference? There is a space behind this wall. Will the squire mind, do you suppose, if we dismantle a wall in his house to solve a two-hundred-year-old mystery?”
Peter laughed. “I think he would be delighted. Or at least, he will not mind so long as he is not inconvenienced by it. Let us go and find some men with pickaxes.”
It took an hour to round up enough men and tools to begin work, and half an hour to demolish enough of the wall to expose the hideous truth — a well preserved skeleton, still clothed in a few scraps of fine silk, and a large knife protruding from what used to be his chest.
“Poor Lord Bartwell,” Peter said sadly. “And poor Captain Edgerton. How he would have loved all this, but it is entirely his own fault for chasing off to London at the wrong time. There is not even a mystery for him to solve about this death, for we know precisely who this is, how he died and why.”
“And who was responsible,” Welbury said. “What a stain on the family name! Bartwell is exonerated and we must bear the burden of knowing there was a murderer in the family.”
“He had some cause for grievance,” Peter said. “There is a moral here for all of us, I believe. Pay what you owe promptly, or you might end up knifed and bricked up in a wall for two hundred years.”
~~~~~
In late October, Whitfield Villa hosted a celebration dinner for some of the particular friends of Mr and Mrs Peter Winslade and Dr and Mrs Samuel Broughton. They were rather vague about what, precisely, they were celebrating — their recent marriages, perhaps, or the sudden acquisition of wealth by the Winslades. Observant friends might have noticed, however, that the guest list comprised all those who had supported Mrs Winslade when her youthful indiscretion was revealed.
Phyllida dressed with unusual care for the evening. A number of Lilian Winslade’s gowns that she had worn for several weeks were now officially hers, and with Charu’s help she had contrived several more that suited her new, less retiring self. Tonight she wore a shimmering turquoise gown with a richly embroidered net over gown, with the diamonds that Peter had given her as a belated wedding gift. Peter had invested in a new coat and waistcoat, and, having shrugged himself into them some time ago, he seemed content to watch her finish her toilette, with Charu’s aid.
“There! Will I do?” she said, spinning round to face him as he sat, feet up, on the bed.
“You will do very well, Mrs Winslade,” he said. “You will be the handsomest woman in the room.”
“What nonsense,” she said, blushing, as Charu sighed with romantic contentment.
Even so, she had to admit that she was not entirely disgraced in such company. Lady Saxby and her daughter Flora were, perhaps, the accredited beauties of the gathering, but Phyllida felt she could stand beside any other lady and not be thought greatly inferior. She could not help remembering the evening at the Manor when she had first donned a gown of Lilian’s and found herself emerging, almost without her volition, from her shell. Now, amongst such friends, she was entirely at her ease, and could hardly recall how she had behaved as mousy Miss Beasley. That person was gone for ever.
The dinner was late, but no one minded. The dining room was something of a squeeze for so many, but no one minded that either. There was food enough and wine enough and conversation enough that everyone was pleased. Phyllida was delighted to see so many promising couples. Lord Silberry and Lady Saxby spent the entire meal talking together in low tones, Lady Saxby looking more animated than she had for a long time. Charu and Christian chattered and laughed and kept their neighbours amused. Mr Truman was attentive to Cass, while Henry flirted outrageously with Agnes and Flora Saxby. Even the squire seemed relaxed, talking to his old friend Lucy Cokely.
After dinner, Dr Broughton’s young daughter, Cressy, and Alice Winslade, who was staying overnight, recited poetry and played simple duets on the pianoforte. When the tea trays arrived, the ladies performed, and then there were cards and more music and conversation. As they left, everyone smiled and said what a delightful evening they had passed.
“It was enjoyable, did you not think?” Phyllida said, as she locked away her diamonds in her jewel box with a sigh. “So pleasant to be surrounded by friends.”
“Was it? I cannot tell you, for I scarce took my eyes off my beautiful wife.”
She chuckled. “Oh, Peter, you are such a flatterer.”
“It is not flattery if it is the truth. Come here, my wife. Let me hold you.”
She walked into his arms and for a moment he held her tight, his face buried in her hair. Then, kissing her forehead lightly, he said, “It went well this evening. Miss Saxby seemed fully recovered from her indisposition. It was very mild this time, by the sound of it.”
Phyllida frowned. “Yes, but there have been several occurrences, and I know Dr Broughton is concerned about her. He feels there is something very amiss with the kitchens at the Hall. He suggested to Mrs Woodfield that she have a thorough clean of all the stores and pantries, and make sure there are no rodents. She was a little offended, and personally showed him around her domain, to convince him that there was no deficiency in the cleanliness of her kitchens.”
“Was he persuaded of it?”
“Yes, but he cannot shake off the feeling that there is a problem. Roland, bless him, sets it down to wedding nerves, but Cass has never been prone to nervous illness. Now if it were Honora, I might believe it, for she has always been a sickly child, but not Cass. But I suppose you did not hear, for you gentlemen were lingering over your port when it was discussed, but there is a date set for the wedding in January, and Dr Deerham is to come to officiate.”
“Shall I unfasten you?” he said. “You may tell me of Dr Deerham while I wrestle with these tiny buttons, for I do not know the gentleman.”
Obediently she turned her back to him. “Oh, it is quite a coup to have him perform a marriage, I assure you. He is a very famous preacher from Shrewsbury, whose volumes of sermons are much sought after. His wife is a friend to Mrs Gage, and he was here at Easter — such a thrill to meet him in person! I have read his sermons so many times, and Roland reads them aloud in such a splendid manner. I had hoped that Dr Deerham would preach for us, or at least read one of his own sermons, for it would be such a privilege to hear him speak his own words but he did not.”
Peter chuckled. “You are an admirer, I think.”
“Oh yes! Although he was rather stiff when he was here, and did not mingle very much. But his sermons are beautifully written. How wonderful it must be to have that ability to put words together, ordinary, everyday words, in such a way that the listener is greatly moved and immediately wishes to begin a scheme of improvement.”
“Perhaps Dr Beasley may be persuaded to read one of Dr Deerham’s sermons to us one evening, for I should like to see what scheme of improvement might inflict itself upon me. There! You are released from your stays.”
“Thank you. How lovely it must be to be a man and be able to get oneself into and out of one’s garments unassisted.”
“Shall you take on a lady’s maid? We can afford it now that we are rich,” Peter said, placing his coat carefully over a chair.
Phyllida sat down to deal with shoes and stockings. “I hope I shall never be so grand as to need a proper lady’s maid, no matter how rich we are. Has Lord Silberry told you how much you will get?”
“He does not have the final figures, but he will repay the loan in full, with all the interest and penalties for late payment, and more besides. I shall have no less than twenty five thousand, and perhaps thirty thousand.”
“Oh.” She paused from unrolling one stocking to look up at him as he unwound his neckcloth. “What is that worth in terms of income?”
“With your four hundred, we will have… certainly twelve hundred and perhaps fifteen or sixteen hundred a year.”
“Oh,” she said again. “Was that as much as you had before?”
He sat down and kicked off his shoes. “I had two thousand… sometimes two and a half thousand a year, but I never spent more than a thousand a year, even with all the expense of Low Hill. We can certainly afford a proper house, if you wish for it.”
She bent her head to the stockings once more. “I still like the idea of a cottage, but we could engage perhaps three female servants, a cook housekeeper, a kitchen maid and a housemaid, as well as a manservant and a groom. You will want a horse, I assume.”
“Several, for how else is your carriage to be pulled?”
That made her laugh. “I am to have a carriage, am I?”
“Of course, and who better to build it than Winslade and Son, Coach Builders to the gentry.”
She froze, her last stocking suspended in mid-air. “And son?”
“If you have no objection, I thought to make Christian my heir. Ask him to change his name to Winslade. If… if you do not mind it. He is my stepson, after all, and I should like to regularise the position, since we shall be in business together. But not if you dislike the idea.”
Phyllida wanted to cry. Of all the outcomes she had envisaged for Christian, this was one that had never so much as crossed her mind, even in her most optimistic moments. Her heart was too full for mere words, so she jumped up and crossed the room to where Peter sat on the bed, one stocking on and one off, and threw her arms around him.
“You are the most wonderful man in Christendom and I love you so much I cannot tell you,” she said huskily, burying her face in his shoulder.
He wrapped one arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head. “Sweetheart… so you do not regret our hasty marriage, then?”
That made her look up at him, laughing. “How can you ask me such a question? Silly Peter! It was the best hasty marriage I have ever made.”
He smiled gently. “Silly yourself. But you see, I still cannot quite understand what made you do it. I am very glad you did — very, very glad — but I do wonder at it. I may be rich now, or at least richer than I was, but I was not a very good catch then, and it was so sudden. After refusing even to consider marriage for weeks and weeks, suddenly you wanted it and could not wait an instant.”
“The opportunity presented itself. It is so difficult to make a decision, is it not? So many times I thought about telling Roland the whole of my sad history. I wanted to, truly I did, so that there should be no secrets between us, but the time never seemed to be right, and so it was with you, my dear love. I had begun to think about it, in fact, I thought about little else on that journey north — of what it would be like to be married, to have a companion who was a friend but more than a friend, to whom one might talk about… oh, anything at all. But making the decision… that was the difficulty. And then there was the business of banns and fuss and clothes and convincing Roland and Viola that I knew what I was doing. I had enough trouble convincing myself! But there was the smith and the anvil and no fuss at all, and I just knew it was right. I wanted to leave mousy Miss Beasley behind once and for all, and be Phyllida the Adventuress for the rest of my life, which could only be done with you.”
“Phyllida the Adventuress! I like that. My lovely adventurous wife, the joy of my heart and my shining light in the darkness. I never knew what happiness was until I married you. That was the best day of my life.”
“Was it? Not the day we met? Is that not when our lives changed for ever, over the polishing in the church?”
“Yes, but that just uncorked the bottle of my feelings. My life has been turbulent enough of late, but not in ways that affected my composure. I was disappointed to lose the bank, but not heart-broken, not despondent or worse. But meeting you churned up a whole array of passions I had never suspected lay within me. The ecstasy of a smile from you, the despair when you said you had no wish to marry… you cannot imagine how down I was at times on our journey north. Even my optimistic spirit was quenched for a while. And then joy, unalloyed and exquisite joy, at the smithy, and so it has remained ever since. Nothing but the utmost happiness since that day.”
Sighing with pleasure, she said, “So it has been for me, too, but all things considered, it must be better to feel deeply than to hide from life. It is impossible to enjoy great happiness without also risking great sadness. How lucky we are to have our great adventure.”
“Are you ready for our next adventure, an even greater one, perhaps?”
Tipping her head to one side, she said, “Our next adventure? Not one that takes us away from here, I hope.”
“No, not that sort of adventure, although we might do some of that. Phyllida, how long have we been married?”
“Five weeks and two days.”
“And what has not occurred in that time?”
“Not occurred? What can you mean?”
“Something that happens regularly to ladies, but has not happened to you since we married.”
“Happens regularly—? Oh!” She sat bolt upright, clapping her hands across her astonished mouth. “Oh!”
Peter chuckled. “Is it possible, do you think?”
Slowly she placed her hands on her stomach. “Oh, Peter! What an adventure that would be.”
“I think Christian will like to have a little brother or sister.”
“It will not change your plans to make him your heir?”
“Why should it? He is your son, and therefore mine also, but it will be wonderful to increase our family. A girl, I think, with your lovely eyes.”
“No, a boy, with your spirit of adventure,” Phyllida said, smiling at him. “Oh, Peter, it would be the greatest blessing, but do not depend upon it, for such matters are never certain.”
Peter kissed her lightly on the lips. “I never count the coin until it is in my hand, you know that. I shall take what comes, good or bad, because as long as I have you by my side, I shall have all I need. What a glorious future we have before us, my darling adventuress.”
Phyllida smiled in delight.
THE END
The next book in the series is Stranger at the Cottage, wherein Miss Cokely’s new lodger arrives. Deborah Hollingsworth says she’s there to start a school, but what is she really up to? And what will happen when she tries to draw reclusive Mr Exton into her plans? You can read a sneak preview after the acknowledgements, or find out more at my website.