Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood
3: Saturday And Sunday
“What do you mean, you have to go to the Manor? Why are you going to the Manor?” Viola’s voice was shrill with disbelief.
“Mr Winslade has asked me to help him sort out the squire’s papers,” Phyllida said. “It is better with two, he says.”
Viola stared at her, as if trying to work out whether she was truly planning to spend the day sorting through old bills, or whether she was up to some nefarious enterprise. Eventually she grunted. “Hmpf, well, you were always one for charitable missions, and I suppose you view this in the same light. I shall go to Woollercott by myself, then. How long will this helping last?”
“A week or two, I should think. Not very long.”
“And you will be back here each evening? You are not staying at the Manor?”
“Oh no, Viola! No, indeed. Just from breakfast until three o’clock. I have to be back to see to the dinner.”
Viola marched out of the Villa without another word. It was curiously freeing, Phyllida found, not to be expected to accompany Viola on all her gossip distribution missions. Her time was her own again, and she felt almost light-headed at the prospect.
Her first day at the Manor was grey and wet, so she was thoroughly drenched by the time she arrived, to find Susannah and Mr Winslade still at breakfast.
“Do sit down and have something to eat,” Susannah said kindly. “A cup of tea, at least. Goodness, you are soaked. Robert, see that Miss Beasley’s pelisse and bonnet are properly dried out.”
Phyllida had breakfasted some time ago, but tea was always acceptable. She sat down rather timidly, for she had never breakfasted at the Manor in this informal way before. For the Easter and Michaelmas balls, when everyone was invited to stay, breakfast was a massive affair served in the armoury. However, Susannah and Mr Winslade chatted quite easily — Mr Winslade was trying to get the younger children’s names and ages straight in his mind — and before long, Phyllida was nibbling a Bath bun almost without realising it. Such an array of cakes and pastries! It was very hard to resist. She and Roland had fallen into such a rut with meals, for Roland always had his mutton chop and an egg for breakfast, with ale to drink, and Phyllida had her toast and a slice of pound cake with tea, and really there was no need for such economy. Dr Broughton, bless him, ate whatever was put in front of him, and so did his little daughter. Such a sweet child! Of course, everything would change when Susannah married Dr Broughton. She would expect a spread like this every day, and Mrs Shinn would have to learn new receipts, no doubt.
Goodness, how her thoughts were wandering! She must pay attention. Now Mr Winslade was explaining what he planned to do first in the book room — the strong box, then the locked drawers of the desk, then the locked cupboards. After that, the unlocked cupboards, drawers and shelves and only then the box of loose papers.
“By then, I should have all the boxes I need for sorting,” he said cheerfully.
“All forty of them,” Susannah said, smiling.
“Forty six, for Mrs Cobbett found me six in the cellar. Those should be cleaned and awaiting me already. I may need more later, we shall see. There is nothing more disruptive to the proper filing of papers than inadequate numbers of boxes, for then one must begin to combine them, placing the coal merchant’s bills with the tailor, and just imagine the potential confusion.”
Susannah only laughed, but Phyllida considered the matter carefully. “One could perhaps combine certain related tradesmen,” she said. “The mantua-maker and the milliner, for example, or the butcher and the poulterer.”
“One might perhaps do so if pressed for space,” he said solemnly, “but it is not so efficient a method. My office at the bank had hundreds of drawers, one for each client and one for each supplier. I could lay my hands on any paper in a matter of seconds.”
“Oh yes, I quite see that,” Phyllida said. “If multiple subjects are combined in one drawer, then one would have to search through to find just the one wanted.”
“Precisely so!” he said, with a beaming smile, his round face looking even rounder.
“You two will get along famously,” Susannah said, laughing at them. “Forgive me, Miss Beasley, Cousin, but I must be off to the kitchens, but after that I shall be in my office until noon, if there is anything you need to know.”
“Do you wish to be present when the strong box is opened?” Mr Winslade said.
“No. I trust you, Cousin.”
“Miss Beasley will ensure nothing untoward occurs,” he said.
“You are very punctilious. Let me know if you find anything unexpected.”
“Well, Miss Beasley, shall we make a start?”
The strong box had clearly not been opened for some time, for at first the locks resisted all efforts with the keys. However, a few drops of oil persuaded them to yield. There was not much inside, apart from several title deeds, a folder of documents relating to buying or selling land, various wills and settlement papers and one leather-bound notebook.
“No money or jewellery,” Phyllida said. “Perhaps they have another safe place for them.”
The vast desk, cleared of its mountain of papers, now bore only an inkstand with several pens, a shaker of pounce, a box of paper and a leather pad to write on. To one side, a strip of felt had been laid, and Mr Winslade placed the contents of the strong box upon it and sat down to begin an inventory.
“All these documents are from long ago,” Phyllida said, frowning. “Nothing from the last fifty years, at least. This relates to a marriage in 1637, and this will is— Oh, this book is strange. Drawings… sketches of paintings, by the look of it. Italian names. Perhaps a record of someone’s Grand Tour.”
Mr Winslade glanced at the notebook. “Very likely, but that would be an assumption. I shall record it as ‘A notebook, eight inches by six, containing drawings’. There. Shall we replace these and begin on the desk drawers?”
There was still no money or jewellery, but the two locked drawers contained a quantity of papers relating to holdings in various companies.
“A canal… a silver mine in Argentina… three projects in New Holland… a company to start a passenger air balloon service between London and Paris… gracious me!”
Phyllida laughed. “Here is one for a company to develop a machine to forecast the weather! How could such a thing be possible in this country, when the weather changes by the minute? A skilled countryman may know when he wakes if the day will be fine enough for planting or harvesting, but as for tomorrow or next week — I do not see how it could be done.”
“Indeed, our British scientists are truly inventive, but that must be a hoax. These two have potential — an improved water frame, which I believe is a device for spinning cotton. And this one is a coal mine. I shall have to write to see if these companies are still in existence.”
“And we have barely started on your great endeavour,” Phyllida said, looking round at the numerous cupboards and cabinets, and the large box. “Are you not daunted, Mr Winslade? Just a little?”
“Not at all, Miss Beasley. It is indeed a great endeavour, but it is also a great adventure, for who knows what treasures we may find?”
“But there is so much to be done!”
“Then we shall tackle it one item at a time,” he said. “It is no different from the way one eats a pound cake — one cuts a single slice and eats that, then a second slice, and so on, and before one knows it, the cake is quite gone, and one wonders exactly how that could have happened.”
She giggled, although rather guiltily, for although she had never quite managed to eat an entire pound cake, it was astonishing how often half of it vanished without her noticing. “Have you ever eaten a whole pound cake at once, Mr Winslade?”
He smiled jovially and patted his stomach. “Let us merely say that I am excessively fond of pound cake, and draw a veil over any further discussion of the point. Shall we assign our first filing box for company holdings to be investigated further, and move on to the next drawer?”
~~~~~
That evening at dinner, Peter was introduced to Susannah’s betrothed, Dr Broughton, finding him to be a sensible man, rather serious but with a softened expression whenever he looked at Susannah. Over the first course, he was polite enough to take an interest in what Peter now firmly thought of as his Great Endeavour. So Miss Beasley had named it, and so it would remain in his mind. He told his audience something of what he had found so far.
“Shares in companies?” Susannah said.
“Yes, all from many years ago — twenty-five or thirty years.”
“That must have been when Papa was flush with funds,” Susannah said. “The estate had been improving for some years, and Grandpapa was a very careful manager, so when Papa inherited, he was minded to cut rather a dash. He came into his inheritance very young, that must be his excuse. There was a house in town and no end of lavish parties, reportedly. I daresay his investments arose in those days. Are they worth anything now?”
“That is very hard to say,” Peter said. “Any profitable enterprises would have been paying dividends from time to time, but I have not yet reached a point where I can determine if that was the case or not. Some of them look… very speculative.”
Susannah laughed. “Papa would have enjoyed taking a gamble on some wild idea. I should burn the lot, if I were you.”
“Oh, no! I could not possibly do that,” Peter said. “That would be shocking indeed, for some of those companies may still be in business.”
After dinner, Susannah wished to see the notebook with the sketches.
“Miss Beasley thinks it is very likely a record of a Grand Tour,” Peter said.
“Yes, there is not much skill in the drawings,” Susannah said. “Very much the work of an amateur. I think Miss Beasley may be correct.”
“Then why keep such a thing in the strong box?” Dr Broughton said. “Why lock it up for safekeeping unless it has some intrinsic value?”
No one could answer him. After a moment, Susannah said, “Shall we play backgammon? Cousin, you must play against Dr Broughton, while I watch.”
“No, indeed,” Peter said. “I shall be quite happy with a book to read. The library here has many interesting volumes.”
“I insist,” Susannah said. “Dr Broughton is very tolerant of my mistakes, but he will appreciate a player of greater skill.”
Peter could not refuse. It was fortunate that Dr Broughton proved to be a gracious loser, and although they only played for shillings, Peter went to his bed with an extra three pounds and eight shillings in his pocket.
~~~~~
The next day was Sunday and another wet day, and since Peter now had very few sets of clothes and no valet to restore them to order if they became muddy, he chose to ride in the carriage with Susannah and some of the children. Susannah had assured him that these were the best behaved of them, and that Miss Norton, the governess, had charge of the boys in the travelling coach, but the three girls chattered so much that his ears were ringing. Susannah seemed not to mind — perhaps she did not even notice — but the contrast with the tranquillity of his former life struck Peter forcibly. Was this what family life was like? Yet when he had dined at his partner Linch’s house, he had never seen a sign of his children, would not have known they existed, in fact.
The service followed the same pattern as in churches up and down the land, and the familiar liturgy was deeply reassuring. Peter may have lost almost every worldly possession, but sitting in the Manor pew he could find many blessings for which to be thankful, and his faith was by no means the least of them. The sermon was too short, Peter felt, but the parson had a fine ringing voice, to match his fine figure, fashionable clothes and handsome, smiling face. The young ladies in the congregation were particularly attentive.
Outside the church, despite the dampness in the air, the congregation gathered to exchange the week’s news. Peter heard the words ‘Lord Saxby’s heir’ and ‘bank clerk’ and ‘Scotland’ on many lips, and smiled to himself. Some were clearly shocked, but Peter found it rather delightful that somewhere in the far north a common man was learning of his spectacular good fortune. He was being raised up just as suddenly as Peter had been cast down, and there was a pleasing symmetry in the twin changes of fortune. It all went to show that just as one should never take one’s success for granted, so one should never give way to despair, either, for an improvement may lie just around the next corner.
Several people came to greet Peter, among them Miss Beasley’s brother, Dr Beasley, as well as the brother of the gossiping Miss Gage, a pleasant-faced man of Peter’s own age.
“Delighted to see you again,” Mr Gage said. “If you are making a long stay, you may care to know that we hold an informal card party every Tuesday at eight. You will be very welcome.”
“And come to the Villa on Thursdays,” Dr Beasley added. “Just a few friends, you know how it is, and a bit of supper.”
Peter murmured his thanks, but without much intention of accepting.
When he got back into the carriage, Susannah turned to him excitedly. “The notebook… I must have another look at it. Miss Cokely reminded me of something — Jane, do stop wriggling, if you please, otherwise you will have to walk home with the servants. Dr Broughton wondered why the notebook with sketches of artwork should be kept in the strong box, for it could hardly be valuable in itself. The drawings had little artistic merit, in my view. But Miss Cokely mentioned the Bartwell paintings, and I wondered if the notebook is a record of them — an inventory, if you like.”
“The Bartwell paintings?” Peter said, struggling to keep up.
“Oh — you do not know the story? Lord Bartwell was the man who originally built the Manor — Bartwell Hall, it was called in those days. He was a viscount, and had married a woman with a stupendous dowry, so he set about building a house worthy of her, and filling it with great art.”
“The Bartwell paintings.”
“Exactly so. He was not a man of great taste, so most of them were not noteworthy, but there were eight… I think it was eight… by great masters of the Renaissance. Very valuable, anyway. But everything fell apart — the money ran out, he fell out with his wife, he fell out with his heir, he fell out with everyone! He was a man of combative temperament, by all accounts. In the end, Lord Bartwell sold the whole estate, including the house complete with all its contents, to the squire of the day.”
“Including the paintings?” Peter said, interested now. Even the three children were silent, listening.
“Everything, and the paintings were explicitly included as part of the house. It was Lord Bartwell’s revenge on his squabbling relations, who all laid claim to them. They all thought they had a better right to them than Squire Winslade! But when the Winslades left the original manor house and moved in to Bartwell Hall, no paintings could be found. Oh, all the lesser works were there, but in the Winter Drawing Room, which had been designed specifically to house them, the walls were bare. And the worst of it was that Lord Bartwell had also vanished from the face of the earth. No one knew what had become of him, although given his propensity for duels and the like, it was presumed that he had fled to the continent, taking the paintings with him. In any event, they have never been found, from that day to this. None of them have ever been put on sale, or appeared anywhere. The notebook has been kept, no doubt, because it is the last record, however imperfect, of those paintings and what they looked like.”
“I shall look more carefully at the notebook, in case there is any clue therein as to the whereabouts of the paintings.”
“No doubt it has been examined very thoroughly already.”
“Oh, assuredly so, but a fresh pair of eyes is always useful,” Peter said. “By the way, may I assume that your jewels are kept in a safe place?”
“The good pieces are all in the strong box. Why do you ask?”
“Ah. There was nothing of that sort in the strong box.”
“What!” Susannah spun round to face him. “But they should be there! If they are not, then I cannot think where they might be. I shall write to Papa at once to see if he has put them somewhere else.”
“He would not, I assume, have sold them?” Peter said gently.
“He could not, for they are not his to sell,” Susannah said crisply. “They belonged to his wives, and now they belong to his daughters.”
“Then we shall find them,” Peter said equably. “If they are in the house, we will find them. And at least we know they exist, unlike the Bartwell paintings.”
~~~~~
Phyllida was enjoying herself. Every day, she left home directly after breakfast to walk the two miles to Cloverstone Manor, then spent four or five hours there with Mr Winslade, sorting, compiling lists and beginning to file things in the many document boxes laid out on every table and cabinet top. They had found some money casually thrust into an unlocked drawer of the desk, but there was no sign of the jewellery.
They had got into the habit of stopping at about one o’clock to drink tea together, sitting comfortably side by side on the sofa. This was now fully restored to human use by the simple expedient of keeping the book room door closed at all times so that the dogs might not wander in there. With the tea there was always a plate of cake of some sort, and on the first occasion, Phyllida had mischievously asked Robert whether Mrs Whiteway ever made a pound cake, since Mr Winslade was so fond of it. After that, each day’s tray had included a whole pound cake, and Phyllida had the opportunity to observe that Mr Winslade had been speaking no less than the truth of his fondness for it. It accounted, perhaps, for a certain roundness of the stomach which he boasted, although he was not a large man in any other way.
While they sat and sipped tea and munched their way through the pound cake, they also talked, or rather Mr Winslade talked. There was not an ounce of reserve in him, and so he told her quite freely of his childhood as the youngest of four children, his education at Leeds Grammar School and Cambridge and his business enterprises. His father had married well and lived as a gentleman, but Peter was a third son, and therefore needed to support himself.
“What made you choose the furniture business?” Phyllida said.
“I have always liked working with wood,” he said simply. “There was a man in the village where I grew up who made everybody’s furniture, and I used to spend hours with him, watching the way his hands moved, the way he would gaze at a piece of wood, sometimes for an hour at a time, then he would simply start to work and there it would be, the chair or cupboard or box, whatever it was. He had a boy to do the routine things, like turning chair legs, but he put everything together, with dovetail joints, or mortise and tenon — so clever! And the marquetry work he did for table tops or cupboard doors… the different woods… oak and elm and cherry, or the exotic ones like teak or mahogany. Or rosewood! That is my favourite, I think — such a wonderful colour! I loved to watch him, and when he was in the right frame of mind, when he was polishing, finishing off, and the piece was coming out the way he had envisaged it, then he would share some of his secrets, and let me try things. I never had his skill, but I loved the feel of wood under my hands, and being able to create something that would stand the test of time, a chair that would still be useful and beautiful in twenty or thirty years time.”
“How satisfying to be able to create something that is both aesthetically pleasing but also functional,” she said.
“As you no doubt do when you make gowns for yourself,” he said.
“I? Not really. There is a woman in Astley Cloverstone who makes up my gowns. I cannot manage sleeves and complicated seams. My needlework is best suited to prosaic items, like petticoats and handkerchiefs,” she said, smiling. “My knitted socks are much sought after by the labourers in the village, however.”
“Very useful items, socks,” he said solemnly. “Shall we share the last slice of cake?”