Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood

Sneak preview: Stranger at the Cottage: Chapter 1: Miss Cokely Takes A Lodger

SEPTEMBER

Deborah Hollingsworth gazed at Bramble Cottage with some dismay. Never was a residence more aptly named, for every corner of the little garden was choked with briars, and the house itself was depressingly small. Having just left a so-called cottage that boasted eight bedrooms and a drawing room large enough to hold a modest ball, if the dancers were not too exuberant, she had not imagined that her new home would be quite so cottage-like.

There was nothing to be done about it, however, for the boy from the inn was already wheeling his barrow up the path and the front door was opening. A small figure in black appeared.

“Miss Hollingsworth! Do come in,” the figure called out, waving to her.

Deborah fixed a smile to her face, and followed the boy briskly up the path, heady with the scent of lavender. “Miss Cokely? How do you do.”

Miss Cokely was somewhere in that indeterminate age beyond forty but not yet elderly. She was reed thin, with greying hair under her spinster’s cap, and an anxious expression, despite the smile.

“Welcome to Great Maeswood, Miss Hollingsworth. And to your new home, also. Do come inside and rest. Are you exhausted? Travelling is so tiring, is it not, and the coach was late again. It is always late.”

She ushered Deborah into the hall, where her box and portmanteau already sat, the boy from the inn grinning at her expectantly. Deborah gave him sixpence, the grin widened and he dashed away, his barrow crunching over the gravel, crushing a few more heads of lavender under his wheel as he went.

“Oh,” Miss Cokely said, staring after him. “We should have got him to put your luggage in your room. Sarah? Ah, there you are. Can you put these in Miss Hollingsworth’s room?”

Sarah was a spindly girl of no more than fourteen, wearing a stained apron that was overlarge for her.

“I can manage,” Deborah said. “These are only light. I might need a hand with the big boxes when they arrive.”

“Big boxes?” Miss Cokely said faintly. “Are there many such?”

“Only three. I have left them at the inn to be brought by cart tomorrow. Most of my things have been left with my cousin to keep for me. Is this my room?”

The maid had thrown open a door, through which could be glimpsed a heavy bed with an elaborately carved wooden canopy, although the hangings were light and pretty.

“It is,” Miss Cokely said, then added anxiously, “I hope it will suit. I have never had a lodger before, you see.”

Deborah picked up the portmanteau and tossed it onto the bed, then came back to where Sarah was struggling to lift the box. “There is a handle on the side here, do you see?” Deborah said, picking it up without effort. “Much easier to carry. Well, this is a lovely room, much bigger than I had expected.” And that was at least partly true.

“Oh… do you like it?” Miss Cokely went slightly pink with pleasure. “It was my mother’s room for many years, and she was very fond of it. That is her portrait in the corner there. Dr Broughton drew it, and it is an excellent likeness. Captures her to the life! I have a bigger one in the front parlour, done when she was much younger but this one was taken not long before she died. Did Dr Broughton explain? She died just a few weeks ago, and that is why I am taking in a lodger. It was all his idea. Such a kind gentleman! He organised men to paint the walls and floorboards, too, to freshen the room, for it had grown rather shabby, and Miss Charu Gage made new hangings. It looks quite different now, apart from the bed. Oh, and the portrait of the judge in the other corner. He is very firmly affixed to the wall and cannot be removed without damage, so I hope you do not mind him. Mama said he kept her righteous — just her little joke. I do hope you will be comfortable in here.”

Deborah gazed at the stern face of the judge glaring down at her, and said, “I am sure I shall. His Honour the judge will certainly keep me from straying into misbehaviour, and it will please me to have your mama watching over me. What a lovely smile she has! She had a long and happy life, I am sure.”

“Oh, yes! Very long, and happy… yes, I am sure she was, although she was not quite herself latterly.”

“It is often so with the very elderly,” Deborah said. “They grow forgetful, and like to live in the past.”

“Yes. Yes, indeed,” Miss Cokely said, although she sounded doubtful. “Well, Sarah will unpack for you, and when you are ready, we shall have some tea and cake. I have made a lemon cake in honour of your arrival.”

“How kind you are! I am excessively fond of lemon cake,” Deborah said. Two true statements.

The unpacking was swiftly accomplished, for Deborah was not one to sit idly by when there was work to be done, and Sarah was soon dispatched back to the kitchen, her usual domain to judge by the gravy stains on her apron. Deborah closed the door behind the maid, and stood, hands on hips, surveying her new home. It was not in the grand style she was accustomed to, but it would do well enough for the moment. Apart from the bed, there was a wardrobe and press, a washstand, screen and close stool. Beside the fire was a comfortable chair and small table, and in the wide bay window sat a good-sized table and chair. Small, but adequate to her needs. The fire was laid but not lit, and the room felt chilly. She would have to enquire delicately as to how much coal she was permitted.

Quietly she felt around the bed. No hidden drawers or compartments anywhere, but the mattress was a thick, heavy one of the old-fashioned sort, not soft but sturdy enough to last for years without restuffing. She found a good place under the pillow, hard by the headboard. Reaching for her sewing box, she quickly made a thin slit in the fabric. With some manoeuvring her jewel boxes were fitted inside, before she neatly stitched up the slit and replaced the pillow. Only then did she relax. Her treasure was safe for the moment.

She ventured back to the hall again. The door opposite her own stood open, and the chink of teacups on saucers suggested that this was where the tea was being prepared.

“Miss Cokely?” Deborah looked about her doubtfully, for the room was full of hats. There were bonnets and bandeaux and turbans and elegant little caps on stands covering every available surface, and a glass-fronted cabinet was filled with more of them. Pots of feathers of all shapes and sizes sat on the floor in a corner. Deborah was immediately entranced by a woodland hat of lemon-coloured chip, with curled ostrich feathers in lilac and white. “Ohhh…” she breathed. “I would so love a hat like this, and a gown and pelisse to match.”

“The hat you may have, for fifteen shillings,” Miss Cokely said, with a smile. “The gown and pelisse I cannot supply, but everything you see is for sale. I make them myself, and sell trimmings for those who wish to rework their own.” After the briefest hesitation, she went on, “I have no other income now that Mama is gone. Papa was the parson here, you see, so she had a little pension from the church, but now I have only my millinery.”

“Hence the lodger,” Deborah said briskly, understanding at once. “We must all do what is necessary to survive, must we not? I have the first month’s rent for you, in advance, as Dr Broughton specified. And I shall add the fifteen shillings for the hat, but oh dear! I can see it will be very expensive to live here. That little cap is quite delicious. And what a lovely Spanish helmet.”

Miss Cokely laughed, and her thin face lit up as if illuminated by the sun. For that instant, Deborah glimpsed the pretty young woman she must once have been before the years had eroded her bloom and poverty had given her the perpetually anxious look. For she was certainly poor. This tiny cottage was barely big enough for one person, yet she must squeeze in a lodger to help pay the rent.

“Come and sit down, Miss Hollingsworth,” Miss Cokely said. “Let me pour you a cup of tea.”

There was a little table and two chairs in the bay window, with the tea things laid out ready. Oddly, there was also a clock, a notebook and pencil on the table, too.

“I beg your pardon, do I disturb your work?” Deborah said, gesturing to the notebook as she sat down. “Are you making lists, or doing your accounts?”

“No, no. That was Mama’s. She used to sit here in this very chair watching the world go by and making notes in her little book. Have a look at it. I keep this table exactly as she left it. Sheer sentiment, of course, but one does not like to get rid of all evidence of her existence. Milk in your tea?”

“Thank you, yes.”

Deborah opened the book and read a few lines. ‘Miss Gage fr v 14 a 6 Leah Timpson t v 16 a 6 carrying basket Mr Vale’s cart fr v 25 a 6’

“Whatever does it mean?”

“Poor Mama used to write down whenever anyone went past on the road — every cart, every maid dashing down to Timpson’s shop, every idle groom sauntering after the maid. Grooms do saunter, do you not think? One never sees them running or even walking briskly.”

Deborah laughed. “Maids saunter too, in my experience, but then if I were a scullery maid, stuck in the basement all day, I would enjoy the fresh air, too, and take as long as possible over the errand.”

“Well, perhaps that accounts for the grooms, too,” Miss Cokely said. “Stables are nasty, smelly places. Do have a slice of lemon cake, Miss Hollingsworth.”

“Mmm, deliciously moist,” Deborah said politely, wondering whether cake with tea was a special treat. If so, she was just going to have to make her own. “This is excellent tea, too.”

“It was a present from the younger Mr Gage,” Miss Cokely said. “People are so generous.”

“Do you go into society much, Miss Cokely?”

“A little. There are a few in the village who still remember me as the parson’s daughter and are kind in consequence, so I am occasionally invited to dine out. And look, you are about to meet one of my oldest friends — Miss Viola Gage.” She chuckled, pointing out of the window to the bustling figure approaching the door. “I knew she would call as soon as you arrived. She loves to know everything that is going on.”

Miss Gage was of an age with Miss Cokely, but although her pelisse was clearly of the most expensive wool, it was so severe and dowdy a style that Deborah could hardly bear to look at it. Her fingers itched to rip out the sleeves and rework them. Miss Cokely’s unrelieved black bombazine was plain, too, but her clever fingers had contrived to make it both elegant and yet appropriate to her reduced station in life.

The introductions were made, another chair brought to the table, another cup of tea poured, another slice of lemon cake cut.

“Well, Miss Hollingsworth, I am sure you will be excessively comfortable here,” Miss Gage said, as soon as the basic civilities had been got out of the way. “The best room in the house, that is what you have, and very generous it is of Lucy to offer it to a paying guest. It was the parlour originally, as you can probably tell from the fireplace and the fancy cornicing around the ceiling. Only plain cornicing in the rest of the house. This would have been a morning room, I suppose, or a book room for a gentleman, perhaps. But there, Mrs Cokely took that room for herself when she left the parsonage, and now you have it.”

“It was the only room that would take a bed of that size,” Miss Cokely said.

“Your mama should have got rid of that bed, if you want my opinion,” Miss Gage said. “One has to cut one’s cloth according to one’s means. But now you have the benefit of it, Miss Hollingsworth, and all new curtains, as well. We had some old hangings that were no longer wanted, so our cousin, Miss Charu Gage, made them afresh for your room. So clever with her fingers, Charu, and so very condescending to undertake such work, when her mother was a princess in India. Almost a princess, anyway. Miss Hollingsworth, your name is familiar. I do believe there was a gentleman of that name who used to stay at Maeswood Hall as a guest of Lord Saxby occasionally. His estate was in Berkshire. Are you related, by any chance?”

“He is my father,” Deborah said. “It is because of him that I came here, in fact. He spoke so highly of Shropshire in general and Great Maeswood in particular that I decided to make my home in the county. I could hardly believe my luck to hear of lodgings in the very same village that Papa so loved.” And that was almost true. It was so much easier to be truthful amongst strangers.

Miss Gage preened at the praise. “I am certain you will be pleased with Shropshire. It is the prettiest of counties, in my opinion, although Brinshire has its share of beauty too. Are you then acquainted with the Saxbys?”

“No, not at all, and my father has not seen Lord Saxby these ten years or more.”

“Perhaps you are not aware, then, that his lordship died this past January. We await the arrival of his successor, a distant cousin from Scotland. A bank clerk,” she added, her lip curling.

Dead! That was a blow, but not necessarily fatal to her plans.

The talk was all of the bank clerk for a while, but then Miss Gage said, “And how is your dear father?”

An inevitable question, but so difficult to answer. “He is well, so far as I am aware, but he is in India, so—”

“Oh, indeed, the mail must be so difficult! So many months for a letter to wend its way from one country to the other, and sometimes lost altogether. The seas are so treacherous around… around the… erm…”

“The Cape of Good Hope,” Deborah said, “although it was earlier known as the Cape of Storms, a more apt description, from all I have heard.”

“Yes, indeed,” Miss Gage said, eyeing her with the wariness often shown towards women who displayed even a modest amount of book-learning. “The Cape of Storms, indeed. Most apt, I am sure. So your father is in India…”

Deborah willingly gave her the information she so obviously desired. “And my brother George, also. He is three years older than I am, so he is five and twenty now. My mother died when I was thirteen, and I lived with her brother, Lord Mayston, until I grew up.”

“Oh, Lord Mayston? I do not quite recall…”

“He is a baron. His principal estate is Willaston Park in Berkshire. My uncle died quite unexpectedly four years ago, and a cousin inherited, of whom I knew little. I felt I had no claim on him, so I went to my Hollingsworth kin, my aunt first, then an uncle and latterly a cousin. But I am two and twenty now, and it is time for me to make my own way in the world. Consequently, I have moved here, far from all my relations, so that I shall not be tempted to run back to them whenever I hit the smallest obstacle. I shall look about me for some suitable project, for I so dislike to be idle. Something will be found, I am sure.”

Not true in all particulars, but it was her official story, and she saw from her listeners’ faces that it was received without question. Miss Cokely was nodding sympathetically, and Miss Gage’s expression had brightened at the mention of Lord Mayston. Should she mention Aunt Holbrook’s connection? Probably not. One lord in the family was fortunate, but two sounded like boasting.

“Well! A baron… no wonder your father was acquainted with the late Lord Saxby. Indeed, one admires your forbearance, for if your uncle had accepted responsibility for you, then naturally his heir would inherit the obligation. But still, it is very proper to step aside, although brave, to leave the shelter of your family. But I understood you to be a governess? Is that not what you told Dr Broughton when he interviewed you on Miss Cokely’s behalf?”

Interviewed her? As if she were a servant! She had rather thought that she were interviewing him, but it was of no consequence.

“I acted in the rôle of governess for my cousin’s four eldest children, as a way to make myself useful,” she said firmly. “I found myself to have a little talent for such work, so if I cannot find a paid position, I may set up a parlour school for the labourers’ children. Is there such a school in Great Maeswood?”

“Certainly not,” Miss Gage said, “for why would such children need to attend a school? Education is for the better classes.”

“It is useful for every child to be able to read and write and add, even labourers’ children,” Deborah said.

“But what is the point, when the boys will be labourers in their turn, and the girls will marry or go into service?”

“So that they can read the Holy Bible and Prayer Book for themselves,” Deborah said. “So that they can sign their names. So that the girls who go into service can write home to their parents, the girls who marry can record their household budget and the boys may better themselves, if they will. In every family, there is one child who has a little more quickness than his brothers and sisters, and just a little education will open up possibilities to improve his position in life.”

“And where would we be if every jumped-up farm worker aspired to put on a black coat and wig, and call himself an attorney?” Miss Gage said indignantly. “The well-defined ranks of English society have served us well for centuries. Would you see us torn apart by revolutionaries, Miss Hollingsworth, and even the King himself put aside?”

“No, indeed, for look what happens when one executes the King — one finds oneself living under the rule of a Bonaparte,” Deborah said. “I do not wish to overturn society, merely to allow farm workers to read and write, for every duke and marquess and baron, and even the King himself, had peasant ancestors who grubbed in the English soil like everyone else.”

“Or French soil,” put in Miss Cokely. “Those who came over with William of Normandy perhaps grubbed in French soil.”

Deborah laughed and agreed to it, but Miss Gage looked outraged.

“It is no laughing matter, Miss Hollingsworth. Everyone should stay in his or her designated rank, as God ordained, and what you propose is quite inappropriate, if you want my opinion. Nor is it appropriate for you to be teaching in such a school, when your uncle was a baron. What you really want is a husband, and we shall see what we can do for you.”

“That is most obliging of you, but—”

“You are too late for the summer assemblies, but the squire will be holding his Michaelmas ball again and of course you must come to our card parties — every Tuesday at eight, at the Grove. And you will come to the Beasleys’ tonight, of course. Lucy will show you the way.”

“But I am not acquainted with—”

“No matter. I will just run down there and let them know you will be coming. Well, good day to you, Miss Hollingsworth. Good day, Lucy. Until we meet this evening.”

Miss Cokely saw her friend out, then came back and poured more tea for them both. “It is best not to resist Viola when she is determined to be helpful. Smile at her, thank her prettily and then do exactly as you intended. It is best that way.”

Deborah laughed. “Is that what you do?”

“Invariably. She is very free with her advice and she is almost always wrong, so I never take a bit of notice of her. She was horrified when I began selling my bonnets, but since the alternative was the work house, it was not a difficult decision to make.”

“And I am keeping you from your work,” Deborah said. “If you can spare me just five more minutes, you may show me what needs doing in the garden, and then I can make a start while the weather is fine.”

“Oh, how kind you are, but I would not have you feel obliged. Do you enjoy gardening?”

“I need to be active, Miss Cokely. On wet days, I shall help you with your bonnets, on dry days I shall dig and prune and weed, and when I have got my bearings a little, I shall start my parlour school. That will be far more fun than looking for a husband, do you not think?”

Miss Cokely nodded slowly. “A little help would be most agreeable. Do you know, Miss Hollingsworth, I believe I am going to enjoy having a lodger very much. Mama used to be very good company, but she was not herself these last few years, and servants are not at all the same, are they? We shall have a lovely long coze over our dinner, which is at four. I usually have a little supper later — a coddled egg or toasted cheese, something like that, but tonight we shall get a good supper at Dr Beasley’s card party. How glad I am that you are here.”

She smiled happily.

~~~~~

On the edge of the village, hidden behind its shroud of trees, was Green Lawns, the very last house on the Shrewsbury road. In the hall, even the long-case clock was silent, for no one had remembered to wind it. Motes of dust danced an elegant minuet in a shaft of light from the fanlight above the door. On the polished wooden floor, a letter sat, slightly bent. David picked it up with a sigh. The third such that week alone, pushed under the front door in the dead of night. What was the point of them? Every one was identical to its predecessors — the name on the outside, in neat copperplate, read ‘D Exton Esq’. Inside, the same five words, ‘I know what you did’.

With a sigh, he took it into the study, opened up the banked fire with the poker and burned it to ashes.

 

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