Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood

5: Attic Interlude

Peter lay where he had fallen, as a shower of objects, some heavy, some light, rained down on his back. There was an ominous tinkling sound, like broken glass. The air was filled with choking dust, and at first he coughed and spluttered in the effort to breathe. Then silence fell. It was utterly dark.

At least he seemed to have landed on something soft, which was a mercy. But a terrible fear rose up in him.

“Miss Beasley?” he whispered, then coughed again.

A muffled sound came from somewhere underneath him. Oh, good heavens, he had landed quite on top of her! Gingerly, he felt around for something that was not a cotton gown, found sharp fragments of something — wood? or glass? — and pushed himself up and away from the softness beneath him. Something jabbed his hand, but although he winced, and perhaps he gasped, he said nothing.

“I most sincerely beg your pardon,” he said, wheezing slightly from the dust. “Are you injured?”

A long silence, then, “I believe not,” she said, and he could hear the surprise in her tone. “And you?”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“Oh!” There was a scuffling and shifting, with the crinkle of fragments of glass being dislodged. “Then you are injured, Mr Winslade.” Her voice was elevated, as if she had sat up.

“No, no. The merest pinprick of a cut, I believe. No broken bones.”

Another shuffling, then she said, “Nor I. We were most fortunate.”

“I hope you did not suffer too great an indignity by… being underneath me in that most improper manner, for which I apologise most profusely.”

A soft chuckle in the darkness. “We fell through the floorboards, Mr Winslade. I do not think any blame may be attached to either of us in the manner of our falling.”

“You are too generous, madam.”

“Do not refine upon it,” she said, and her tone was such that he thought she might be smiling. “But where are we? What room is this? And why is it so dark?”

“Both our lanterns fell with us and were smashed,” he said.

“Yes, but even in a shuttered room, there would be some small amount of light penetrating from outside. This room must be facing south… or possibly southwest… on a summer’s day.”

Peter knew at once that she was right. “Also, we did not fall very far. We must be in another part of the attic. But there may be a door… or stairs.”

“Mr Winslade, I do not like to put my hands on the floor when there is likely broken glass and shards of wood everywhere, but if you could assist me to rise, I could examine our surroundings more closely.”

“Of course.” He stretched out one hand towards her voice, and immediately bumped into soft skin. “Oh! I beg your pardon!” he cried, withdrawing his hand.

She chuckled softly. “I believe we shall get on better if we stop apologising to each other, Mr Winslade. Our present circumstances inevitably necessitate a certain degree of relaxation of the normal constraints of propriety. If you reach out again, I can lever myself to my feet.”

Tentatively, he reached out to her, this time a little lower, until he encountered cotton. At once, her hand grasped his.

“I am going to find your shoulder,” she said, as her hand probed up his arm.

He shivered a little at the intimacy, but she was right — there was no alternative.

“Is that your shoulder?”

“Yes.”

With a quick push and a brief shower of small particles of debris, she shifted, and when she spoke again her voice was above him.

“There! I am up, but I do not believe I can pull you to your feet, and I should not wish you to touch the floor. There are too many sharp fragments, I believe. Stay where you are and I shall creep around the room and see if there is a door.”

“Beware of stairs!” he cried. “Do take the utmost care, Miss Beasley.”

“Indeed I shall. Do keep talking to me, so that I shall not lose you.”

For a moment, he was flummoxed. What on earth could he say, apart from, “Here I am,” at regular intervals? But then he had a thought and began to hum softly.

With a laugh, she said, “Hark! The Herald Angels. That will do very well, Mr Winslade.” There was a gravelly sound as she shuffled forwards. “A wall already, smooth — plastered or wallpapered, I cannot tell. But that is a good sign.”

“Not an attic, then.”

“Quite so. Oh!” The shuffling sounds stopped.

“What is it? What have you found?”

“Something large… oh, it is a large vase or urn of some sort. And another one. A set, I think, of different sizes. And now a box… or cupboard. A large wooden item.” More shuffling sounds. “Another wall. This room is very narrow, perhaps no more than six or eight feet wide. That is odd, is it not? Now I am following another wall. Still no sign of a door or—”

“Ow!”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon!”

He laughed. “No apologies, Miss Beasley! We agreed on that, did we not? You are correct, the room is very narrow, for that is my foot. If I bend my knees, you will not have to step over me.”

“Thank you, sir. Ah, a heavy object. I suspect it may have been the screen we saw. I shall attempt to walk around it. No, I cannot. There is something very large here, covered in some kind of rough cloth. If there is any door or window here, it cannot be reached. Where are you, Mr Winslade?”

“Here.”

“Keep humming. I am going to return the way I came, and then I shall attempt to clear away the debris beside the wall so that we may sit in comfort while we await rescue.”

It took her some little time to accomplish this, inching her way along the wall, past the vases and wooden box and up the other wall, then scraping debris aside with her feet to make a relatively clear patch of floor. Peter removed his coat and spread it on the floor, and they sat side by side with their backs against the wall.

“How long do you think it will be before someone notices we are missing?” she said.

“Not long,” he said. “Robert will expect us to send for tea and cake at noon or thereabouts.”

“If he thinks about it at all, he will check the book room, find us not there and return to the nether regions, quite unconcerned,” she said. “It will not occur to him that we have met with a mishap. I shall not be missed until after four, when I dress for dinner, and Roland will not worry until five o’clock.”

“I shall be expected in the drawing room at half past five,” Peter said. “Since I am usually punctual, Susannah will immediately start a search. So… no more than six or seven hours.”

“Assuming anyone thinks to look in the attic,” she said.

They lapsed into dispirited silence.

After a while, Peter coughed apologetically. “I am beginning to feel a little uncomfortable,” he remarked.

“Are you sitting on some debris?”

“No. It is not that.”

“You hurt yourself when we fell.”

“No, it is not that either. Something far more mundane. I am regretting the quantity of tea I drank at breakfast.”

She gurgled with merriment. “There are several large vases in the corner that might be conveniently employed for the purpose.”

“That would be most embarrassing for both of us.”

She laughed again. “Mr Winslade, this is an emergency. Do what you need to do, and when you return, I shall do likewise, for I too drank a great deal of tea. I shall sing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing while you are thus engaged so that you will not feel self-conscious.”

“How might I find the vases?”

“Stand up and face the wall, then move to your left. It is no more than a dozen or so paces.”

It took some little time, and several renditions of the hymn, before they had both managed to achieve their objective, and were once more seated with their backs to the wall, laughing at their success.

“There, you see?” Miss Beasley said, with a hint of triumph in her voice. “That was most amusing, and not terribly embarrassing, was it?”

“Only a little,” he said. “To be frank, it was rather intimate, somewhat like being married.”

There was a moment of silence. “I would not know about that.”

“Nor would I, naturally,” he said, and somehow the success of their delicate enterprise made him add confidingly, “I have never been married, but I almost was, once.”

“Almost?” she said encouragingly.

“Oh, it was not to be. She was one of those amazing women who draws everyone to her, like bees to honey, so naturally I fell for her instantly. I could hardly believe my luck when she seemed to return my feelings. But a younger son of a younger son was not at all what her family wanted for her. They tried to exchange me for my eldest brother, but the lady would have none of it, and when they tried to press her, she eloped to Scotland with a half-pay officer she had known for precisely three days.”

“Heavens!” she said. “Quite a scandal, then.”

“Well, it was all hushed up. They got her back in time, and would have been happy enough to see her married to me by then. This time, she was the one to jib at it. Eventually, enough money changed hands and a date was agreed upon, the settlements were drawn up and a licence obtained. The wedding clothes were made, even, and you know how final that is. Her family dredged up a bishop from some obscure branch of the lineage and all was set fair, and then—” He chuckled. “You will not believe it, I am sure.”

“Oh, do tell me!”

“She disappeared on the eve of the wedding, practically jilting me at the altar. The little minx had run off to Europe with the half-pay officer. She was not seen again for several years, when she turned up on the arm of a Prussian count.”

“No! But what had happened to the half-pay officer?”

“Ah well, no one quite knows. Perhaps he died, or perhaps he was quietly shuffled off to some remote corner of Europe. Althea called herself a countess, but no one knew for sure. One does not quite like to ask to examine the marriage lines, somehow. And then she died, and everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief.”

She laughed, and said softly, “Not everyone, surely? You must have mourned her loss, Mr Winslade.”

“No, I was very thankful to have been spared the constant melodrama of her life, I assure you. In fact, I was so grateful, that the experience deterred me from any further thought of matrimony until—”

“Until?”

“Oh… one gets a trifle foolish when one is caught up in personal disaster, for it occurred to me that it would be a great comfort to have a wife by my side during my recent troubles. At least there would be one person in the world who still thinks me a remarkably fine fellow, despite it all. But there, I daresay she would berate me even more than I berate myself, and with far greater cause. In my saner moments, I am very glad that my downfall afflicted none but myself. What about you, Miss Beasley? Did you ever come close to marrying?”

“Oh no, not really,” she said, her voice sinking to a whisper.

“Not really? But you must have had suitors, I am sure. You will have had your share of admirers.”

A long silence, which seemed interminable in the darkness. Then, unexpectedly serious, she said, “None, and I shall never marry now.”

“Never say never,” he said genially. “We are neither of us so old as to give up all hope of matrimony.”

“Not you, certainly,” she said quickly. “A man may always consider the prospect. Why, look at the squire, already courting again, so Susannah says. He has gone to Bath to find himself a wife, and he is beyond fifty. I am sure he will be successful, too, for he has grown into maturity with a certain style. A gentleman of any age may move in society and be respected and esteemed, and if he has a fine house and an estate, he will always be considered eligible, and a good catch. A widow has a certain dignity also, if she has kept her looks and is not too poor or over-encumbered with children. But a spinster has a very short time in the sun, Mr Winslade, before her looks fade and she must don a cap and take up the rôle of old maid. My high summer is long gone, and I have accepted these many years that my fate does not lie in marriage.”

He hardly knew what to say to these sad words, yet there was no hint of self-pity in her tone. “But you must have wished for it,” he said gently. “Does not every woman wish for marriage?”

“Many do, I daresay, but I am a realist, you see. I was a timid child and I grew into a timid woman, very much in the shadow of the other young ladies of the parish. The Gage sisters were lively girls, and the younger two very pretty. Henrietta Saxby was such a beauty, and very much the great lady. Jane Winslade — you must remember her, always up to some mischief or other. Even Lucy Cokely was more forward in company than I was. I am still shy of strangers, if the truth be told, and if I were invited to some boisterous party or other, I would be the one hiding in the corner, talking to the governess. I was the poor relation, you see, just a companion to Aunt Margery.”

Peter was both thrilled by these unexpected revelations, and also disturbed by them. Poor Miss Beasley had decided that she was of no account, and kept herself in her presumed place in the world. Yet she must be talking about a time long ago, for the first Lady Saxby and the first Mrs Winslade had been dead for years.

“You are not the poor relation now,” he said. “You are the physician’s sister, and a person of some consequence in the village. You are not so old as to surrender all hope of a husband. You cannot be more than five or six and thirty, and—”

“Forty,” she said. “I am forty years of age, Mr Winslade, without fortune or looks or conversation. No man of sense would want me.”

“You sell yourself far too short, Miss Beasley,” he said in rising indignation. “I cannot imagine how pretty you must have been at eighteen, for I must tell you that at forty, you are as handsome a woman as I ever saw. If I had more than two farthings to my name, I would be wondering very seriously if you were the very one to entice me to the altar.”

“Then you would be insane,” she said sharply. “Do not allow the strangeness of our present situation to draw you into flirtation, sir, for I do not appreciate such behaviour.”

He was deflated immediately. “I have offended you, and can only proffer my apology for any perceived insult. But I assure you, I do not flirt. I have never had the way of it — that easy manner, with a light jest here and a delicate compliment there. My mind is not subtle enough for such games. You must believe that I speak only the truth. I never met a woman who I feel would so well suit me as you, and if I were in any position to marry, I should take you in my arms this minute and kiss you, and see where that might lead us.”

She gave a muffled sound, like a gasp, and shifted abruptly, scuffling the debris on the floor. Then all he could hear was her breathing, shallow and rapid, as if she were distressed.

If only he could see her face! Had he upset her? Angered her?

And then, as clear as a bell in the darkness, came a soft sob. She was crying.

What agony to listen and be unable to comfort her! If only he could reach out and take her in his arms, and let her cry on his shoulder. But even if he could manage that in the pitch black, he had no right to do so. He had made her cry and was powerless to set that right.

“Miss Beasley, I am so very sorry,” he whispered. “Pray forgive me.”

“No, no, it is quite all right,” she said, her voice unsteady. “You are so kind, but you must not say such things to me, not ever. I do not exaggerate when I say I shall never marry. No rational man would take me, because I am no fit helpmeet for such a man.”

“Nonsense!”

“It is not nonsense,” she said, her voice high with distress. “Pray do not speak so when you know nothing of the matter.”

“I know you,” he cried, quite unable to surrender the point, for it was madness to turn her back so comprehensibly on even the possibility of matrimony. “I know you for a good Christian woman, and a woman of sense, and who could be a better helpmeet for a rational man?”

“Then you know nothing, for I am not good at all, Mr Winslade. I am a wicked, wicked person, and have committed an unforgivable sin, and all my Christian works can never wipe out the stain.”