Frances and Mallow left the hotel before breakfast the next morning to catch an early train. Mallow had packed fully but efficiently, and the cab brought them in plenty of time to the station. As usual, Frances had purchased two round-trip, first-class tickets. It was more practical—as well as more fun—to have Mallow with her on the train trip than by herself in a third-class car.
The trip to the coast to visit Dorothy had been pleasant, but this was a much more elegant train, which served a full breakfast. It was a pleasure seeing how much Mallow enjoyed herself, taking such a childlike delight in watching the world go by. For all her maid had picked up from the duties, routines, and manners of London’s high society, Frances realized she was barely twenty and had seen little of the world.
“Although it’s a large house, the staff is small,” said Frances. “Only one man, practically bedridden, lived there. We are to start the process of shutting up the house, although most of it is already closed up, and seeing the servants understand the terms of the master’s will. I heard from the lawyers that General Audendale left them well-provided for.”
“That’s very kind of him, my lady,” said Mallow emphatically. Of course, realized Frances, Mallow would think that. Some were nicer than others to servants who couldn’t work anymore or who were left unemployed by death after decades of serving one family. Did Mallow, even at her young age, think about what would happen when she couldn’t work anymore? Would the Seaforths take care of her? Would the Seaforths still be around? Perhaps marriage and the security that comes from a man with a good job and children to take care of her would be better for her.
Of course, the Seaforths always took care of their servants, but it wasn’t right that servants had to be dependent on good graces. That is yet one more thing that needs to be changed, thought Frances.
“I know it really isn’t your place, but would you help with beds and other domestic activities?”
“Of course, my lady.”
Frances knew Mallow would be agreeable, but it was wise to acknowledge that she was being asked to perform duties beneath those of a lady’s maid. “And there may be a bit of a treasure hunt, going through the papers, as we did at the Colcombe house. But even more complicated.”
“Very good, my lady. May I pour you some more tea?”
“Yes, thank you. And I’ll be counting on you to talk to the servants, pick up gossip, and so forth. They may not even know what they know, if you get my meaning. The general’s manservant, Tredwell, was almost slavishly loyal. A rather odd man. We’ll see if we can draw him out.”
“Of course, my lady. Remember old Sir Joshua Fleet, my lady? Had the same valet for forty years, and when Sir Joshua died, the valet’s mind just slipped away. That’s what they said. The family had to put him in a sort of home.”
“Yes, Mallow. I think we may be seeing something similar here.”
After breakfast, there was time for reading and knitting and watching the villages pass by. As before, they were the only ones alighting at Grenville, and Tredwell was there to greet them. He looked somber and wore a black armband.
“Very good to see you again, my lady, although I wish it were in better circumstances.”
“Thank you. Mallow, this is Mr. Tredwell, the late general’s manservant. Tredwell, this is Miss Mallow, my personal maid, who will be assisting me over the next few days.”
“Yes, my lady. We have rooms prepared . . . and that’s all right, Miss Mallow, I can take the bags. My leg’s a bit crooked, gives me some pain in the wet weather, but not weak for all that.”
Mallow reluctantly gave up the bags to Tredwell and approached the cart with a little trepidation—this was no elegant carriage, London hansom, or even his lordship’s motorcar. It was little better than the delivery cart when they visited Mrs. Tregallis. But Tredwell treated Mallow the same as he treated Lady Frances, helping both up.
“I hear the funeral was yesterday,” said Frances, once they were on their way.
“Yes, my lady, and there will be a memorial service in London in the coming days, so all who served under him can pay their respects.”
Charles would take his uniform out of the back of his closet and attend, Frances knew. She did not expect the regulars at the Red Kangaroo, however.
“If I may be so bold, my lady, and speaking on behalf of the rest of the staff, we’re pleased you’re coming to help us get settled, as it were. That is, a friend of the family’s.”
“Thank you, Tredwell. And I am sure I can count on the staff’s full cooperation.” There was a hint of steel in her voice. Frances recalled her mother’s words: “You may learn history and literature and math from your tutors, dear daughter, but from me, you will learn how to run a household.”
“Of course, my lady. Mrs. Scotley, who’s a sort of cook/housekeeper, has had Gladys, who is a sort of maid of all work, prepare rooms.”
Mallow looked a little surprised. In her experience, maids had very specific jobs, and no one would confuse a housekeeper with a cook. Apologetically—and more to Mallow than to Lady Frances—Tredwell said, “It wasn’t always this way. The house used to be better staffed. Then Mrs. Audendale passed on and his daughter got married and moved away. He got old and tired, and servants died or moved on. I was all that was left from the old days. Just the two of us. As God is my witness, I would’ve given my life for my master.” He went into a brooding stare at that, and Mallow and Frances met each other’s eyes.
When they arrived at Egdon Hall, Tredwell said he’d see to the horse and would make himself available whenever her ladyship wanted. He passed the women on to Gladys, the maid Frances remembered from last time, who was waiting to greet them.
“We have prepared food and drink for you, my lady. I will bring a tray to you in the master’s sitting room. And you, Miss . . .”
“This is Miss June Mallow, my personal maid.”
“You are most welcome to join us in the servants’ hall, Miss Mallow.”
“Thank you,” said Frances. “But you have plenty do, and we don’t want to make additional work for you. I need a look at the whole house anyway, so rather than have you carry trays upstairs, Mallow and I will both join you in the servants’ hall.” Frances wanted to see what was happening with the household.
“Oh, yes, if you wish, my lady.”
The kitchen and the accompanying servants’ hall were clean and orderly, a sign that someone cared. That person seemed to be Mrs. Scotley, the so-called cook/housekeeper who was having a cup of tea herself. She was a spare woman in her sixties with iron-gray hair slipping out from her cap. She stood quickly, surprised, when Frances and Mallow entered.
“Oh, my lady. I didn’t expect you.” She shot a sharp look at the Gladys. “You were supposed to be shown to the master’s sitting room.”
“Don’t blame Gladys,” said Frances cheerfully. “I wanted to see the kitchen and meet you and didn’t want to make work carrying trays.”
“Very good, my lady. Please have a seat.” Introductions were made, and Gladys served tea along with scones and cakes. “Hired as a cook, I was, some twenty years ago,” said Mrs. Scotley. “I’m a good plain cook, none of your fancy French food, but I can do solid English cooking.”
“And a fine baker,” said Frances. “I had these cakes when I last visited the general. I assume they are yours?”
Mrs. Scotley smiled briefly. “Thank you, my lady. I always did have a deft hand with cakes, if I may say so. Not that there’s been much call now. Things changed over the years. I became more of a housekeeper. Not that there’s much of a house to keep anymore.” She grimaced and drank her tea.
“No visitors to cook for? The general didn’t entertain?”
“No, my lady. He had spent so much time away, he didn’t know many of the people thereabouts anymore. They had died, moved away—”
“Oh, but remember, Mrs. Scotley—” Gladys broke in.
“Yes, the vicar once or twice for tea and the solicitor for lunch, that hardly counts,” said Mrs. Scotley, and she gave Gladys another sharp look. That was interesting, thought Frances. They had been here only a few minutes, and already Mrs. Scotley was lying to her. Something to come back to later. Meanwhile, Mrs. Scotley quickly changed the subject.
“You’ll be wanting a full account, my lady. I’ve kept the books accounting for every penny.” She almost dared anyone to disagree.
“I have no doubt, Mrs. Scotley,” said Frances.
“I also have the key to the master’s suite. In the final days, he had a nurse with him at all times, and when the end came, the doctor came, and the local solicitor, too. The room was locked, and I was given the key. I have it still, my lady.”
“Have the solicitors been back?”
“They said they had the papers they needed and would send what was necessary to the general’s daughter in India.”
“Thank you for being so strict in your duties. But why was the key not given to Tredwell, as the master’s manservant?”
“My lady, if I am to take on the duties of housekeeper, I will accept the responsibilities. I don’t know what Tredwell has said, but it would’ve been inappropriate for anyone but me to have charge. Anyway, Tredwell has his own cottage on the estate and so is not around all the time except when the general is doing poorly.”
“Did Mr. Tredwell help the general with his papers at all?”
“Hardly, my lady. Tredwell was not very comfortable with his letters.”
Ah, he is illiterate.
Then, perhaps feeling she had been overly critical of Tredwell, Mrs. Scotley added, “Tredwell may not complain—he’s a good, hard worker—but his leg has been giving him trouble of late. The general sent him to doctors in London. He’s been away some.”
“That’s kind of the general, and of course, you were right to take charge,” said Frances soothingly. “But all this can wait until later. Let us finish this lovely tea, and then, Gladys, you can show me and Mallow to our rooms.”
So Tredwell couldn’t read. Illiterate men would have a hard time with any task involving a manuscript, Frances mused.
A house of that size should’ve housed servants in their own section, but because much of the house was closed up, Mrs. Scotley placed both Frances and Mallow next to each other. “This was Miss Audendale’s nursery when she was a girl, and the nanny was next door. I trust this will do, my lady?”
“Very nice, Mrs. Scotley. Mallow and I will change from our trip, and then I’ll go over your accounts later today—which I’m sure are excellent. Also, if you give me the key to the general’s suite, I’ll go through his papers later.”
“I understand that the general kindly included the staff in his will. Did the solicitors explain the terms clearly?”
“The master was very generous, my lady. He left me a nice sum, and the young man from the solicitor’s office explained it clearly. I will be staying on for the next few weeks, then will move in with a married niece and her husband and their children. We will expand the house, of course.”
A pleasant arrangement all around, thought Frances. “Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Scotley. We’ll talk again later, no doubt.”
“Very good, my lady,” she said. She handed Frances the key to the general’s suite and departed.
“She’s a closed one,” said Frances. “Again, Mallow, keep your ears open during dinner in the servants’ hall. And see if you can pick up any gossip from Gladys. I imagine she’d like to talk. I’m hoping to find out something about Major Colcombe’s manuscript. But don’t say anything about it to anyone.”
“Very good, my lady,” she said.
Mallow left to join the other servants, and Frances made her way to the general’s suite. It was much as she had seen it last time. The plaid blanket was thrown over the good chair, and a clean cup and saucer waited on the side table, as if the general had just stepped outside for some fresh air and a cigar. The local solicitor and doctor must’ve bundled everyone out quickly. Frances wandered through the sitting room to the bedroom. Except for a couple of prints of military scenes, the room was almost bare—this was little more than a chamber for sleeping. A double silver frame on the night table held the only personal items: photographs of two women, no doubt his wife and daughter.
It was in the closet off the bedroom that Frances came across what she was hoping to find but not daring to expect: an accumulation of papers testifying to decades as a military commander. Hal had told her she would find financial papers, but this was more than she had dared hope: not only a treasure trove, but a well-organized treasure trove. General Audendale, like most career officers, had been orderly and tidy and had stacked his closet shelves with dispatch boxes, clearly labeled by year.
Frances had the fanciful notion that the general had kept his papers neat not just as a matter of habit but because he knew—he even hoped—someone would dip into them after he was gone.
At least she could be certain that the boxes contained military-related papers: the most recent box was labeled with the final year of the Boer War, the general’s last command. He had collected nothing afterward.
This was going to be interesting. Frances had another flashback to college, poring over books, looking for the few nuggets of gold she could add to a paper or incorporate into a presentation. She carried the dispatch box and diaries into the sitting room and placed them on the table among the knickknacks. Looking around vainly for a cloth, she ended up using her handkerchief as a duster; Mallow would have something to say about that later.
Inside the box, she found a miscellaneous collection. Some were just forms dealing with the purchase of supplies. Hadn’t Napoleon said an army moves on its stomach? She saw references to ammunition and rifles. Neither her tutors nor Vassar had thought military matters necessary for a young woman’s education, but she had picked up bits and pieces from her brother and father.
The box held various notes on battle plans that meant little to her along with rosters of men. And then a photograph. At first she thought it was a picture of the Boers, not that she had ever met any of these rough-living farmer-soldiers, but she had heard enough about them. The men in this portrait wore scruffy jackets and pants that could barely be called a uniform and slouched wide-brimmed hats that didn’t come from any official quartermaster’s storehouse. All of them badly needed a shave.
The men had clearly posed for the photograph, but casually: rifles were balanced lazily over knees or draped over shoulders. But there was one man who seemed somehow familiar . . .
My God. It was Danny Colcombe. These weren’t Boers; they were the men of the Empire Light Horse. After she got over her shock, Frances grinned. No British soldier ever looked like that. She was so used to well-tailored officers in red coats. And Danny—he had always been such a dandy.
Beneath the photo was a letter from Davis Bramwell, member of Parliament, who had practically attacked her in his carriage. It was dated two months before the Sapphire River debacle.
Dear General,
Not being a military man, I seem to be unable to appreciate a soldier’s humor. I asked for a photograph of men under your command in order to share it with my constituents via the illustrated press and give heart to civilians that our brave boys were carrying the standards of the home country to other lands. That British soldiers dress like that is appalling. That they posed for a portrait in such disarray is inexcusable. That you thought it appropriate to send this to me is disgraceful. If it isn’t too much trouble, please send me a photograph of properly dressed and groomed soldiers in full dress on parade ground.
Emissaries from my office are on their way with new orders for a new deployment of troops under your command.
Yours,
So General Audendale had a lively sense of humor. It no doubt greatly amused Danny to have his men sit for a portrait looking like a band of brigands, and it would be just like him to send a print to his commanding officer. But she wouldn’t have expected Audendale to send it to a member of Parliament. Good for him.
Farther down in the box she found more invoices, requisitions for everything from marmalade to bayonets to bandages. And then another letter from Bramwell, dated some weeks after the battle of Sapphire River:
Dear General Audendale,
We are in receipt of your letter of last month recommending the Victoria Cross for Major Daniel Colcombe, commander of a unit of His Majesty’s forces known as the Empire Light Horse. I regret to inform you that it has been decided not to grant any decorations for that particular engagement. The memorialization of that battle is not in the best interests of the War Office or the general public. The nontraditional nature of the Empire Light Horse would best remain a secret. I remind you again of your orders not to discuss its engagements.
Yours,
Frances was furious. Danny deserved the Victoria Cross, the nation’s highest military honor, given for gallantry above and beyond the call of duty. She remembered what Private Barnstable had said: the Empire Light horsemen were forced into a traditional engagement. From Bramwell’s letter about parade-ground soldiers, it was clearly to satisfy the War Office’s desire for an image of a line of soldiers in red coats, not a band of rough-living horsemen fighting a new kind of war they couldn’t understand in London.
It was monstrous. Mr. Bramwell and men like him needed to sell the war to the public as empire building. Well-dressed soldiers in the now-obsolete “British square” formation were what people expected, not unshaven soldiers dressed like bushrangers. How could you promote a war when the British looked no better than the men they were fighting? Bramwell didn’t care about those who fought and died, even when they were successful. He cared about how they looked.
Was Danny to be forgotten because of the stupidity of men in Whitehall, who even now weren’t brave enough to admit their mistakes?
It was obvious from the letters that Bramwell bore heavy responsibility for both the planning and the concealment. He had been careful; there’s wasn’t enough information in the letters to make his role completely clear. But Danny knew. And if the English public found out about the lies and concealments, careers would be destroyed and reputations left in tatters.
It was the emissaries from Bramwell and his cronies that Private Barnstable heard in the tent. Poor Audendale had said that he was looking forward to Danny’s book, even though it would’ve tarnished his reputation, too. Was he not the commanding officer, even if Bramwell was the true cause of the defeat? A lifetime of obeying orders had prevented the general from revealing the depth of the scandal, but he would rejoice if Danny had done so.
Honor again, thought Frances. Audendale following orders to the end, if reluctantly.
She emptied the box, but there was nothing else of interest. Frances had seen enough, though.
Mrs. Scotley broke into her thoughts by knocking and entering. “I have brought the cash boxes and my account books. The general also entrusted me with certain banking transactions in Blackburn, the nearest large town, and I brought those records as well.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Scotley. I will look them over presently.” She was still almost dizzy from the revelations among the general’s military papers that Bramwell was so directly involved in the mistake and concealment. For now, the relatively simple task of reviewing the financials would be welcome . . . unless there were more surprises there. Frances watched Mrs. Scotley glance over the general’s private dispatch boxes. Her look said, If her ladyship wants to amuse herself with the late master’s papers, that’s her affair.
“Tell me, has Mallow been making herself useful?”
“Very much so, my lady. If I may be so bold, it’s a pleasure to see a young woman properly trained for service nowadays.”
“Thank you. I’ll review the accounts now and see you this evening.”
After the earlier revelations, the finances were rather ordinary. The general had substantial means but very few expenses: wages for the small staff and their board and upkeep of the house. The only large expenditures were regular payments to his daughter—no reason to wait until his death to make her life more comfortable. Frances saw no large, unexplained expenses or income. The bills from the local wine and spirits merchant were a bit more substantial than she would’ve thought, and again she had visions of Audendale and Tredwell spending evenings by the fire downing glasses.
As she mused over the revelations, Mallow showed up with fortifying tea and biscuits.
“Thank you. Most welcome. I understand you’re making yourself very useful.”
“Thank you, my lady.” She sighed. “Things are not up to our standards here, I’m afraid. They may have been once, but not now.”
Frances nodded. “I agree, Mallow. But I have found some very useful items among the general’s papers. Tell me, is Tredwell nearby?”
“He doesn’t seem to have anything to do, my lady. He’s been pacing outside these rooms like a cat.” Mallow sounded very disapproving.
“It must gall him to have a stranger, even the sister of his master’s fellow officer, going through his master’s effects—maybe he thought they’d just be boxed up and put into storage. Very well, we will give him something to do. I haven’t heard any suitable explanation for the general’s death, other than he was old. I want to talk to the doctor. Find the pacing Mr. Tredwell and see if he can bring the doctor back. And ask Mrs. Scotley to have some sandwiches waiting for him.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Mallow left and found Tredwell moodily polishing some swords hanging on the hallway walls, souvenirs of some old campaign.
“Mr. Tredwell, it is her ladyship’s wish that you go into the village at once and see if you can fetch the doctor, the one who treated your late master.”
He just stared at Mallow. “Why does she want to see him? Is it about the general?” he finally said.
“It’s not your place to question her ladyship’s orders. She runs this household for now.” Tredwell winced at that. “It is just for you to obey.”
“I served the general for half a century. I think if there are queries about him, I have a right to know.”
Mallow glared right back. “Maybe out here it is the fashion to question your betters. But in London, when we are given an order, we say, ‘Yes, my lady,’ and do it. I suggest you head downstairs right now, get into your pony cart, and set about bringing the doctor back here.” Mallow turned quickly and headed back to linen closet where she was sorting out sheets. Tredwell said nothing else, but she had the satisfaction of hearing his boots on the stairs behind her.