Judge of your employers from your own observation, and from their behaviour to you.
S. & S. Adams, The Complete Servant
The fishermen drew the boat up to a stone pier and helped them disembark on to the landing platform at the end. An old man, swathed in a billowing black cloak, was waiting to receive them at the top of the steps.
‘My name is Glaucus Grey, and I am the steward of this isle. On behalf of Lady Hawk, I am pleased to welcome you to Cull.’ He gave a stiff little bow. Some of the more impertinent maids smirked at his appearance. He had bristly white eyebrows and a wild white mane of hair, and a face that was exceedingly knobbly. But he hobbled across the beach very briskly, and it was quite a struggle to keep up with him as they hauled their baggage up the rough steps cut into the cliff face.
At the top of the steps, Pattern paused to take a breath. When she glanced back, she saw the boat that had brought them was already swallowed up by mist. Yet the sun continued to shine on Cull as the party followed a path through a wood. On the other side of a narrow though not particularly deep ravine was a sheltered glade dappled with snowdrops.
Elsie, naturally, stopped and stared. ‘What pretty flowers! Like little stars!’
‘The local name for them is the moly flower – but they’re for looking at, no more,’ cautioned the steward. ‘That side of the wood is dangerous, and strictly out of bounds.’
Mrs Robinson peered across. ‘But it looks such a charming spot.’
The old man grunted. ‘You’ve heard of the Cornish adder, perhaps. Well, the Cull viper is its more vicious cousin. It nests up here, in that very glade, and a bite from its fangs is fatal. So keep your distance.’
After this warning, all were relieved to leave the wood. Emerging from the trees, they saw an arcaded villa set against the hill. It was classical in style, with ice-cream-pale-yellow walls and a roof of terracotta tiles. A wide lawn in front of the house gave way to a formal garden with flower beds worked into patterns of stars, half-moons and mathematical symbols, broken up by white pebble paths. Statues of nymphs and satyrs peeped out from a tangle of rose bushes.
There was no sign of groundsmen or gardeners, and the place was silent apart from the drone of bees and the sigh of the sea. Even the chattering maids were quiet, too overwhelmed to do anything but stare. As the visitors made their way through the grounds, it felt as if the villa and landscape were half asleep, lying there drugged in the spring sunshine.
‘Gracious!’ exclaimed Mrs Robinson, surveying the orchard. ‘Are those lemon trees?’
Mr Grey smiled. ‘Cull’s positioning is geographically unique. Thanks to a most favourable union of winds and tides, the climate here is considerably warmer and drier than anywhere on the mainland.’
‘I see,’ Mrs Robinson said rather faintly. ‘Am I to understand, Mr, er, Grey, that you have sole charge of the property in Lady Hawk’s absence?’
‘That is so. I have been in service to my lady for so many years, I can hardly remember a time that I wasn’t.’
‘And no one else lives on the island?’
‘Folk from the village make the crossing to tend to the estate, and deliver such produce we cannot supply ourselves, but none are resident unless stranded here by bad weather.’
‘But are there really no other servants? I was under the impression that casual staff would be engaged—’
‘My lady is quite satisfied that you will be up to the job.’
Mrs Robinson pursed her lips. The maids exchanged grimaces. Sixteen servants was a large number for a town house. But in a country villa of this size, with a party of guests to look after, they would be sorely stretched.
The aged steward led them through a sunken walled garden, richly scented with herbs, to the service quarters. The rooms were large and echoing, with plaster peeling from the walls, and windows so overgrown with creepers that the place was bathed in a greenish light. In the servants’ hall, a bare lofty room with a tiled floor, they were met by Mr Perks, the butler, who had come ahead with Mrs Palfrey and the other domestics and was doing his best to act as if he’d had charge of this strange property his whole working life.
The sleepy silence of the place was soon overwhelmed by noise and bustle. Rooms must be aired, fires laid and beds made, and the contents of cabinets, closets and pantries explored. It was heartening to find the house, though unlived in for so long, was in excellent order. Mr Grey had previously arranged for provisions to be brought to the island by boat, and the larder and wine cellar were well stocked. The meat safe, coal-hole and ice-house were all packed to bursting. Everything from shoe polish to sealing wax was in its proper place.
Lady Hawk and her daughter would be arriving the next morning, the rest of the party the day after. As Pattern set about beating carpets, she rehearsed what she knew of the visitors in her head.
The gentlemen were all suitors of Miss Hawk. The most eligible was Lord Anthony Charnly, heir to a vast estate in Norfolk. His friend and rival Captain Henry Vyne was known as the handsomest man in England – and the best card player in his regiment. The Reverend Frederick Blunt was more of a catch than most young clergymen, thanks to his aristocratic connections and the patronage of his uncle, the Archbishop of Barnchester. The final suitor was a poet, Mr Thomas Ladlaw, who had been favoured by very complimentary notices in the London Poetical Review. His fortunes had further improved with a publication of a novel in the Gothic style, The Towers of Callabrio.
This much was public knowledge. The Silver Service, however, had been able to dig a little deeper, thanks to its information network of well-placed servants. These sources reported that Lord Charnly had been implicated in the death of an old woman on his estate, though the matter had been hushed up, and the circumstances remained vague. Captain Vyne had left a string of broken hearts in his wake over the years, and was rumoured to have fathered two illegitimate children. The Reverend Blunt was said to have stolen from a charity that he himself had established for the relief of widows and orphans. Only Mr Ladlaw, the poet, appeared clear of wrongdoing.
The visiting group of ladies comprised society favourites Alicia and Adele Lane; their aunt Lady Sylvia Lane, the Dowager Duchess of Wenbury; Frederick Blunt’s sister Honoria; and her companion Marian Smith, a poor relation.
Pattern not only had to acquaint herself with the honoured guests, but the servants they would bring with them, though since these servants would be mixing with their fellows below stairs, getting to know them would be easy enough. Pattern’s focus must be the gentlemen. The lord, the soldier, the priest and the poet . . . united only in their passionate desire to win Miss Hawk’s hand.
London’s drawing rooms were abuzz with talk of how Miss Hawk must finally be ready to make her decision. Why else would she gather her most ardent suitors together, and in Cornwall? The charitable view was that she wished to make her choice away from the pressures and distractions of town. The less well-meaning gossips thought that she – or her mama – intended to wring every last drop of drama from the occasion, and so had set up the party as a particularly vulgar competition, with herself as the prize.
Pattern wondered how the other young ladies would feel, being little more than accessories to Miss Hawk’s beauty. It could give rise to a certain amount of tension and resentment, she imagined. But then Miss Hawk could only marry one gentleman. The disappointed suitors might well seek consolation elsewhere . . .
Sir Whitby had told the Silver Service that he believed Lady Hawk and the Contessa di Falco were one and the same, and that Cassandra Hawk was likewise Cassiphone di Falco. Cassiphone had been one of the most eligible heiresses in Rome; Henry Whitby was only one of several suitors who she had invited to holiday on her mama’s island. The similarities with the present set-up on Cull could not be denied.
But, if Henry had in fact been a victim of foul play, it was still possible that the crime was of the ordinary sort. Perhaps there had been a young lady whose affections Henry had slighted in favour of Miss Hawk, or a rival suitor who became dangerous in his desperation . . . Either of these could have done him an injury. Perhaps Miss Hawk and her mother had discovered this, and been threatened in some way by the perpetrator. Then, either from fear of danger, or dread of scandal, they had decided to change their identities and leave the whole sorry business behind them. That might explain why Miss Hawk’s time in Italy had not resulted in marriage, and why she and her mama had sought to reinvent themselves in London.
Either way, Pattern knew she must try to keep an open mind on Lady Hawk’s alleged Dark Arts. Sir Whitby was feeling both grief and guilt over the loss of his ward. His judgement could not be trusted. Yet secretly Pattern hoped for some supernatural peril – to test her wits against common villainy would, Pattern felt, be a waste of her new-found expertise.
At three o’clock sharp, the servantry gathered at the main entrance to the villa, forming a reception line to greet their employer. Only Mr Grey was absent. They were wearing their expensive new livery and arrayed in order of their station. Mr Perks had inspected them three times over to ensure no hair was out of place, no button done crooked, no smudge seen upon a shoe.
A few minutes later, James the coachman could be seen driving the carriage along the winding avenue. After coming to a stop, narrowly avoiding a strutting peacock, Mr Perks hastened to assist the lady and her daughter down from their vehicle. ‘Welcome to Cull, milady.’ He proceeded to escort Lady Hawk down the line of servants, in the manner of two generals inspecting the troops.
Lady Hawk had words of greeting for the senior staff, and a gracious smile and a nod for everyone else. She was tall and handsome, with a high arched nose and a great quantity of inky-black hair. Her complexion was enlivened by a pair of brilliant dark eyes and a full red mouth. The contrast to her daughter was striking. Miss Hawk was, indeed, a perfect English rose, as pale and dainty as her mother was bold and dark. She glided behind her with downcast eyes and a sweetly bland expression, holding a little pug dog in her arms.
Lady Hawk’s maid, Miss Jenks, waited by the carriage. She was an elegant young person with a haughty expression, and dressed so finely she hardly looked like a servant. Even so, Pattern knew it was in her interests to befriend her. A lady’s maid was often privy to her mistress’s secrets, as Pattern herself had once been, and even if Miss Jenks had only been with Lady Hawk for a short while she was in a uniquely intimate position.
Then there was Glaucus Grey, the only person to have been in the lady’s employ for longer than a few months. He, at least, must know something of her history . . .
Pattern’s thoughts were running on so busily, it took a moment to realize that Lady Hawk had stopped in front of her.
‘Now, here’s a face I do not recognize.’
Pattern bobbed a curtsey. ‘Please, milady, I am new to the position. My name is Penny, milady.’
Mrs Robinson stepped forward to explain the original third housemaid’s desertion.
‘Penny, you say?’ Lady Hawk smiled. She had the merest trace of a foreign accent. ‘So which of your parents enjoyed a Classical education?’
‘I – um – I’m sorry, milady . . . I don’t quite—’
‘Never mind, child. I’m only teasing. Perhaps you have not heard of the original Penelope: the long-suffering wife of that rascal Odysseus.’
‘No, milady.’ Pattern had little in the way of a formal education, least of all a Classical one, though she had endeavoured to make up for this by close study of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. She had chosen ‘Penny’ because it was a shortened form of both Penelope and Pendragon, her newly acquired surname.
Fortunately, Lady Hawk did not pursue the subject. ‘Well, I hope you will be happy with us, little Penelope.’ She raised her voice to address the rest of the servants. ‘Indeed, I hope you will all be happy here. A gathering such as this is hard work for everyone, I know. But I am sure we will show our guests every hospitality. They have been chosen with care, and I am determined to give them exactly what they deserve, for my island is a special place. A sacred spot! Serve it well, and it shall reward you.’
The Mistress of Cull might describe the isle as a sacred spot, but it was certainly a very curious one. After all, Pattern reflected, there could not be many woods in England that were both blessed with snowdrops out of season and infested with snakes. But though Lady Hawk seemed to be a somewhat unusual employer her servants thought none the worse of her for it. The good order of the house, and the comfort of their own quarters, had done much to raise their spirits. From the light-hearted chatter that followed the inspection, Pattern realized she was alone in thinking that Lady Hawk’s promise to give her guests ‘exactly what they deserve’ might conceal a note of threat.