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SATURDAY EVENING, 18 August 1821
Since no one had any notion exactly when dinner would be served, I decided to call upon Nell at once. All that remained to be done in my bedchamber was to re-hang my clothing within the wardrobe, a task Tilda could perform with ease and without assistance. Therefore, because both she and the maid who had come up to help us had already returned to the kitchen to partake of their supper, which evidently was served according to some sort of schedule, I seized the opportunity to walk the few steps down the corridor to Miss Nugent’s room in order to speak with her.
When I rapped smartly at the door, she flung it open herself.
“I have been expecting you,” she said tartly.
I sailed past her into the room, which I noted was still in disarray, although it was marginally possible now to navigate one’s way through the clutter. “I have come for answers, Nell,” I said firmly, “and I shall not leave until I get them.”
The pretty dark-haired girl’s face became a smirk. “Very well, then, please, do come in, Miss Abbott.” Her tone was saucy as she indicated the settee in the cozy alcove across the room. “Do, sit down. I would offer you a nice cup of tea had I any on hand to offer.”
“I did not come for tea, thank you.” Once we were both seated, I began to speak on one of the several distressful topics plaguing me now. “Since you are in possession of the letters, Nell, why do you not simply post them to the lady your father is blackmailing and bring this nasty business to an end? So far as I can see, for you to stubbornly retain them solves nothing.”
She smiled, a trifle smugly. “And what makes you think I wish to bring the matter to a close?”
Her reply came as a shock. “But, you declared your father’s blackmailing scheme to be quite wicked. I assume you confiscated the letters because you wished to see the matter over and done with; that you wished the poor woman to no longer be ill-done by at your father’s hands.”
Nell sneered. “Oh, what a naïve little thing you are, Juliette. And, so innocent to the ways of the world. What I said was that I wished to marry Charles, a man whom my father does not endorse, mainly because he is presently without funds, which to my mind has nothing to say to anything. Charles is living quite well on expectations, meaning that once his father goes on to his reward and Charles inherits, we shall be very well set up. Yet my father wishes me to marry the son of a woman of his acquaintance who is already well set up. But, the man is a boor and I would rather die than be leg-shackled to him for the remainder of my days.”
Although I listened closely to her explanation, it did not make a great deal of sense to me; nor did it have anything to do with the packet of letters that apparently both father and daughter coveted for selfish reasons of their own.
Nell seemed to read my thoughts. “Despite what you think, Juliette, the letters do have a bearing on things. You see, at present, my father is near destitute; poor fellow. Without the funds he manages to bribe from the woman to whom the letters belong, he would be living on nup-pence. But she is a lady, possessed of a title, which, understandably she wishes to protect. Her husband is possessed of great wealth. The poor deluded soul fears that if her husband, a powerful man, were to become aware of the existence of the billet-doux, it would ruin him. I understand he serves on the new king’s council and is an esteemed member of the House of Lords. At any rate, she is willing to pay my father practically any sum he names in order to shield her husband from knowing of the sordid affair she engaged in before they wed. I suppose it is her pathetic manner by which to protect his good name, and, in the end, also hers.”
“Well, I can certainly see how the woman might live in fear that her indiscretion might be the ruination of her marriage, and I assume, of life as she knows it. So . . . again, why do you not simply return the letters to her and bring this whole ghastly business to an end? It would put the poor woman’s mind at ease and, were the matter put to rest without your father being charged with a crime, then all to the better. I assume you know the woman’s identity and where she resides. And, the fact that the letters are now in your possession, means there is nothing to prevent you from returning them to her.”
Nell’s dark eyes rolled skyward, the expression on her face one of longsuffering. “Oh, my dear, child. Can you not see the advantages to be gained from holding onto the letters?”
I admit I did not, although my own revulsion to her penchant to continue to refer to me as a child kept me from expressing that sentiment aloud.
“The one who possesses the letters is the one in possession of the power,” declared Nell, matter-of-factly.
I drew back. “You cannot mean . . . but surely you do not intend to continue to blackmail the beleaguered woman yourself, do you?”
Nell shrugged. “Why should I not? I wish to wed Charles. He is not, as yet, in possession of sufficient funds for the pair of us to live in the manner in which I desire, in London in a fine home in Mayfair.”
Following that admission, I was supremely grateful Nell Nugent was not attempting to black mail me, since, as you know, I already reside in London in a fine home in Mayfair.
At any rate, Nell continued, “Why should I not do precisely as my father has done these many years? The stupid woman’s generosity has kept both of us from being forced to take up residence in debtor’s prison. Why should I not now take advantage of the situation to obtain all that I desire? I wish to marry Charles, a man to whom my father objects due to his present lack of funds, which my father believes would also adversely affect him, although he is sadly mistaken since upon my marriage I have no intention of supporting my father. On the other hand, were I to come into a never-ending stream of wealth, I can have everything I want now! Without the bother of waiting for Charles to inherit. Why should I return the letters when I can put them to good use to obtain what I want?” She shrugged if her reasoning should be crystal clear even to a foolish child such as I.
My head shook. “Oh, Nell, you mustn’t consider such an evil act. It is not only wrong; it is reprehensible. Your father has been engaged in committing a crime, and if you follow in his footsteps, you will also be a criminal. You are even now committing a crime, Nell, for you are in possession of the letters and you are making no effort to return them to their rightful owner!”
“I cannot return them!”
“Why ever not?” I demanded.
“Because I do not know the woman’s identity!” she cried irritably as she rose and commenced to pace. “I am aware only of her given name, Rachel, and all I truly know is that, as girls, she and my mother were bosom bows. They were school chums, and continued to correspond once they both married. Rachel’s first husband was a frightful bully who mistreated her, which, I suppose, is why she . . . strayed.” Nell shrugged. “The heart will do what the heart does. At any rate, she fell desperately in love with another young man, but when he was killed in the war; it broke Rachel’s heart and is precisely why she did not wish to destroy his letters; so she asked my mother to keep them for her, since by then, she had met another gentleman who also wished to marry her, and because of his powerful association within the government, he easily facilitated a divorce for her from her abusive husband, and also managed to keep the particulars quiet. All of this came about before I was born, of course, which is why I know nothing more of it, such as Rachel’s first husband’s name, or the surname or title currently held by her present husband.
“All I know is that after my mother passed away, suddenly my father seemed to come into a good deal of wealth. I wondered why and how, of course, but did not ask; then when I happened to stumble upon the packet of my mother’s girlhood friend Rachel’s letters hidden within my father’s desk, I did ask questions. One night, when he was in his cups, father confided the truth to me, although he did not reveal the woman’s identity, or where she resides. I still do not know how my father initially contacted her, or even where, or how he manages now to receive the funds. I assume that both parties operate through their solicitors.”
“So, I am not the only one who is innocent to the ways of the world,” I remarked, a trifle tartly. “Appears to me you are not sufficiently informed of the necessary facts to be able to enter into, let alone carry out, your proposed crime.”
Resuming her seat beside me on the settee, Nell appeared to have not noticed my bit of sarcasm, but was, instead, deep in thought. “If I do return the letters to Rachel, I fear Father will insist I marry the man of his choosing and I . . . cannot . . .” she sniffed. “I simply cannot!” She choked back the tears that began to gather in her dark eyes. “I would rather die, Juliette! I love Charles and he loves me!”
My heart softened as she wept and I reached to gather my wayward new friend into my arms. “Do not cry, Nell. We shall think of something. Perhaps I can . . . help you learn the woman’s identity.” I patted her shoulder in a comforting manner. “We shall sort it out together.”
She appeared to gulp back her tears and sat up. “How? You know nothing of the woman’s family. And I know precious little.” After a pause, she turned a tear-stained face to gaze imploringly at me. “But, I can still count upon you to do as I wish tomorrow night at the séance, can I not? Father is a staunch believer in other-worldly happenings. I am certain it will instill a crippling fear in him. He might even be frightened enough to reveal the woman’s surname and where she resides,” she added hopefully.
“Will you also be present at the séance, Nell?”
“Of course, I shall be present. Otherwise, how will I . . .?” Nodding, she added, “I would not miss it for the world.”
“Very well, then, we shall see how this distasteful matter unfolds together.”
* * *
SAYING NO MORE DESPITE the fact that my thoughts were still in a tangle, I returned to my bedchamber to dress for dinner and await the summons to appear below stairs in order to dine with Mrs. Crumble’s Psychical Society members. As was everything else about this ill-conceived venture, tonight’s dinner and table-tipping exercise (whatever that was!) were all events to which I was not looking forward. I already had too much of import on my plate and did not need additional silliness from folks who believed in seeking answers from the dead to muddy the waters.
First and foremost, I had to find a way to save Mr. Sheridan from the gallows, but at present, I had no notion how to accomplish that feat. Secondly, I truly believed that if the Nugent’s blackmailing scheme were to truly grind to a halt, it fell to me to learn the identity of the unfortunate woman Nell and her father were blackmailing. Not for a minute did I believe Nell would leave off the dastardly mischief unless I had a hand in the halting of it. She stood to gain far too much to give it up voluntarily.
* * *
DINNER THAT NIGHT . . .
Once again, I was filled with trepidation as I made my way below stairs later that evening and headed for the parlour. As this home was not especially large or grand meant there was no formal withdrawing room, therefore the chamber designated for receiving guests for tea and other social gatherings was apparently referred to as . . . the parlour. As earlier today, the din of garbled voices led me straight to my destination. Apparently Mrs. Crumble had been keeping an eye out for me, for the moment I stepped into the crowded chamber, she hurried to my side.
As I had noticed this afternoon, the large room was comfortably fitted out with several sofas and numerous overstuffed chairs. Small tables sat here and there. The metal sconces on the walls now contained flickering candles that drove eerie shadows into every corner of the room. A fireplace took up another wall, but as the parlour was now filled with a good many bodies, it already felt quite warm, to the point of being stuffy, so no fire burned in the hearth tonight. Only a few items decorated the chamber, amongst them two or three paintings that looked to be of inferior quality with non-descript subject matter rendered by little-known artists. Apparently the Crumbles possessed no esteemed ancestors whose solemn likenesses had been captured on canvas by notable artists of the day. In truth, nothing about the Crumble home suggested excessive wealth.
Once Mrs. Crumble gained my side, she spoke in a low tone, “I have changed my mind again, Angel, I shall introduce you this evening as simply a new member of our Psychical Society, a late-arrival to our gathering, as it were.” She continued to speak softly. “For tomorrow evening’s event, however, I shall, as I suggested earlier this morning . . . my goodness, was it only this morning? It seems far longer than a mere day ago, at any rate, as I said, I shall fashion a veil to cover your face. Therefore, this evening, you shall conduct yourself as if you are, indeed, one of us. If you have nothing of interest to add to the conversation at dinner, you will simply listen and see what you can uncover regarding the various guests and their concerns. Do you understand?”
I nodded assent, although I said nothing.
Her tone hardened. “I trust you will not disappoint me.”
“On the contrary, ma’am, I shall do all in my power to please you,” I replied politely.
“See that you do. As I said, this has been quite a long day. I do not wish any further difficulties to disrupt the festivities. I serve as leader of this organization and therefore have a certain obligation to do things up in a proper manner; an obligation that I take quite seriously, indeed.”
“Of course, madam.”
She reached to take my arm and turning to face the room, pasted a false smile upon her face, one that did not light up her eyes, as she led the way towards a cluster of noisy guests. To me, the entire house seemed filled with noise, not all of it coming from out-of-doors. Although the hour was late, the clamor of those Fair-goers still lingering upon the grounds following the Knife and Fork supper was still making itself known indoors.
“Gentlemen! Ladies!” Mrs. Crumble fairly shouted over the chatter and laughter coming from her animated guests. “May I present Miss Juliette Abbott, a new member of our Society. Miss Abbott, this is . . .”
The woman commenced to tick off a litany of names, which I daresay I could not recall if my very life depended upon it. (And, I certainly hoped it did not.) Although, the manner in which this day had progressed did make me wonder what new and disagreeable prospect might lie in store for me tonight.
As it happened, I had only to smile and listen to an exhaustive round of outlandish tales being bandied about amongst the imaginative guests, all of whom seemed intent upon out-doing the other with their stories of ghostly sightings and other-worldly happenings.
I did notice both Nell and her father standing in different places within the crowded room. She, next to a young gentleman who seemed enthralled with her, which was not surprising, Nell was an attractive young lady. On the petite side, tonight her dark hair was done up in curls, a few dangling flirtatiously before her ears. She wore a simple gown of ivory lawn, the low neckline and cap sleeves unadorned. I had already noticed that Nell’s garments were less than the first stare of fashion. No doubt she and her father were in dire need of the funds he obtained through his illicit extorting scheme.
Across the room, her father Mr. Nugent had also garnered an admirer, an attractive woman in her middle years who was fashionably fitted out in a gown of wine-coloured linen trimmed in gold braid. Around her neck were several ropes of pearls. I also noted the sparkle of diamonds at her ears. She seemed quite entranced by all that Mr. Nugent was saying and continually leant forward to whisper a reply into his ear. For his part, he seemed pleased to have such an attractive lady hanging onto his every word.
Neither Nell nor her father cast so much as a glance my way, even after Mrs. Crumble presented me to her guests. For all intents and purposes, I suppose the three of us appeared to have never before laid eyes upon the other. That Mr. Nugent did not so much as look up when Mrs. Crumble introduced me to the cluster of people he was grouped with, told me that he did not recognize me from earlier in the day, or at least, was attempting to forward the notion that he did not. But, then, I, as well, did not so much as blink when I glanced his way. The three of us, myself, Nell, and her father, were apparently in silent agreement to not call undue attention to ourselves, or to one another. Although it was unsettling to be standing so very near the wicked older man, I had no intention of openly pointing a finger at him as being the person who had ransacked my bedchamber. He, of course, did not own up to the mischief.
Oh, how I wished Mr. Sheridan were by my side tonight. How I longed to confide my troubles in him, but, sadly, that was not to be. Moreover, I doubted that any person in this room had the least notion that an event as tragic as murder had taken place on the grounds this afternoon whilst they trifled their day away telling ghost stories.
Eventually we all filed into the dining hall where dinner was served by two very busy footmen. Tilda had mentioned that the duo were all that remained of the legion of them that Mrs. Crumble had put on for the festival, the bulk of whom were still outdoors serving up the Knife and Fork supper.
Sitting next to me at the table was a portly woman who gave her name as Mrs. Priddy before she began to excitedly tell everyone about the time she visited a place called Devil’s Garden, located somewhere in England, although I confess I have already forgot where.
“Why, imagine my disappointment when I saw that the ‘garden’ was no more than a patch of rocks upon which it was reported that nothing will grow! And, indeed, I spotted no moss or blossoms peeking up between the pebbles,” she added matter-of-factly.
“Why, Mrs. Priddy,” declared Mr. Stevens, sitting across the table from us, “when I visited Devil’s Garden, I instructed the owner to move the rocks and let us examine the soil beneath them. He did so, and you must believe me when I say that, upon looking away and then turning back again, the rocks had, of their own accord, I say! Of their own accord! They had returned to their original position with no help from either of us!”
This pronouncement was followed by wondrous exclamations of ‘Oh-h!’ and ‘Ah-h!’ from other equally gullible guests seated nearby.
“I can top that,” interjected a Mrs. Littlebaum. “At an inn where I once stayed, right here in the Cotswolds, mind you, there abides the ghost of a woman who is consistently seen upon the stairs wearing a bloodstained nightdress.” Mrs. Littlebaum held up one hand to forestall possible skeptical remarks, although quite likely at this gathering none would be forthcoming. “If one ventures from one’s bedchamber after dark, the ghost in the bloodstained nightdress will lean in to peer into one’s face. It is said she is looking for the stranger at the inn who did her in!”
More ‘Oh-hs’ and ‘Ah-hs’ followed the Littlebaum tale. I can only imagine what Tilda’s reaction would be if such a frightening occurrence had happened to her at The Pig With Black Ears Inn. I daresay she would, indeed, hike up her skirts and run all the way up to London!
A Mr. Hornblower told about a young girl who stops travelers on the way to London to tearfully tell them she wishes to get a message to the king, then when one reaches to take the message, the girl vanishes!
“Why, that very thing happened to me!” chimed in another guest, whose name I do not recall. “The girl looks to be as real as any other. She stands on the side of the road, holding a missive in her hands yet when one tries to take it, suddenly the girl and her message is gone! Most unsettling, that. I’ve yet to get m’wife to believe it actually happened to me!”
When another man told a tale regarding a haunting at The Headless Horseman Inn, right here in Middlewych, I very nearly spoke up to tell how my kitten had refused to enter the bedchamber the innkeeper led us to only last evening, and, the reason why, or at least, the reason the innkeeper gave us. Oh, goodness me, did that truly take place only last evening? Mrs. Crumble was square on the mark when she declared this day seemed to be dragging on forever! It did, indeed.
Consequently, when the overlong meal finally concluded I was more than ready to retire to my bedchamber for the night. So, whilst everyone drifted back into the parlour and a brace of gentlemen began to shove aside furniture and busily set up a pair of smaller tables and chairs suitable for the table-moving exercise, I quietly slipped from the parlour and made my way up the stairs to my room. By now, my head was pounding with fatigue and I could scarcely keep my eyes open. I was, of course, mildly curious about what a table-moving, or table-tipping as some guests called it, exercise entailed, but as I had already lived a full eight and ten years of my life without knowing anything of it, I decided I could live a good deal longer in the same unenlightened state, no harm done.
Perhaps on the morrow, Tilda would relay to me some, if not all, of the events she might have heard from the other maids that took place in the parlour tonight regarding the other-worldly phenomena known as Table Moving.
A 19th Century Table-Tipping Exercise