‘I was sorry to hear that your mother is ill,’ I said. ‘I tried to ask her approval, but Mlle Thérèse said she wasn’t to be disturbed.’ (I did not add that the Frenchwoman had turned me away from Lady Calderstone’s rooms in a most insolent manner.)
‘Oh, she always rests in the afternoon,’ Miss Blanche said dismissively. ‘She won’t make a fuss about it because Charlie’s not here with us.’
Miss Blanche, Miss Elizabeth and I were in the carriage, which was taking us to call upon Mrs Orme and her sister-in-law. The afternoon was grey and gusty; wet brown leaves slapped against the windows. The fields that ‘clothed the wold and met the sky’ were bare; Matt’s first parish was situated in a rather flat part of Gloucestershire, and when the fields were bare I always felt our rectory was marooned in a vast sea of gravy. The sight depressed me now, and the ambiguous status of the outing was making me uncomfortable.
‘Mamma hasn’t absolutely forbidden us to visit her,’ Elizabeth said, surprisingly. ‘She doesn’t really make rules these days.’
‘Oh.’ I kept my voice neutral, but was puzzled by this. Lady Calderstone had not struck me as a woman who did not care about the education of her daughters; why did her wishes and opinions have so little weight? I made a mental note to ask some questions down in the servants’ hall.
‘It’s since she was ill,’ Blanche said, as if this explained everything. ‘Four or five years ago Papa sent her away to the Alps to recover her health. But she’s never been quite the same since she came home.’ The carriage slowed and she leapt out of her seat. ‘We have to walk from here, Mrs Rodd – the lane is too narrow for the horses.’
Mr Charles had said that Mrs Orme and her sister-in-law lived in a ‘poor sort of way’, but I was not prepared for the rustic appearance of their small cottage, with its dirty walls that cried out for a coat of whitewash and a thatched roof that was three parts moss. We picked our way delicately along the rutted track, and the girls called out happily when the two women emerged from the front door to greet us.
As far as a person’s physical appearance is concerned, I am a firm believer in the old maxim ‘handsome is as handsome does’, and hope I am not trivial enough to judge people upon their looks.
But it was the first thing I noticed about the famous Helen Orme – the fact that she was as exquisitely pretty as a china shepherdess, with shining dark hair, porcelain complexion and eyes of that rare, deep blue. She was two-and-thirty, yet her small figure was all grace and youthfulness. Her grey dress was as simple and modest as a servant’s – but from her manner, her speech and her bearing, I knew instinctively that she was a lady.
Was this truly the daughter of a poor curate? I watched her as closely as I dared while Blanche and Elizabeth smothered her in their embraces. Dear me, I thought, no wonder Mr Charles fell in love with her; how could he help himself? She shook my hand with a shy cordiality that was very winning, though I had a strong instinct that she was firmly on her guard.
There was no such mystery about her sister-in-law. Miss Winifred Orme was a toothy, long-faced spinster, of the type you often find among the unmarried sisters and daughters of the clergy. I had an impression that she was a kind, cheerful soul who repaid even a small amount of love with absolute devotion.
We were shown into a little sitting room, square and clean, with plain furniture, a tiny wink of a fire in the neat fireplace and one or two relics of better days – an engraved silver jug, an old sewing box inlaid with ivory and a little wooden stand of books. Above the mantelshelf hung a painting of a horse-faced young clergyman I took to be the late Mr Orme, with a lock of faded brown hair set into the frame. Everything here told a sadly familiar story of making-do, of mending, stitching and scraping, and clinging to the very hem of gentility.
There was one servant, a stooping, grey-headed old woman named Patty, who carried in the tea-board and passed round slices of seed cake. It was all perfectly pleasant, but wretchedly meagre compared to the luxury of Wishtide. Miss Blanche and Miss Elizabeth, however, didn’t seem to notice or care; they laughed and chattered like magpies, vying to give Mrs Orme their news.
I did my best to contribute to the conversation, so that no one would notice how intensely I was watching and listening – but Mrs Orme gave me one or two sharp glances, making me wonder what she had to hide.
Mostly, her attention was fixed upon the two girls, and I decided I liked the way she paid attention to them, talked with them, smiled at their drolleries. She had made real friendships with these strangely neglected little potentates, taking the time to listen to them properly when no one else did. If only Mr Charles had not gone and fallen in love with her, she would have been a far better companion for the girls than that sour French servant. I allowed my professional scrutiny to slip for a moment, touched to observe how Blanche and Elizabeth blossomed before me. What a pity it all was.
But back to the task in hand – my chance came when Miss Winifred took the girls out of the room to show them a box of kittens in the scullery. Mrs Orme and I both smiled to hear their cries of adoration.
‘They’re dear girls,’ she offered shyly.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They have made me most welcome, and I’m sure I shall enjoy teaching them.’
‘Oh, certainly – they are quick to learn – though Blanche is too easily distracted, and not overfond of making an effort.’
‘She sang me one of the Italian songs you taught her,’ I said. ‘It was quite charming, and made me wish I’d had a chance to learn the language myself. But my father was a country clergyman, and could never have afforded such a luxury.’
I kept my tone as neutral as possible; was it my imagination, or had Mrs Orme become a shade more wary of me?
‘Mine too.’ She met my gaze levelly.
‘Our parish was at Greater Moseley in Gloucestershire,’ I said, ‘in the countryside to the south of Stroud – perhaps you know the area?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’ She was (as I was) doing her best to sound light and gossipy, but I thought I heard a hint of unease. ‘I grew up on the Suffolk coast – my father’s parish was in a little place called Gallowcross, miles from anywhere of consequence. I learned my Italian when I was a governess, and the family moved to Italy.’
‘What a splendid opportunity,’ I said. ‘You were fortunate.’
Mrs Orme stared at me in silence for a moment, her lovely face unreadable.
‘In some ways,’ she said, ‘the move was extremely unfortunate for me – but I met my husband and Winifred, and that was the best stroke of fortune I’d ever had in my life.’
Winifred, bustling cheerfully into the room with a plate of muffins, caught the end of this. ‘My dear Helen, it was the workings of Providence and luck had nothing to do with it. Her employer died, Mrs Rodd; all the money had gone and poor Helen was left alone and destitute, hundreds of miles from home.’ Her voice was warm with affectionate indignation. ‘What is a young woman to do in such a situation? Helen appeared on our doorstep one night, nearly dead from fever. We took her in and my brother married her.’ (This story had some gaps, I thought; Miss Winifred rapped out the facts as if to get them over with.) ‘Will you have a muffin?’
I glanced at the portrait above the fireplace. ‘And that, I take it –’
‘Yes, that’s Edmund, and not a bad likeness,’ Miss Winifred said. ‘Though it doesn’t show enough of his sense of fun –’
‘Or his gentleness,’ Mrs Orme said softly; she looked at her sister-in-law and the watchfulness melted from her face. ‘And the greatest artist in the world couldn’t have painted the sheer goodness that shone out of him; it was nothing less than the light of the Holy Spirit.’
This was a large statement to make over a tea-table; I was reminded of Mr Charles’s grumbles about ‘dead saints’.
But I was sure, in my bones, that Helen Orme had sincerely loved her husband, and was deeply, genuinely attached to his sister. I have a very fine nose for humbug, and would have bet a quarter’s rent on it; this little cottage was filled with the kind of happy, wholesome atmosphere that cannot be counterfeited. I did not believe for a moment that Mrs Orme was a ruthless fortune-hunter. I liked the woman. I had not expected to like her.
Neither had I expected to assess the situation as quickly as I did. Likeable she may have been – but I could not tell Sir James that Helen Orme was nothing more fearsome than a poor, blameless little governess. I knew when I was being lied to.
In the absence of both Sir James and his son, the bustle of the great house was muted, as if someone had put it to sleep like the castle in the story of the Sleeping Beauty. Miss Blanche and Miss Elizabeth were called to a private dinner with their mother in her sitting room, and I was free to do a little investigating.
Once I had finished my admirable supper (pigeon pie, roasted potatoes, plum tart and cream – oh, how I wished I could spirit a plateful over to Mrs B), I carried my own tray back to the kitchen. Thorpe, the butler, had gone to town with Sir James. I had calculated that with no formal dinner to cook, it would be relatively quiet belowstairs, and I hadn’t yet taken a look at the servants’ quarters. Experience had taught me that the domestics are the engine of any house, and I was impressed by the quiet order that reigned here.
The back staircase was bare, clean and adequately lit. The vast kitchen, with its shadowy vaulted ceiling and brick walls hung with copper pans, was empty save for a solitary maidservant scrubbing an enormous wooden table. Somewhere, in another room behind a closed door, there was a comfortable murmur of talk, and occasional bursts of laughter.
‘Mrs Rodd – may I help you, ma’am?’ Mrs Craik had appeared at my elbow, instantly alert to my invasion of her domain. ‘Was your dinner to your satisfaction?’
I knew that I must play this with the utmost care, and gave the housekeeper what I hoped was my friendliest smile. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Craik; my dinner was excellent; I just thought I’d save someone a journey.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. You are most considerate.’ By the flickering light of the small oil-lamp she held, I saw Mrs Craik relax a little, now she saw that I had not come to criticize or complain, and knew my place to a nicety (a governess must inhabit that murky hinterland between upstairs and downstairs, belonging to neither; if she is too familiar with the servants they resent waiting on her; if too grand, ditto). ‘I was just about to have a cup of tea in my parlour – perhaps you would care to join me?’
It was kind of her, but also an important test of my character – was I about to play the archdeacon’s lady and think myself too fine to sit in a housekeeper’s parlour? ‘Why yes, Mrs Craik,’ I said promptly. ‘That would be delightful.’
Mrs Craik smiled, and led me through the dark corridors into the sudden light and warmth of a beautifully snug little parlour, the very essence of a good housekeeper’s private domain. Rose-patterned chintz hung at the windows and covered the two small armchairs beside the lively fire. The reflection of the dancing flames flickered in the gilded picture frames, the plump yellow Staffordshire lions on the chimney-piece and the gleaming brass fender.
‘What a charming sitting room you have here, Mrs Craik,’ I said, sinking into one of the armchairs. ‘You have made yourself an ideal retreat from the world.’
‘Indeed it is, ma’am.’ With careful precision, she poured hot water from a copper kettle into a flowered china teapot. ‘Wishtide is wonderfully well-appointed; it’s not Sir James’s way to do anything by halves. In the old house my parlour was dark and all over earwigs – though between ourselves I miss it sometimes.’
‘The old house?’
‘I mean the place that stood here before, Mrs Rodd – the one that Sir James’s father pulled down to build this castle. It wasn’t nearly so grand, but a lot more homely in my book. I was born on the estate, and I’ve lived with the family since I was a girl of fourteen. Do you take sugar?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Will you have a piece of shortbread? I make it with my own hands – I don’t trust anyone else.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Craik; that is the best possible advertisement.’
She was pleased, and getting easier with me by the minute; I saw that she was lonely in her solitary housekeeper’s splendour, and welcomed the chance to talk to someone (I sympathized; I had known terrible loneliness after Matt died, and would still be a solitary old crow if I hadn’t found dear Mary to chat with of an evening). We settled luxuriously beside the fire with our cups of tea. The shortbread was so good that I could ask for the recipe with absolute sincerity, and this broke any remaining ice between us.
Mrs Craik had grown up in the service of the Calderstone family, and spoke of them as her own – in other words, with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. She was devoted to Sir James, whom she had known since infancy, and to his three children. When she talked about Her Ladyship, however, her tone became anxious; she looked at me in a sizing-up way, as if wondering whether or not to tell me something.
Pretending not to have noticed, I changed the subject to the girls, who were her pets; for the next few minutes, I allowed her to tell me how clever they were, how pretty Miss Blanche was, how naughty she had been as a little girl, what a sweet nature Miss Bessie had.
‘I must confess,’ I said, ‘since we are so confidential – please do not repeat this – I have been sorely puzzled by the way these nice, good-hearted girls behave towards their mother.’
‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Craik sighed, wincing as I hit the nerve. ‘Oh dear.’
‘We paid a call this afternoon without asking Her Ladyship’s leave. Dear Miss Elizabeth told me – cool as a cucumber – that they never listen to her requests. Miss Blanche implied that her mother was an invalid, yet she seemed perfectly healthy when I waited upon her last night.’
‘She’s no invalid,’ Mrs Craik said. ‘Between ourselves, it’s all the fault of Sir James, for the children take their tone from him.’
‘Do they not stand up for their mother?’
‘Mr Charlie did once – since when, his father has been a lot more careful to treat her properly in front of him. But he’s away a great deal, and the girls have fallen into Sir James’s manner of speaking with her. I have taken him to task about it myself, on more than one occasion – I’ve known him since the day he was born and I feel free to speak my mind. Not that he takes any notice.’
‘Good gracious,’ I said. ‘What does he do to her?’
‘It’s mostly in the way he speaks to her – contemptuous-like. If I didn’t run such a tight establishment, Mrs Rodd, some of the servants would do it too. But I will not have it; I make sure they treat her with true Christian civility, and pity her suffering.’ She glanced at me sharply. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m going too far out of my situation; it’s a relief to talk about it.’
‘You may rely on my discretion, Mrs Craik,’ I assured her. ‘I’m not a gossip. But this is all very strange. Did Sir James turn against his wife suddenly? Surely he loved her once?’
‘Oh yes, it was very much a love-match; I’ll never forget the day he brought her home. She was just eighteen and the two of them were head-over-ears. And then the children came along, bless them – and I would’ve sworn at the assizes they were happy.’
She pursed her thin lips, obviously longing to say more.
‘Miss Blanche said her mother had a serious illness a few years ago,’ I prompted. ‘She went to the Alps to recuperate.’
‘Well,’ Mrs Craik said, ‘I don’t know about any illness, but she certainly went away, and didn’t come home until Sir James fetched her back six months later. And that’s when it started – his being so cold and hard towards her. It nearly broke my heart sometimes, to hear her sobbing and crying. I wanted to help more, but only the Frenchwoman was allowed to wait on her.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, ‘I’ve met Mlle Thérèse.’ (How convenient, and how interesting, that she’d brought the subject up without my asking.) ‘And between ourselves, Mrs Craik, she made me a little uneasy.’
‘Hmmm,’ the housekeeper sniffed. ‘You’re not the only one. Sir James brought her back with them as a lady’s maid. She keeps to herself, does that one.’
‘It must be difficult, when she speaks no English.’
‘Of course I made allowances. But she has a nasty temper on her, ma’am; she pinches and cuffs my kitchen-girls until they’re all terrified of her.’
‘I wonder that Sir James continues to employ such a person.’
‘I asked him, but he brushed me off like a fly; said nobody else understood Her Ladyship’s illness.’
Hmm, I thought, illness fiddlesticks – I smell a classic cover-up.
Sure enough, Mrs Craik whispered, ‘It’s my opinion – my very private opinion – that there might have been some sort of scandal behind it all.’
‘What kind of scandal?’
‘I couldn’t tell you that; I only know what I’ve seen with my own eyes. But this was once a happy family, Mrs Rodd – and now it is a sad one.’