House of Splinters, page 6
‘Good morning,’ Wilfred called.
The women nodded warily, showing no signs of rising to their feet as they should when greeting the landowner. Water burbled into the silence.
The river flowed steadily to the right of Fayford, while the woods crowded in to the left. From this distance, the village looked derelict, nothing but overgrown gardens and ramshackle walls. Only the spire of the church seemed to stand tall.
‘Where to first?’ he asked Knowles.
The man cleared his throat. ‘A chimney has collapsed at the Robertses’ house, sir.’
Wilfred couldn’t stop the muscles from twitching in his jaw. He was conscious of the women, still within earshot. ‘I see. Then we had better look into that right away.’
Why did it have to be the Roberts family? The entry in the ledger flashed before his mind. Seventy-five pounds. That was more money than a servant earnt in an entire year. Sufficient for them to repair their own chimneys. To move away even. But the Robertses were an insolent bunch, always grasping for things that were not theirs.
All Souls’ neglected graveyard looked better beneath a bright sky. Long grass lent a luscious fringe to the headstones. There were garlands of wood sorrel and stars of buttercups. But the old man did not sleep amongst them. He was trapped in the dank family crypt beneath. The only trace of him was the notice nailed to the church door, announcing the upcoming enclosure of the common land. Wilfred had no choice but to go through with it now. Perhaps that was the reason why the women had looked at him so sullenly.
‘Knowles,’ Wilfred began as they passed by.
‘Sir?’
He wet his lips. ‘I have been meaning to ask you about some correspondence I discovered. Letters to my father from… spiritual men.’
A pause. ‘Yes, sir.’
Discretion was one of Knowles’ many virtues as a servant. But just this once, Wilfred wished he were a regular gossip, that he would not force him to ask precisely the right question to get an answer.
‘Tell me, did they all visit The Bridge, as he asked them to?’
‘They did, sir. Interesting gentlemen. Although not very generous with their vails, I must say.’
Wilfred raised a smile at this touch of humour, but he refused to be steered off topic. ‘And my father did not confide in you about their visits? He did not give a reason for their coming?’
‘No, sir. But I believe it was curiosity.’
‘About religion? He never showed an interest beyond the usual before.’
‘No, he did not. But a man can take up new notions as he gets older. I speak from personal experience, sir. You begin to realise how much knowledge you have neglected to acquire. Mr Bainbridge had a little flurry of studious activity.’
Wilfred swallowed. He ought not to push this any further, yet still he found himself asking, ‘That was all? I find it strange he didn’t consult Mr Chapman. Seeking outside opinions was not my father’s way. I don’t suppose… He was not… troubled in his conscience, was he?’
Wind trailed its fingers lazily through the bracken. A cuckoo called from the trees beyond, followed by the tap of a woodpecker. ‘That is not for me to say, sir. But I cannot think of any reason why he ought to have been uneasy.’
‘No, of course not,’ Wilfred said briskly. ‘I’m being foolish. There could be no reason at all.’
Even as he spoke, the creaking branches seemed to echo the terrible sound of the accident. There’d been no scream as the footman fell from the gallery. Just the squeal of wood and then the impact. Insides, exposed. Blood slipping across the flags.
If any other servant had plunged to their doom in that manner, few eyebrows would have been raised. But the old man had good reason to want this one dead.
The Robertses’ cottage appeared, a dusty haze hovering over its thatched roof. A magpie was stealing the best of the straw for its nest. As Wilfred placed his hand upon the rough wooden gate that enclosed the small plot of land, the front door of the house swung open. He saw the same smug countenance he’d glimpsed in the churchyard on the night he buried his father. The same features his mother had ordered to be painted onto a silent companion. Only now, Wilfred had the wherewithal to realise who this must be.
‘Ross,’ he said.
The man grimaced at him, exposing a jagged rockfall of teeth. ‘That’s Mr Roberts to you. I ain’t your servant.’
Ross had always been insolent, like the rest of the family, but he never used to resemble his uncle so strongly. It took Wilfred’s breath away. Yet Ross’s overall presentation was a far cry from the dashing footman who had once served at The Bridge. There was no livery or powdered wig here. Rough stubble speckled his cheeks and the cloth knotted around his neck looked like a dishrag.
‘We are come to assist you,’ Wilfred said, carefully polite. ‘I hear you are having some trouble with your accommodation?’
It was clearly an understatement. Moss grew from every cranny of the cottage. There was no chimney visible at all. A small pile of bricks was stacked amongst the weeds. Evidently they had once been above a fireplace for they were black with soot and crumbling to powder.
‘Aye. The whole place is a wreck. Hardly fit for dogs. See here, our chimney fell all to pieces. Inside and out. Now I can’t even light a fire to cook without risking the whole place going up in flames.’
‘Of course it must be repaired,’ Wilfred said reasonably. ‘I saw from my records that my father granted you a lump sum about two years ago. Was that not provided to pay for renovations to your cottage?’
Ross folded his arms and leant against the door jamb. ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘It was not.’
Wilfred had forgotten that goading smile. But he must not let it rattle him, as it did when he was a boy. ‘Well, but you might use some of it now?’
Ross raised his brows above dark, mocking eyes. ‘Use my own tin to fix your property? That’s hardly fair, is it? Not when my uncle served your mother so well.’
Knowles gave a little gasp. Wilfred held his temper firmly in check. ‘Seventy-five pounds is a vast deal of money, Ross,’ he reasoned. ‘What the devil have you done with it all, to be in this state?’
Ross cocked his head. ‘That money was an arrangement of mine with your dad. What I’ve done with it is my own business. But now he’s gone… Perhaps you and I can come to a new agreement. Being kindred and all.’
Wilfred’s head was starting to pound. He grasped the crooked fence. ‘What utter rot. There is no connection between our families, as well you know. I shall pay a man to fix your cottage, but you will get no more cash from me.’
Ross considered him, unperturbed. ‘Is that a wise decision on your part?’
‘Is that a threat?’
Ross smirked. ‘From me? I wouldn’t dare. Not with all the “accidents” up at your place. First the girl, then my uncle.’ He shook his head. ‘Even Mrs Bainbridge wasted away. Such… convenient disasters.’
Wilfred opened his lips to retort, but Ross cut him off.
‘Oh, he was scared at the end though, wasn’t he, Knowles? Old Bainbridge knew what must be coming to him in the next life. Sent all over for someone to tell him he was forgiven.’ He spat on the dirt. ‘Well, he may have escaped the Hanging Oak, but there’s no pardon for murderers.’
Only a sense of what was due to his station stopped Wilfred from vaulting the fence and giving the wretch a black eye. ‘You’re treading on thin ice, Ross. Need I remind you that you only live here by my sufferance? Any more slandering of the dead and I’ll throw your miserable tribe out into the woods without a penny. Women and children too, I swear to God.’
Ross puffed a derisive breath. ‘I believe you. You’re the old man’s son, all right… No matter what your sister was.’
Rage flashed across his vision. He heard the fence creak under his grip. But before Wilfred could say or do anything rash, Ross had turned and slammed the cottage door in his face.
CHAPTER 6
The trouble with physicians, even with this accoucheur Mr Quigley, was that they fancied themselves judge, jury and executioner. Wilfred had never met one who did not give off an air of disapproval along with the fumes of camphor and vinegar. This man was supposed to welcome babes into the world and reassure anxious mothers. But with his black suit and old-fashioned, full-bottom wig, Mr Quigley resembled a fellow mourner.
He apprised Belinda from all angles as she rested on the chaise-longue in her dressing-room, wearing only her shift and powdering-gown. At last, he asked for permission to touch the patient. Asked Wilfred, not Belinda herself.
She flinched as Mr Quigley’s fingers pressed on her belly.
‘Have you pain?’ he asked.
‘No, no, I am sorry,’ Belinda replied. ‘Your hands are chilly, that is all.’
From his position in the corner, Wilfred sought his wife’s eye and offered her an encouraging nod. It must be unpleasant to have a stranger paw at her like that. Mr Quigley felt out the shape of the baby, made a few harrumphs.
Guilt surged. Wilfred wished he hadn’t been out of the house when this tumble occurred, wasting his time on Ross Roberts of all people. ‘Do you think any damage has been done by the fall?’
‘No,’ Mr Quigley said slowly. ‘Nothing seems to be amiss. But really, Mrs Bainbridge should never have been out in the gardens in the first place. It is high time she was confined.’
Wilfred saw the panic constrict Belinda’s face. Mr Quigley did not understand his wife. She’d spent most of her life confined. Like the flowers she loved, she could never thrive in the dark. She needed her liberty, she needed light and air.
‘Surely it is a little soon for that,’ he reasoned. ‘We might give her another week or two, with this glorious weather?’
‘The weather is precisely the problem, Mr Bainbridge.’ Mr Quigley left off touching Belinda and straightened up. There was something so dampening, so chastising about his voice. ‘Your wife ought to be kept in a shaded room with the shutters closed. If her blood becomes overheated, I shall have to draw some from her.’
‘Oh, no,’ Belinda bleated. ‘I hate to be bled.’
Mr Quigley ignored her. ‘You said the last child arrived early, and your lady suffered from vapours?’
Wilfred shifted his feet. He didn’t like to talk about Belinda this way, as if she were not present before them in the room. ‘Yes, that much is true.’
Mr Quigley pressed his lips together and gave a knowing nod. ‘So, you see, this pregnancy ought to be properly managed. We must avoid any repetition of such unhealthy tendencies. For the sake of both mother and child.’
‘I do not suppose I am to have any say in the matter at all?’ Belinda protested.
Mr Quigley sniffed, bent to pick up his leather satchel. ‘Your husband has asked for my advice, madam. I have made my recommendations. It is not my responsibility to enforce them.’
Wilfred made a quick motion to Belinda, signalling they would discuss this later. There was no use bandying words with a man like Quigley. He was not likely to cede any ground. ‘No, indeed, and we are very grateful for your time.’ The main thing was, the baby had come to no harm from its adventure in the thistle patch. ‘Do make sure to send me your bill, Mr Quigley.’ Stepping forward, he gestured to the door. ‘Here, I shall see you out myself.’
Mr Quigley bowed. Belinda averted her gaze and pulled her powdering-gown close around her once more. She looked awfully like Freddy when he felt he had been unjustly scolded.
Wilfred remembered the first time that he’d seen his wife: a slender thing, shivering like a whippet at her father’s dinner table. Of course the match had been arranged. Kipling wanted the ancient Bainbridge name to wash his new money clean and was offering a dowry large enough to entice any man. But her fortune wasn’t the real reason Wilfred had gone along with the marriage. Nor had it been love – not back then. He’d done it because he wanted to rescue a pretty girl from a place in which she was clearly unhappy. That was what had won him over: Belinda’s need of him. And she needed him still.
He escorted the dour accoucheur through the corridors and down the stairs, wondering if he could source an alternative before the baby was born. But these fellows were all cut from the same cloth. The one in London had recommended some kind of lowering-vegetable diet that sounded more like a penance than a treatment. And who was Wilfred to say that they were wrong? Maybe he was coddling his wife, but he would rather spoil than neglect her.
‘I trust that you have your nursery in order, sir?’ Mr Quigley asked as they reached the Great Hall.
Wilfred hesitated. ‘Almost. Mrs Bainbridge has yet to select her staff. The move from London has… delayed matters somewhat.’
‘I would urge you to make it your priority. From what I have seen, the child is almost ready to appear. They will not wait until you are at leisure, sir.’
‘No,’ Wilfred returned irritably. ‘Of course not.’
Mr Quigley’s disapproving gaze stalked over the displays of ancient weaponry and lingered on the railed gallery. ‘I would not deem this situation ideal for infants. But I am sure you are making adequate preparations.’
Wilfred’s stomach clenched. From the way Mr Quigley spoke, he had a sneaking suspicion that even this man had heard of the Roberts incident. The Bainbridge family must be infamous as far as Torbury St Jude. ‘Naturally. I was raised in this house myself, Mr Quigley. I know exactly what I am about.’ He opened the main entrance and, as he did so, realised he was debasing himself yet further, suggesting he did not have reliable servants who could attend to visitors.
Mr Quigley’s horse was still tied to the hitching post on the gravel sweep, swatting its tail at flies; Dawkins had not come to take it around to the stables.
‘I do apologise—’ Wilfred began, but was cut off by the crunch of gravel and a child’s shout. ‘Papa!’
Freddy scampered towards them, completely unattended, his hair flying loose from its queue. ‘Papa! You must come and see what I’ve found!’
Under other circumstances the lack of ceremony might have been brushed aside. Now Wilfred felt a blast of shame. Whatever standards a paterfamilias could be judged by, he was falling short in every way before Mr Quigley. ‘Freddy, what are you doing here? Where is Sawyer?’
But Freddy was undeterred, already tugging at his sleeve. ‘Come and looook!’
Mr Quigley cleared his throat. ‘I shall take my leave of you, Mr Bainbridge.’ He made a short bow. ‘No doubt I shall hear from you soon. One way or another.’
‘Yes… goodbye.’ Wilfred smarted at the last, ominous words. Had his care really been so slipshod? He’d seen a lady made gravely ill by pregnancy, and Belinda was thriving by contrast. Her appetite had remained strong and no nausea held her immobile. But he was not a physician. He ought to have taken warning from the past, not given way to complacency.
Freddy pulled him towards the gardens, past the fountain and its soothing burble. Sunlight touched the emerging water and made it sparkle. The day was far too warm for Wilfred to be wearing black velvet, but he did not have a choice of mourning clothes.
Frustrated with his slow pace, Freddy stopped tugging and sprinted ahead into the long grass. The air was alive with pollen and butterflies. Sawyer sat with her skirts pooled out around her, sketching again when she ought to be watching her charge. It would not do. She was a maid, not a guest, however much Belinda might love her. Sawyer had obviously brought down the silent companions to amuse Freddy and then left him to romp about as he pleased.
Over in the shade of the chestnut trees, John was more usefully employed. His hands were gloved in dirt as he planted seedlings from a barrow into an empty bed. Wilfred watched the youth work for a moment. When he looked back, he saw Freddy standing by the well.
His heart came into his throat.
‘Freddy!’ he called out. ‘Come away from there this instant.’
Sawyer glanced up from her drawing in sudden alarm.
Freddy didn’t move. He remained motionless, staring, the shadow of the house falling over his fair curls. Dandelion seeds swarmed around, highlighting his stillness.
Sawyer climbed to her feet. ‘Master Freddy—’ she began, but Wilfred was already striding past her.
‘Freddy! You will listen when I’m speaking to you.’ Fear made his voice sound harsh. He fought to regain control of it, to be rational. The well was boarded over now, no longer a real hazard. It had only become an eyesore, burnt with rust and smothered under weeds. He ought to level it. Fill it in and make it into some kind of memorial.
Freddy finally turned and beckoned his father over. ‘Keep quiet, Papa, you’ll frighten them.’
‘Frighten who?’
‘Look!’ Squatting, Freddy pointed to the nettles at the base of the structure. Something stirred the leaves. All at once, a tiny frog hopped out onto the grass. Freddy grinned broadly. ‘I found a whole family of them!’
Frogs. This long walk in the heat all for frogs? Wilfred tried to look suitably impressed. ‘I congratulate you, my boy, but this discovery does not excuse your manners. You must pay attention when I speak. I called to you twice and you did not come.’
‘Sorry, Papa.’
‘I would prefer you to stay away from this well when you’re playing. It’s covered, but the boards are old.’ There was a chunk missing from one. Wilfred averted his eyes. He hated to think what was festering down there: dead birds and vermin. ‘It is deep and dangerous.’
Freddy scuffed his feet. ‘I know. She told me.’
‘Who told you? Sawyer?’
The boy seemed to deliberate. ‘Yes,’ he said not altogether convincingly.
Well, that was something. Wilfred wondered how much Sawyer knew, what Belinda or the other servants had related to her. He hoped no one had gone into detail. He wanted Freddy to be aware of the danger, not the fact that Tiffany had died here.
Mr Quigley’s words took on an added weight. Perhaps The Bridge was not altogether safe for children. This was the second place that Wilfred had needed to warn his son away from on pain of death. But other, more ancient estates managed to raise their scions without incident; estates with battlements and lakes and spiral stairs besides. There should not be a problem if Freddy were properly supervised. ‘Well, then. You can observe the frogs from a safe distance, can you not?’
