The Keeper of Secrets Read online

  ‘There was that attempt to trip us…We never found the culprit.’ I made a greater effort. ‘You know that Lord Elham does not care for me. Nor for you,’ I hastened to add.

  ‘But he did not attack my property with a horsewhip. I fear he is not at all times a rational creature.’

  ‘I cannot believe – even had he been in the vicinity at the time, which I am sure he was not…No, that is not the act of a gentleman.’

  Sensing my discomfort, Dr Hansard turned the subject and we did not return to it that evening.

  The very next day I began Susan’s reading lessons. She was clearly a diligent child, eager to please and very swift to learn, so much so I promised her her own pencils and paper to that she might practise forming the letters when Mrs Trent could spare her from other duties. I also introduced her to Jem, who treated her with the same avuncular briskness as he had treated the Jenkins children, popping her on horseback and leading her round the yard.

  Mrs Trent looked on, smiling sardonically. ‘I thought the girl was here to learn to dust and clean,’ she observed, ‘but it seems she’s here to learn to read and ride.’

  I laughed at her quip. ‘First and foremost she is here to assist you,’ I said, serious once more. ‘My illness imposed on you intolerably, Mrs Trent.’

  She bridled, but half-heartedly.

  ‘Indeed, I became aware of how very much falls to your capable hands. As yet Susan is too young and too ill-fed to be of much assistance, but if we are both patient with her, and both teach her all we can, I’m sure she will be a credit to you.’

  Did she notice the change of pronoun? I think not. Certainly when Mrs Trent summoned her to learn to raise a pie, she did so in kind and encouraging tones.

  Jem winked at me over their departing heads. ‘You parsons can always twist hatchet-faced old ladies round your little fingers,’ he observed, returning to the stables, but humming as he went.

  ‘The last parson, he didn’t hold with such stuff,’ Dusty Miller reflected, looking round the bare church. ‘Holly. Mistletoe. He said they were heathenish, and we should be ashamed of ourselves for thinking of it.’

  ‘And did you feel ashamed?’ I countered, a twinkle in my eye.

  It was the first time I had been permitted to return to St Jude’s since my accident. I had been giving thanks for my survival and praying for the miscreant. I was adding an urgent prayer for Mrs Bulmer, still very weak after her confinement, and for her new babes when Mr Miller pushed open the great oak door, and had stood, waiting for me to rise, his hat clutched respectfully between his hands. Only when I rose did he open his budget.

  ‘Ashamed? Nay, we’d been putting Christmas swags and garlands in the church as long as I can remember – and my father, and his father before him,’ he said, puffing his chest in pride at the length of the tradition.

  I smiled. ‘And probably his father before him. By all means let us deck the church with the Almighty’s winter gifts to us. Do we have mummers in the village?’

  His eyes rounded. ‘We did. And a little choir going from house to house.’

  ‘Could the mummers be persuaded to recall their parts? And the choir their carols?’

  ‘Won’t her ladyship mind, her still being in deepest black?’

  ‘You know she is not at the Priory at the moment?’ I leant back against a pew. Even though all the cuts were now healed, there was a lingering tenderness in my feet that did not like to be probed. Perhaps that was how in time her ladyship would feel about her bereavement; the outward signs might have gone, but little inward pangs of pain were inevitable. ‘But I will approach his lordship – or at least his steward.’ If Elham thought the petition was from me, he would veto the plans forthwith.

  According to Mrs Trent his lordship had but three days ago arrived back in the neighbourhood, and would no doubt engage in the local round of parties and impromptu balls, though his mourning naturally precluded his dancing. His elevation to his father’s title had clearly had very little beneficial effect on him, and tales of his extravagance circulated round the village. His new independence, indeed, made it easier for him to support what some said was a life of debauchery. So long as this was confined to London and his other estates elsewhere in the country, the villagers were inclined to view such activity with an indulgent eye – he was scarcely into his majority, and young men would be young men.

  ‘I cannot imagine anyone objecting,’ I continued, ‘provided, of course, that you do not allow any entertainments to go beyond the line of what is pleasing. The family might not want carol-singers in the main hall of the Priory, but surely they would not mind them in the servants’ hall.

  Mr Miller gave one of his rare, gap-toothed smiles. ‘It’ll be like old times, Parson.’ To my amazement, he took my hand and pumped it vigorously. ‘The church will look a picture, and the carol-singers and mummers will do you proud.’ He bustled off, presumably to tell his cronies. As soon as he left the building, I could hear him whistling the familiar tune of ‘The Holly and the Ivy.’

  His simple pleasure was infectious. I too could have whistled; instead, I bowed my head in thanks to the Almighty for the coming of the holy season and all the innocent joys it brought.

  Then, despite the cold, as bitter I had ever known it at home in Derbyshire, I set out for a walk, only to be overtaken by Dr Hansard, tooling along in his gig.

  ‘There is a footman down with earache at the Priory,’ he said, pulling his horses to a standstill. ‘Mrs Beckles has done her best by placing a roasted onion in the offending orifice and even dosing the lad with laudanum drops, but she is not satisfied with his progress. Do you care to hop up and come along? Make up your mind, man – I daren’t keep the horses standing.’

  Of course I got up beside him, but dreaded visiting the Priory knowing that Lizzie was elsewhere.

  The moment she laid eyes on me, Mrs Beckles almost dragged me into the warmth, and pressed on me what she described as Cook’s special hot punch. Goodness knew what it contained, but I felt a wonderful warmth spread through my body. She settled me beside the fire, assuring herself of my comfort with covert glances.

  ‘Tell me about her ladyship’s plans,’ I said.

  ‘I know more of her departure than of her return,’ she said, sitting too. ‘All I can tell you is that, without warning, at six o’clock one evening she summoned her travelling chaise, gave me my last instructions and set off. Just like that.’

  ‘With no warning? In the dark of a winter’s evening? Do you have any idea why she should get such a maggot in her brain?’

  ‘None at all, Mr Campion. Had it been his lordship, no one would have remarked on it, of course. Ah, Dr Hansard.’ It was as if someone had lit a whole branch of candles to light her face.

  Shutting the door behind him, Hansard came in and helped them both to punch, though she was inclined to resist. Then he asked, ‘And is she still away?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I reflected slowly, ‘she found unbearable the prospect of spending Christmas alone in a place that must have rung with laughter in earlier years. The death of her husband must weigh heavily at such a happy season.’

  Mrs Beckles accorded me a glance so expressive that she could not have said more clearly in words that I was attributing to her ladyship feelings she did not have.

  ‘But the chapel…all her plans for a funerary monument for the late lord…her deep mourning… Were they all sham?’

  She poured me another cup of punch. ‘All is not what it seems in many families,’ she said. ‘As housekeeper, I get to know who is discovered by an early housemaid in whose bed. And who is never found in his wife’s.’

  I nodded; how many years had I spent in such households myself, when rumours of infidelities regularly ebbed and flowed on the tide of gossip and on dits?

  ‘She is a lady of some taste and discernment. Not to wrap it up in clean linen, Doctor Hansard, was not his late lordship a bullying oaf?’

  I had never imagine
d that such observations, such judgements, were made behind the green baize door. My family had often had the most intimate conversations in front of the servants, as if behind their wooden countenances the footmen had wooden ears.

  ‘Almost as bad as his son,’ Hansard agreed.

  She took another sip from her cup and leant forward confidingly. ‘We understand that there has been a falling-out between her and his young lordship, Mr Campion. According to his valet, his lordship proposed to bring – forgive me – his chère amie, and install her here.’

  ‘Good God! And what did her ladyship have to say?’ Hansard demanded.

  ‘A very great deal, all of it to the point,’ Mrs Beckles declared with satisfaction. ‘But the young man – I still cannot think of him as a noble lord – left the Priory in a great temper, they say.’

  ‘I suspected he was loose in the haft,’ I confessed. ‘But to sink to this… It is beyond anything – to bring a Paphian under your mother’s roof!’

  ‘And to suggest it was time she removed to the Dower House, moreover,’ she added.

  Feeling that she had been too indiscreet – I could only presume that it was the punch that had loosened her tongue – I decided to turn the subject and repeated Mr Miller’s request and my response.

  ‘So the village will enjoy a good old-fashioned Christmas,’ she said, clapping her hands, as I concluded. ‘God bless you for your part in it. There’s little enough cheer in people’s lives, and a beautiful church and the old customs will do us all good.’

  ‘I hoped for her ladyship’s blessing on the activities,’ I admitted. ‘But now—?’

  ‘Oh, his lordship has left us again – and in any case, I cannot think he would agree, so contrary he is. Next time I write to her ladyship for further instructions, I will ask her. Who knows, she may well be back before I can pick up my pen, her return as precipitate as her departure!’

  The weather still being viciously cold, and neither of Bulmer’s grandchildren flourishing as they ought, I offered to baptise them in their home.

  ‘It will be just as good, won’t it, Parson? Just as good as if it was in the font?’ Bulmer asked anxiously, warming his legs before a roaring fire in the farmhouse kitchen.

  As a churchwarden, he should not have needed to ask. But a man’s anxiety for his family may make him forgetful of theology, so I simply assured him that that was the case.

  ‘It’s the lad. Edmund, she fancies calling him, after the good doctor. Poor little mite, his limbs flop and his head rolls.’ The big man was uncomfortably close to tears.

  I averted my face so that he could recover himself. ‘And your granddaughter?’

  ‘Got a fine pair of lungs, that I will say,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘She’s to be Fanny, it seems.’

  ‘And your daughter-in-law?’

  He turned and spat into the fire. ‘That Dr Hansard says there must be no more babies yet a while. What’s he mean by that, Parson? A man needs an heir.’

  ‘Your son is young yet,’ I said, desperate to find a few words of comfort. ‘And your daughter-in-law will get her strength back in due course, pray God.’

  He stared out of the window at the darkening sky. ‘Maybe. They say heathens can put away their wives if they don’t produce a boy-child.’

  ‘My friend, don’t let your mind turn that way,’ I urged. ‘Your son is a credit to you. Your grandson may well prove the same.’

  ‘I’ve seen runts in litters before,’ he said. ‘And you get fond of them, and still they die.’

  ‘But they do not have Dr Hansard to care for them.’

  He managed half a smile. ‘Nor do they. Now, when do you think he and that prime article down at the Priory will be troubling you for the banns…?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The approach to Christmas and the continued crisp weather set in train the neighbourhood’s social round. There were some eighteen families who considered each other socially acceptable to both dine and dance with. Other, less favoured, families and individuals would be invited to arrive after dinner had ended. My family would have considered such a limited acquaintance wearisome in the extreme, but I was grateful for the opportunity to meet my fellow men. My head insisted that it was appropriate for a clergyman to meet all his parishioners, even those whose church-going hardly earned them the name. My heart admitted that the periods of solitude uninterrupted by my good friend Edmund were inclined to lower my spirits.

  Lord Elham was again absent from the Priory, and, as before, the number of young men being sadly deficient, I was much in demand as a dancing partner, either in private houses or at public balls in Leamington or Warwick. Amidst all the practised insipidities of the young ladies, I found most entertainment in the company of Miss Sophia Heath, whose violet eyes met mine with a decided air of encouragement whenever the country dance was made up, even though officially she was still not out. I supposed that practice was needed in all things, even flirtation, and was happy to indulge her with mild repartee and occasional references to the writings of Burke. Despite my inclination, I was careful not to pay her particular attention, however, lest her chances on the marriage mart be tarnished.

  ‘In the spring,’ she confided as we applauded the musicians one evening at the Leamington Assembly Rooms, ‘Mama and Papa are to take a house in town for my presentation. Mr Campion, it is most important that I “take”, as you may understand that with three other younger sisters, I have a duty to marry well to launch them.’

  ‘Duty is very important,’ I agreed, ‘but liking must enter into it. You parents would not press you to marry even a marquis if you did not respect him.’

  ‘Respect! Mr Campion, I desire nothing less than an earl prostrate at my feet!’ she laughed.

  ‘That would mean that he respected you,’ I countered.

  ‘But I would not permit such prostration if I did not like him,’ she responded, eyes wide open. ‘And unless he had at least ten thousand a year,’ she added with a delightful grin.

  At last I returned her to her seat, in the hope of more conversation. But her hand was soon claimed by Lord Warley’s younger brother. She looked into his face with the same teasing amusement that had so engaged me.

  Lady Heath caught my eye. I bowed. ‘You have a most charming, indeed, an original daughter,’ I said, smiling.

  She tapped me firmly on the arm with her fan. ‘Not charming enough, and too original,’ she declared. ‘Won’t take if they think she’s bookish. Pray don’t encourage her, Parson.’

  In another life I would have depressed such pretension by the considered use of my quizzing glass. But a country parson did not snub a parishioner who contributed generously to the poor, especially one administering a well-placed warning.

  I bowed again, not coldly. ‘Were I on the look-out for a wife,’ I said, ‘I should look no further than a young woman both bookish and original. But I fear I do not enjoy the ten thousand a year she considers a prerequisite for a suitor.’

  She looked at me searchingly, and nodded. We had made our positions clear with no loss of face on either side. With luck, Miss Sophia’s heart was as untroubled by me, as mine was by her.

  Alas, it was not the case that my heart was whole. It was other eyes than Miss Sophia’s that troubled my sleep and blurred my thoughts when I should have been preparing my sermons. It was still those lovelier eyes of Lizzie.

  I had not seen her for some weeks now, of course, and was constantly tormented by news that her ladyship planned to return, and then that she did not. Of course, not being an acknowledged lover, I could not write to her. A polite note to her ladyship including an enquiry about her health had gone unanswered.

  No doubt Matthew was suffering equally, and his unlettered state meant he would neither write nor expect a letter. If their betrothal was unofficial, there was no doubt that he considered it binding. I felt for him. Christmas was a bittersweet time for all lovers in service, especially when one was the personal maid of a lady, and at her mistress’
s beck and call just as much as at any other time, so perhaps he would not even have seen her then. As it was, although the celebrations would be much curtailed at the Priory, there was no suggestion that any of the servants would be given extra days’ holiday with their families.

  ‘But think, Mr Campion,’ Mrs Beckles sighed, when I pointed this out, ‘where would they all go? There’s no room at home for most of the youngsters, not with the cot being filled with a new baby every year, regular as clockwork, in many households where there are nine and ten in a two-bedroom cottage. Having a son or daughter who’s a servant living in a great house is many families’ saving grace.’

  ‘Of course. And it would be a long journey home for some of them.’

  ‘And at least they eat well here. Very well. They do say,’ she added, with something like anger, ‘that some labourers are so hungry this year they’re dipping toast into stewed tea to make it look like meat. And that’s all they get, day in, day out.’

  ‘Thank God for your generosity,’ I said.

  I knew she would turn the compliment. ‘Mr Campion, I have been meaning to ask you if Susan continues to give satisfaction. Is Mrs Trent happy with her work?’

  ‘Indeed she is. Susan is a real asset to our little household.’ I added, ‘When she is not working at her chores, she enjoys the company of Jem and the horses.’

  ‘Jem.’ She bit her lip and turned from me. ‘Mr Campion, might I ask you something else?’

  ‘Of course! What is your question? Is something worrying you?’

  ‘No. It is probably my imagination.’ She shook her head firmly. ‘I will not speak of it now. Well, as you’ve probably heard from Dr Hansard, Mr Davies has succumbed to a bout of lumbago.’ When she spoke Edmund’s name, a tiny smile played about her lips. ‘So although I hear none of the family will grace us with their presence – though this has not stopped them relegating the mummers and carol-singers to the servants’ hall – I have more than enough to do, and must not stand gossiping.’